Kenneth Slessor

(27 March 1901 – 30 June 1971 / Orange, New South Wales)

Kenneth Slessor Poems

If you see a poem only with title, it is listed that way because of copyright reasons.
1. Toilet Of A Dandy 4/1/2010
2. Undine 4/1/2010
3. Mephistopheles Perverted 4/1/2010
4. To Myself 4/1/2010
5. Winter Dawn 4/1/2010
6. Taoist 4/1/2010
7. Trade Circular 4/1/2010
8. Rubens' Innocents 4/1/2010
9. Vesper-Song Of The Reverend Samuel Marsden 4/1/2010
10. Music 4/1/2010
11. Realities 4/1/2010
12. To The Poetry Of Hugh Mccrae 4/1/2010
13. Metempsychosis 4/1/2010
14. La Dame Du Palais De La Reine 4/1/2010
15. The Ghost 4/1/2010
16. Talbingo 4/1/2010
17. The Nabob 4/1/2010
18. The Old Play 4/1/2010
19. Serenade 4/1/2010
20. Waters 4/1/2010
21. Thieves' Kitchen 4/1/2010
22. The Atlas 4/1/2010
23. New Magic 4/1/2010
24. Next Turn 4/1/2010
25. Pan At Lane Cove 4/1/2010
26. The Country Ride 4/1/2010
27. Marco Polo 4/1/2010
28. Wild Grapes 4/1/2010
29. Stars 4/1/2010
30. Rubens' Hell 4/1/2010
31. Lesbia's Daughter 4/1/2010
32. Last Trams 4/1/2010
33. Advice To Psychologists 4/1/2010
34. Nuremberg 4/1/2010
35. To A Friend 4/1/2010
36. A Surrender 4/1/2010
37. In A/C With Ghosts 4/1/2010
38. Crustacean Rejoinder 4/1/2010
39. Polarities 4/1/2010
40. A Bushranger 4/1/2010
Best Poem of Kenneth Slessor

Five Bells

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels
Is not my time, the flood that does not flow.
Between the double and the single bell
Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells
From the dark warship riding there below,
I have lived many lives, and this one life
Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.

Deep and dissolving verticals of light
Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells
Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water
Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats
In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water. ...

Read the full of Five Bells

Mangroves

These black bush-waters, heavy with crusted boughs
Like plumes above dead captains, wake the mind....
Uncounted kissing, unremembered vows,
Nights long forgotten, moons too dark to find,
Or stars too cold...all quick things that have fled
Whilst these old bubbles uprise in older stone,
Return like pale dead faces of children dead,
Staring unfelt through doors for ever unknown.

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