October 21st 2017


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Articles from this issue:

COVER STORY Reality of family unit must underlie tax system

EDITORIAL Christianity today: the challenges ahead

CANBERRA OBSERVED Xenophon: a Mr Fixit or a political yo-yo?

DRUGS POLICY Science elbowed aside in rush for latest silver bullet: 'medical marijuana'

TRANSGENDER MARRIAGE Decoys to revolutionary laws redefining sex and marriage

FOREIGN AFFAIRS What is the way out of the Catalan crisis?

NATIONAL AFFAIRS Our barmy Army: all politically correct

FAMILY AND SOCIETY The child as weapon in Family Court process

FAMILY AND SOCIETY Faiths and the global future

KOREA Hermit Kingdom versus the Land of Morning Calm

MUSIC Hi-tech lo-fi: Resistance is futile

CINEMA Blade Runner 2049: A cypher unlocking a mystery

BOOK REVIEW The rebels

BOOK REVIEW An attempt to break through the fog

POETRY

HUMOUR More excerpts from the forthcoming revision of Forget's Dictionary of Inaccurate Facts, Furphys and Falsehoods

LETTERS

EUTHANASIA Victoria's death bill: questions that need answers

TRANSGENDER MARRIAGE: George Christensen calls Parliament's attention to activists' end-game

EUTHANASIA Victoria mistakes killing for compassion

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POETRY




News Weekly, October 21, 2017

Water-Taxi from a Pittwater Island

Smooth water. A silver fan
under the bows
reaching away to touch the still
sketched masts
of moonlit schooners anchored
with lanterns
distant, and the far hills with houses
hung in the night.

Would it be too much to ask,
very reasonably,
that this enchanted silver-blue journey
under the full moon
simply go on for ever?

 

 

Rottnest Island Scene

How beautiful my wife is, kneeling
Beside our propped-up bicycles
On the stony edge of a salt lake
To inspect the heraldic scales of a bob-tail lizard,
Its shining eyes and violet-blue leaf of a tongue.

Morning in an odd astringent Eden
Where terns strut the shingle
And fresh wind
Blows tumbling, sparkling balls of brine-foam.

Hal G.P. Colebatch

Rogues’ Gallery, Satan’s Century

(Snaps at an Henri Cartier-Bresson Exhibition)

   Movers and shakers, quite, quite still,
Trapped at the borders of their hell:
Ego – ergo – into night;
Few from these shadows look for light.

  In middle-age, in truth, I see
The masters of my Arts degree
(With mistresses of poise cum pain
Who’d never trust a kiss again):
A century where stance was style
Draining the simple right to smile.

  Faith vivisected, Hope decried,
And Charity betrayed in pride:
Leo the Thirteenth fell, unnerved,
Hearing the monster to be served.

  But, maybe, through their eyes I reach
A prayer they would not frame in speech:
“O ‘infinitely gentle . . . thing’
Transform our wilful suffering,
Dissolve our world; make good our loss
Of Life still founded on the Cross.”

Andrew Huntley




























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