Les Murray

(17 October 1938)

Les Murray Poems

1. The Cows on Killing Day 2/1/2016
2. Towards The Imminent Days (Section 4) 1/13/2003
3. Travels With John Hunter 1/13/2003
4. The New Hieroglyphics 1/13/2003
5. Amanda's Painting 1/13/2003
6. The Harleys 1/13/2003
7. Cockspur Bush 1/13/2003
8. The Mowed Hollow 1/13/2003
9. The Instrument 10/10/2011
10. Predawn In Health 1/13/2003
11. The Butter Factory 1/13/2003
12. On The Borders 1/13/2003
13. Comete 1/13/2003
14. Shower 1/13/2003
15. A Retrospect Of Humidity 1/13/2003
16. The Sleepout 1/13/2003
17. Flowering Eucalypt In Autumn 1/13/2003
18. The Quality Of Sprawl 1/13/2003
19. Aurora Prone 1/13/2003
20. The Images Alone 1/13/2003
21. Bat's Ultrasound 1/13/2003
22. The Dream Of Wearing Shorts Forever 1/13/2003
23. Inside Ayers Rock 1/13/2003
24. Performance 1/13/2003
25. The Aboriginal Cricketer 1/13/2003
26. Poetry And Religion 1/13/2003
27. Music To Me Is Like Days 1/13/2003
28. The Meaning Of Existence 1/13/2003
29. Late Summer Fires 1/13/2003
30. Pigs 1/13/2003
31. Noonday Axeman 10/15/2005
32. On Home Beaches 1/13/2003
33. An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Les Murray

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can...

Read the full of An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

Amanda's Painting

In the painting, I'm seated in a shield,
coming home in it up a shadowy river.
It is a small metal boat lined in eggshell
and my hands grip the gunwale rims. I'm
a composite bow, tensioning the whole boat,
steering it with my gaze. No oars, no engine,
no sails. I'm propelling the little craft with speech.
The faded rings around the loose bulk shirt
are of five lines each, a musical lineation

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