David Lewis Paget
AUSTRALIAN POET. Born in Nottingham, lived in Great Barr, Birmingham, until the age of 13, when migrated to Australia. Lived in Adelaide, joined Air Force at 21 and became Instrument Fitter. Began writing poetry during duty crew and guard weekends. In 1976 fulltime to Flinders University of South Australia, Bachelors degree in English and History. Wrote and published a magazine for the unemployed called 'Bread'. Wrote and published monthly magazines 'Trader's Gate' and 'Central Yorke Peninsula Mercury' for three years in the late 1980's. Ran printing and publishing business Mushroom Graphics until 1990, then Cottage Print until 2005. Gave up poetry for five years, and wrote eight novels in ... more »
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David Lewis Paget Poems
Her hair was as black as a starling's tail, Her cheeks as pale as a swan, Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
Father & Son
There is the family photograph That is your father’s face, There is your father’s father Grey-gathering years apace;
No-Name The Cat
The cat and I stare at the room No-name the cat, the cat and I, She stares at me, I at the gloom The house lies still as a vaulted tomb.
On The Death Of My Father
My brain has turned to ash, and yes, My mouth is dust, And love is grief, and death is But the loss of trust;
A Lover's Verse
A sylph is passing my threshold stair, Drifting her fragrance through the vine, Promising dreams of a never-could-be From the loss and the lapse of a former time.
They came from a line of fishermen, Way back, two hundred years, The sons of a dour old Kentish man, Who'd braved the First World War;
For A Social Worker
What spark in you Is this that burns To comfort one Whose well is pain,
I lived in a block of service flats Right next to a power grid, The endless hum made my mind go numb And infected all I did.
Blue Mountain Coffee
I take my seat at the Golden Grove And watch the waitress, Xu, She's sweet and pert, and her shortened skirt Shows off a dimple or two;
Life, a Play In three parts, now Is two parts done.
The Blueshell Bar
From Monday through to Friday and, For some, on the weekends too, There’s a constant round of students here Attacking the Chinglish stew,
I’d only been home for a week or two And Jeanine was acting queer, Each time she’d pass the mirror she’d stare And I heard her say, ‘Oh dear! ’
I saw the note on the mantelpiece When I got home, rather late, I knew that something was wrong when I First saw the open gate,
The Call of the Sea
He wandered along the decks by night, Stood at the rails by day, Kept to himself from what I saw And didn't have much to say,
(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)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
While I still rise with the early bird
To tend to my father's fields,
As the only son of an only son
I watched the woman leave.
She cried sweet tears as she said farewell
And vowed to come back, and soon,
But the village streets of a western ...