September 23rd 2017


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Articles from this issue:

COVER STORY Labor's vision for a transgender world

EDITORIAL Liddell closure: acid test for Turnbull

EUTHANASIA We risk turning our doctors into death dealers

DOCUMENTARY Harvested Alive: killing Falung Gong in China

AGENDA FOR AUSTRALIA Distorted jobless stats defeat planning efforts

ENVIRONMENT Hurricane Harvey: don't let a good disaster go to waste

AFL GRAND FINAL Bob Santamaria predicted the sunset of Aussie Rules

HISTORY After 500 years, is sugar going sour?

IDEOLOGY OF TRANSGENDERISM Reshaping our identities and relationships

MUSIC The Sequence: it's elementary

CINEMA The Hitman's Bodyguard: 'Eighties' action with popcorn

BOOK REVIEW One of globalisation's dwindling band

POETRY

HUMOUR

LETTERS

SAME-SEX MARRIAGE For bullying, look left, look left, and then look left again

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POETRY




News Weekly, September 23, 2017

Emergency Ward 

In this mad-house
Suddenly erupting about me
Of orderlies running with trollies,
T-shirted young interns,
Bloodstained cops
And screams,
I look up and keep hold
Of the one certain thing:
My daughter’s hand.

 

 

In Praise of the Singapore Satay Club 

This place in not a loved one
to watch yourself in front of
but a friend who makes no claims.

Spicy fires, chattering clerks and students,
with a singing, swallow-filled tree,
a short walk from anywhere in the hot night.

Whatever may be nearby,
here, too simply to be obvious,
no one is unhappy.

 

 

Rhipidura leucophrys and Grallina cyanoleuca 

Bright little black-and-white jester and singer
of grassy banks and sedge,

with their cobweb-wafer and mud-flask nests
sharing a tree by the river-edge.

Call them willy-wagtail and magpie-lark
and the names bounce and sing in the sun

like water sparkling where the paper-bark
tree leans, where the rivers run

with green and gold. But even the Latin names
were given with love somewhere

to those two little birds who come to us
like breaths of pure morning.

 

 

Scraping a boat

And pausing for a moment in the drenched sun
gasping and guzzling soft-drink
to admire and return through the heat
to the water below the slipway
a small scuttering crab
who has bravely made himself
a home by the rudder pintle. This is also
a moment to keep, as he vanishes,
sliding away under brown rock.

Hal G.P. Colebatch




























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Last Modified:
April 4, 2018, 6:45 pm