Alison Croggon (born 1962) is a contemporary Australian poet, playwright, fantasy novelist, and librettist.
Born in the Transvaal, South Africa, Alison Croggon's family moved to England before settling in Australia, first in Ballarat then Melbourne. She has worked as a journalist for the Sydney Morning Herald. Her first volume of poetry, This is the Stone, won the Anne Elder Award and the Mary Gilmore Prize. Her novella Navigatio was recommended in the 1995 The Australian/Vogel Literary Award and all four novels of the fantasy genre series Pellinor have been published. She also edits the online writing magazine Masthead and writes theatre ... more »
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Alison Croggon Poems
Goodnight, sweet prince...
Such possessions as gore me pontificate from corners. I am no longer solid but a speech of butterflies. How it spills, when all is said and done: It is hard to see virtue in the cold matter
Love: after The Triumph of Death
Love may not exist, it may be only a word, it may do nothing useful. To erase love is easy, it forgets itself, its weapons
The Branch (translation)
Branch I pick up from the edge of the woods Only to abandon you at the world’s end, Hidden among stones, in the shelter Where the other path invisibly begins
The Duino Elegies: The First Elegy
Who, if I cry, hears me among the angelic orders? and even supposing one of them seized me suddenly to his heart: I’d vanish in his violent presence. For beauty is nothing
The Duino Elegies: The Second Elegy
Every angel is terrible. And yet, alas, when I hear of you, deadly birds of the soul, I desire you. How long since the days of Tobias, when one of the radiant would stand at the plain front door,
The Duino Elegies: The Third Elegy
One thing to sing the beloved. Another, alas, that hidden guilty rivergod of blood. Her distantly known boy, her lover, what does he know of the lords of lust, who often, out of his loneliness,
The Duino Elegies: The Fourth Elegy
O trees of life, where’s winter? We are not one. Are not intelligent as flocking birds. Outstripped and late, we hurl ourselves into sudden winds
The Duino Elegies: The Fifth Elegy
But who are they, tell me, these vagrants, a little more fugitive even than us, in their springtime so urgently wrung by one who - who pleases a never contented will? So it wrings them,
The Duino Elegies: The Seventh Elegy
Woo no more, no wooing, outgrowing voice, be your natural cry; your cry pure as the bird when the heightening seasons lift him up, almost forgetting that he is a pitiable animal and not just a single heart
The Duino Elegies: The Eigth Elegy
With all its eyes the creaturely sees the open. But our eyes are as if reversed and placed all round it like snares ringing its free departure.
The Duino Elegies: The Ninth Elegy
Why, when it approaches, the interval of life surges forward, as laurel, a little darker than all other green, with tiny waves on every leaf edge (like a smiling wind) -: why then
The Duino Elegies: The Tenth Elegy
Sometime, leaving this violent vision, I’ll sing up joy and glory to assenting angels. Let none of the clearstruck hammers of my heart fail against softening, uncertain or
In the hour of dogs
in the hour of dogs every human voice is hushed
Homage to Mr. Pound
victory sweetened not your crimes you lived enough lives to witness the betrayal of beauty which was difficult
Comments about Alison Croggon
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Goodnight, sweet prince...
Such possessions as gore me pontificate from corners.
I am no longer solid but a speech of butterflies.
How it spills, when all is said and done:
It is hard to see virtue in the cold matter
Staining the floor - frills, cups, leaves, arquebuses,
Bile - the gross litters of meaning - the new king
Knitting up this mess in his brainless sinews,
Mere presence the answer to everything, the golden
Halo of a new dawn impressing all the peasants.