Marie E J Pitt
Marie E.J. Pitt poet, socialist, feminist, ecologist and anarchist was born at Bullumwaal - a gold mining town north of the Gippsland town of Bairnsdale in 1869. From there the family took up a small selection at Wy Yung. Her formative years were spent in and around Bairnsdale and Wy-Yung. Pitt later recalled how her upbringing influenced her later politics; "Having only a bush school ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Marie E J Pitt Poems
A Gallop of Fire
When the north wind moans thro' the blind creek courses And revels with harsh, hot sand, I loose the horses, the wild red horses, I loose the horses, the mad, red horses,
Ballad of Autumn
DOWN harvest headlands the fairy host Of the poppy banners have flashed and fled, The lilies have faded like ghost and ghost, The ripe rose rots in the garden bed.
NOT Beelzebub, but white archangel, I Turn the dim glass and shift the sands again, And touch the eyelids of the sons of men Lest they forget—forget and drowsy lie
WILD and wet, and windy wet falls the night on Hamilton, Hamilton that seaward looks unto the setting sun, Lady of the patient face, lifted everlastingly, Veiled and hushed and mystical as a cloistered nun.
Comments about Marie E J Pitt
(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)
A Gallop of Fire
When the north wind moans thro' the blind creek courses
And revels with harsh, hot sand,
I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
I loose the horses, the mad, red horses,
And terror is on the land.
With prophetic murmer the hills are humming,
The forest-kings bend and blow;
With hoofs of brass on the baked earth strumming,
O brave red horses, they hear us coming,
And the legions of death lean low.
O'er the wooded height, and the sandy hollow
Where the boles to the axe have rung,
Tho' they fly the foreman as flies the swallow,
The fierce red ...