September 9th 2017


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Articles from this issue:

COVER STORY Our unsafe schools are putting students at risk

EDITORIAL Turnbull needs a circuit breaker or he's a goner

CANBERRA OBSERVED 'What's the question?' is the crucial question

FOREIGN AFFAIRS Beijing applauds jailing of Hong Kong activists

NATIONAL AFFAIRS The economic agenda Australia needs won't come from Mal or Bill

MARRIAGE AND FAMILY Child-support payments and parental alienation

MARRIAGE AND LAW NSW Law Society spruiks for same-sex marriage

INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS Germany's energy plan: a disaster in the making

MUSIC Monetising the muse: 'Frugal comfort' would be welcome

CINEMA Logan Lucky: Southern fried robbery

BOOK REVIEW Serious Bioethics salted with humour

POETRY

HUMOUR

LETTERS

CANBERRA OBSERVED Love may be love, but certainly consequences are consequences

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POETRY




News Weekly, September 9, 2017

One Memory

My grandfather had a model sailing-ship

In a case in the arcade outside his shop.
The ship was made of matches, the glass case
Had a slot for dropping coins in at the top.

I spent a good while gazing at it,
Making up stories, first of the ship and then
Of whoever glued the matches, tied the rigging,
Painted ship and plaster sea, especially when

I was allowed to help unlock it sometimes,
Bag up the takings for the week’s Good Cause –
Crippled children, the blind, the ambulance,
Small change of sailors, drunks and whores

As well as sober customers and shopkeepers
In that port city. And so that ship to me
Like all ships, had a magic of its own
Shielded by glass, sailing its painted sea.

The arcade has changed a good deal now.
Grandfather’s shop has long since passed away.
Certainly, there’s no glass box of ship and coins
(How long, I wonder, would they last today?).

But the ship’s there in my memory,
And what it sailed towards: innocence like joy,
Pathetically fragile, but freighted, with its coins,
With a cargo of treasure nothing can destroy.

Hal G.P. Colebatch

 

Tempus Mutandis

“She hasn’t once dropped it”

Said the farmer father, warmly proud,
And marvelling at his little daughter,
“She’s never once dropped it”,
And again, as countrymen did
Ruminating, savouring his pride and pleasure,
“She hasn’t dropped it once”.
Half a century later this would not be said with pride,
Could not be said with pride,
Nor even wished of a little girl
nursing her doll in a bright kitchen.
Motherliness is not admired, is not applauded,
Now.

Lucy Sullivan

 

Veneration of the Cross
(Saint Anne’s, Good Friday)

This final wood betrays the cost

Our Saviour paid in pain:
Nailed to this tree, in death He lost
Yet purchased us again.

He hung upon sin’s barren wood,
Fruit of its leafless tree;
Yet shed the price, in Living Blood,
Of our eternity.

So now, in sorrow-tempered joy,
Kissing this Cross of strife,
In faith we touch the Crucified
And find God’s pledge of Life.

Andrew Huntley




























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March 16, 2017, 10:40 am