Learning Human: Selected Poems

Sept 7, 2025 Paused for now....
I was committed to other scheduled reads and then my borrow with Hoopla expired. I've just added this to my BetterWorldBooks cart. I think this one deserves to be read as my own real paper and ink copy, one that I can take my sweet time with.

Quite by chance I discovered this poet. It was because I googled "Australian poetry" and by dipping in here and there in the results, I discovered there's an impressive body of literature, a continent full. One poem, though, made me want to cry or cry out or shout it to the rooftops, one by Les Murray. Quickly I found an anthology of his work and will be reading slowly over time as I like to do with poetry.

Read Jul 21, 2025

"The Burning Truck"
A seaside town is attacked show more by fighter planes, a truck is hit and becomes a fireball of free roaming disaster, attracting the street children in chase after it.

over the tramline, past the church, on past
the last lit windows, and then out of the world
with its disciples.

That word, "disciples," it sticks with you, you can't ignore that these children will become the eighteen year old fodder for the world's eternal attraction to disaster.

"Driving Through Sawmill Towns"
Impressions of driving but not stopping: flashes of makeshift buildings, the dangerous heavy work in progress by the men, brief glances of the women stepping outside,

all day in calendared kitchens, women listen
for cars on the road
children lost in the bush,
a cry from the mill, a footstep—
nothing happens.

Nothing except their lives of slowing hope and almost imperceptible deaths.

"An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow"
This is the one, that original poem I found that hit me in the gut.

There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.

Has he lost his mind? Does he need help or a good kick? Or is he a momentary touchstone for all humanity?

"Vindaloo in Merthyr Tydfil"
This is every masculine, loveable man I ever met. While high on good feelings and pints visiting his buddies in Wales, he orders the vindaloo from an Indian restaurant, even ignoring the hand-wringing Indian waiter, "O vindaloo, sir! Are you sure you want the vindaloo?" He eats every last bite smothered in the "sauce of rich yellow brimstone" and for three days "on end" is "illuminated" concerning his "mortal coil."

Oh, it is lovely to be here in Murray's big hands. He puts on paper that quiet, universally admired masculinity. No froufrou stuff here, no aloof academia. Just instantly accessible writing with empathy and stewardship of and for the everyman, looking kindly, and sadly, at his species.

More to come. show less