The Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 – 1939), Thursday 8 December 1932
If they had been Roman, then someone would have
Died every night for months on end as the Boobook
Owl’s chime coursed through the evening like a late
Night telephone call’s bad news. Metronome regular,
The beat of its hoot shelled them relentlessly, enfilading
Their ears from the patch of remnant blue gums across
Waghorn Street. The book book of its mournful cry, as if
It was a trapped sailor in an air pocket of a capsized ship,
Beating a morse code tattoo with a leaden wrench. Inside
Its tree’s iron hull, the school ruler long bird received the
Suburb’s dying souls nightly, like an apprehensive mother
Drawing up her child’s medicine in a feather light syringe.
When he heard it, fear suckled their young son who forbade
The repetition of its summons & shrieked if he heard its call.
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
TO My Soul. (1895, August 10). The Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 – 1939), p. 257. Retrieved January 24, 2014, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article21634887
Remember that imagination is the faculty of the soul and that when it suggests new pathways to us we are being invited to explore the territory of the soul in ways that will certainly change and re enchant us.
– Caitlin Matthews