Poems by Kenneth Slessor

All Poems Original Poems Translations

1 2 3 4 5 › »

Realities

(To the etchings of Norman Lindsay)

Now the statues lean over each to each, and sing,

Gravely in warm plaster turning; the hedges are dark.

The trees come suddenly to flower with moonlight,

The water-gardens to glassy fire, and the night, the night,

Breaks in a rain of stars. O, now the statues wake,

Poise on their leaden stems, and dive into the lake—

And the old Gardener, who has grown old with raking,

by Kenneth Slessor

Fixed Ideas

RANKS of electroplated cubes, dwindling to glitters,

Like the other pasture, the trigonometry of marble,

Death's candy-bed. Stone caked on stone,

Dry pyramids and racks of iron balls.

Life is observed, a precipitate of pellets,

Or grammarians freeze it into spar,

Their rhomboids, as for instance, the finest crystal

Fixing a snowfall under glass. Gods are laid out

by Kenneth Slessor

Cock-Crow

THE cock's far cry

From lonely yards

Burdens the night

With boastful birds

That mop their wings

To make response—

A mess of songs

And broken sense.

by Kenneth Slessor

The Country Ride

EARTH which has known so many passages

Of April air, so many marriages

Of strange and lovely atoms breeding light,

Never may find again that lost delight.

In the sharp sky, the frosty deepnesses,

There are still birds to barb the silences,

There are still fields to meet the morning on,

But those who made them beautiful have gone.

by Kenneth Slessor

La Dame Du Palais De La Reine

SOPHIE, in shocks of scarlet lace,

Receives her usual embrace

Beneath a hedge, behind a curtain,

Or in the chambers of His Grace.

Whether a kiss be worth the care

Five minions wasted on her hair,

Sophie herself is half uncertain,

Paused in adorable despair.

by Kenneth Slessor

Mephistopheles Perverted

(Or Goethe for the Times)

ONCE long ago lived a Flea

Who kept such a fine, fat King,

Not that he held with royalty,

But more for the appearance of the thing,

And gave his Majesty to hold

(Such pageantries are far too few)

A sword of ruby-hilted gold

by Kenneth Slessor

The Ghost

"BEES of old Spanish wine

Pipe at this Inn to-night,

Music and candleshine

Fill the dim chambers . . . .

"Fans toss and ladies pace,

Flutes of cold metal blow,

Maidens like winds of lace

Tease the dark passages . . . .

by Kenneth Slessor

Rubens' Innocents

IF all those tumbling babes of heaven,

Plump cherubim with blown cheeks,

Could vault in these warm skies, or leaven

Our starry silent mountain-peaks—

O painter of chub-faced, shining-thighed

Fat Ganymedes of God—what noise

Would churn between the clouds and stride

Far downward from those rose-mouthed boys!

by Kenneth Slessor

Thieves' Kitchen

GOOD roaring pistol-boys, brave lads of gold,

Good roistering easy maids, blown cock-a-hoop

On floods of tavern-steam, I greet you! Drunk

With wild Canary, drowned in wines of old,

I'll swear your round, red faces dive and swim

Like clouds of fire-fish in a waxen tide,

And these are seas of smoke we thieves behold.

Yet I've a mind I know what arms enchain

by Kenneth Slessor

To Myself

AFTER all, you are my rather tedious hero;

It is impossible (damn it!) to avoid

Looking at you through keyholes.

But come! At least you might try to be

Even, let us say, a Graceful Zero

Or an Eminent Molecule, gorgeously employed.

Have you not played Hamlet's father in the wings

Long enough, listening to poets groan,

by Kenneth Slessor

Taoist

THOSE friends of Lao-Tzu, those wise old men

Dozing all day in lemon-silken robes,

With tomes of beaten jade spread knee to knee,

And pipe-stem, shining cold with silver, poised

In steaming play, and still a finger free

To dog the path of some forgotten pen;

Almost their bee-sweet ancient words incline

My mind to those old pagan ways, beloved

by Kenneth Slessor

An Inscription For Dog River

OUR general was the greatest and bravest of generals.

For his deeds, look around you on this coast—

Here is his name cut next to Ashur-Bani-Pal's,

Nebuchadnezzar's and the Roman host;

And we, though our identities have been lost,

Lacking the validity of stone or metal,

We, too, are part of his memorial,

Having been put in for the cost,

by Kenneth Slessor