MY ONE DESIRE.
I want to go back to the bush again,
To the bush, with its lonely skies.
I want to be back with those bushland men.
With the loneliness in their eyes.
I want to be back with the horses, too,
With the dapples and roans and greys.
To ride through the grass when it’s damp with
As I did in those bygone days.
And perchance before I depart this land
I will go back there again,
To the wonderful place that I think so grand
And the wonderful bush land men.
W. LLEWELLYN RYLAND.
MY ONE DESIRE. (1932, October 22). The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), p. 9. Retrieved January 29, 2014, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article16924616
Is this what God meant you to be?
To revert to what you once were?
As we lust for more power and grow wiser, stronger
faster, wilder and less inhibited, do we revert like you
and not redeem the better qualities of soul we aspire?
Karl H. Cameron-Jackson
The Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 – 1939), Saturday 5 September 1885,
The main courtyard was filled with warriors – mermen with fish tails from the waist down and human bodies from the waist up, except their skin was blue, which I’d never known before.Some were tending the wounded. Some were sharpening spears and swords. One passed us, swimming in a hurry. His eyes were bright green, like that stuff they put in glo-sticks, and his teeth were shark teeth. They don’t show you stuff like that in “The Little Mermaid.
― Rick Riordan, The Last Olympian
The Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 – 1939), Saturday 5 September 1885
The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 10 September 1932
Lee Emmett, Australia
with new advisors
listen to this one
then to that
tip, and waver
then stay where-at
mind is cluttered
wait for lightning
watching waves’ foam
break on shore
grows some more
of feeling low
will joy return
with ebb and flow?
Huon Times (Franklin, Tas. : 1910 – 1933), Friday 3 June 1921,
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
BY JAMES WRIGHT
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life
The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 16 July 1932,
written by the very alcoholic Australian Poet Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; –
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser (NSW : 1803 – 1842), Sunday 8 January 1804
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/m/mind_quotes.html#jOQJkXWiguUpjRMg.99
The World’s News (Sydney, NSW : 1901 – 1955), Saturday 5 March 1910,
His voice was cloves and nightingales, it took us to spice markets in the Celebs, we drifted with him on a houseboat beyond the Coral Sea. We were like cobras following a reed flute.”
― Janet Fitch, White Oleander
An Easterly scribbles havoc
flagfall wind-scriptin semaphore sedges
winter and dawn
filigreeswamp’s fringe beach spinifex, halophytic grasses and marram flex, unquietly.
The regolith is etched
with roo paths and clawprints bandicoot
heron rabbit fox.
We focus our telescopes
and settle into contemplate shorebirds