On The Borders
We're driving across tableland
somewhere in the world;
it is almost bare of trees.
Upland near void of features
always moves me, but not to thought;
it lets me rest from thinking.
I feel no need to interpret it
as if it were art. Too much
of poetry is criticism now.
That hawk, clinging to
the eaves of the wind, beating
its third wing, its tail
isn't mine to sell. And here is
more like the space that needs
to exist aound an image.
This cloud-roof country reminds me
of the character of people
who first encountered roses in soap.
Les Murray's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (On The Borders by Les Murray )
Did you read them?
- I feel bored, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- 30 September 2014, Shri R Brahma
- Praise God for that Touchdown (only if Y.., Joe Rosochacki
- Mablaba baogargwn be jaya, Shri R Brahma
- Uncle Ikey's Last Words No.44, Robert Graber
- My dinner عشائي, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Ang hastayw, Shri R Brahma
- Jwmwiya mwsayw, Shri R Brahma
- Dinwini gwswkhangthiyao, Shri R Brahma
- Thunlai swrjini, Shri R Brahma
Poem of the Day
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
- Heather Burns
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)