Anthony Lawrence (born 1957) is a contemporary Australian poet and novelist. Lawrence has received a number of Australia Council for the Arts Literature Board Grants, including a Fellowship, and has won many awards for his poetry, including the inaugural Judith Wright Calanthe Award, the Gwen Harwood Memorial Prize, and the Newcastle Poetry Prize (three times). His most recent collection is Headwaters (Pitt Street Poetry).

My Darling Turns to Poetry at Night

My darling turns to poetry at night.
What began as flirtation, an aside
Between abstract expression and first light

Now finds form as a silent, startled flight
Of commas on her face — a breath, a word ...    
My darling turns to poetry at night.

When rain inspires the night birds to create
Rhyme and formal verse, stanzas can be made
Between abstract expression and first light.

Her heartbeat is a metaphor, a late
Bloom of red flowers that refuse to fade.
My darling turns to poetry at night.

I watch her turn. I do not sleep. I wait
For symbols, for a sign that fear has died
Between abstract expression and first light.

Her dreams have night vision, and in her sight
Our bodies leave ghostprints on the bed.
My darling turns to poetry at night
Between abstract expression and first light.

Tony Hoagland was born in North Carolina and he's not native American (smiles)...I normally put a little intro about the poet in these. I must have forgotten!

RIP Maya this one is for you...


Maya Angelou, born April 4, 1928 as Marguerite Johnson in St. Louis, was raised in segregated rural Arkansas. She was a poet, historian, author, actress, playwright, civil-rights activist, producer and director. She lectured throughout the US and abroad and was Reynolds professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in North Carolina since 1981. She had published ten best selling books and numerous magazine articles earning her Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award nominations. At the request of President Clinton, she wrote and delivered a poem at his 1993 presidential inauguration.


Phenomenal Woman



Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

It's beautiful. I'll add in the Afrikaans version

Die kind wat dood geskiet is deur soldate by Nyanga - Ingrid Jonker

Die kind is nie dood nie

die kind lig sy vuiste teen sy moeder

wat Afrika skreeu skreeu die geur van vryheid en heide

in die lokasies van die omsingelde hart



Die kind lig sy vuiste teen sy vader

in die optog van die generasies

wat Afrika skreeu skreeu die geur

van geregtigheid en bloed

in die strate van sy gewapende trots



Die kind is nie dood nie

nòg by Langa nòg by Nyanga

nòg by Orlando nòg by Sharpville

nòg by die polisiestasie in Philippi

waar hy lê met 'n koeël deur sy kop



Die kind is die skaduwee van die soldate

op wag met gewere sarasene en knuppels

die kind is teenwoordig by alle vergaderings en wetgewings

die kind loer deur die vensters van huise en in die harte

van moeders

die kind wat net wou speel in die son by Nyanga is orals

die kind wat 'n man geword het trek deur die ganse Afrika

die kind wat 'n reus geword het reis deur die hele wêreld



Sonder 'n pas

A Color of the Sky


Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.


I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.


Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.


Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,


which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.


Last night I dreamed of X again.
She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I’m glad.


What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.


Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;


overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,


dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,


so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It’s been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more.

Those are lovely..thank you for sharing...

I have to thank you for posting this poem. This was back in the days when true poetry was common among the masses. It is fitting that this was posted on my birthday. I love good poetry. It does not get any better than this. Pity, we don't often achieve it ourselves, anymore. My compliments on your taste.

Happy Birthday. I was in a mood for something somber. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

"Dulce et Decorum Est " by Wilfred Owen


Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

deletng too graphic

It depends on my mood as I love a lot of poetry types but I have a huge soft spot for well written love poems. It appeals to the softie in me.

Sometimes words flutter against my consciousness, Barely coaxing a response in a fleeting manner Gently saying ‘Write me down, dear’ Others times they resound screeching and jagged Full of discord while beating savagely against my head Until the only peace to be found is to begin the story. While the characters finish the pace in an almost violent extraction Threatening with a ‘Finish...

Added 04 Mar 2016 | Category Poetry | Votes 6 | Avg Score 4.83 | Views 368 | 3 Comments

Kooky quasi–serious conversations That amused look between good friends  Where words aren’t needed  The quirk of a brow  The half grin secretly sitting on the corner of your mouth It takes one line of absurd ridiculousness Hilarity ensues chaotically  The giggles becoming guffaws  As tummies tighten and heave  With shared laughter Tears spill out joyfully As our breathing gets harder ...

Added 20 Feb 2013 | Category Poetry | Votes 15 | Avg Score 4.73 | Views 849 | 11 Comments

You hear my words  But don’t get the meaning You hear my jokes  But don’t understand them You see the surface because I allow you to see  Never scratching below the layers of me I sit and silently watch  Without being observed My earphones in  Apparently absorbed in my world I see... I watch all the time because  I can tell by watching if you are evil, good or worth knowing ...

Added 11 Oct 2012 | Category Poetry | Votes 13 | Avg Score 4.85 | Views 1,425 | 11 Comments

‘It’s time’ I said ‘to write me another rhyme’ and nagging doubt set in and I thought( Stop rolling your eyes - I do that, sometimes) It’s been so long, the voices chiming to get out have stilled. Or are they merely muted?   Or on holiday somewhere hot?(the bastards) While I work my ass off on this over populated island This creativity of mine comes and goes Slinking in and out of...

Added 13 Apr 2012 | Category Poetry | Votes 11 | Avg Score 4.82 | Views 1,255 | 7 Comments

I long for solitude, perhaps in a quiet room far away Apart from this noise, modern life so loud A mobile conversation jarringly obtrusive Music player set louder, Drowning out your shouted replies A child kicks my chair on this train Railing and screaming, hauling me back into this world I long for momentary deafness Buffering my soul, against this constant clamour A businessman...

Added 13 Feb 2012 | Category Poetry | Votes 13 | Avg Score 4.62 | Views 1,465 | 9 Comments

I never do a preface to my work but I wrote this a long time ago. I was extremely angry,heartbroken and betrayed by a lover. Looking back I don't feel the same toxicity but it is still a poem that reflects that turbulant part of my life. Dear (Insert your name here) Your subversive cowardice astounds me Daring accusations from you paint me as settling When you settle, your life littered...

Added 14 Feb 2012 | Category Poetry | Votes 10 | Avg Score 4.6 | Views 1,008 | 6 Comments

I search for something but am blinded by the reflective haze of life’s superficiality Trying to unshackle myself of fear I had hoped to reach Nirvana with unconstrained honest spirituality Seeking contentment yet it teases and slips beyond my grasp and eludes me infuriatingly I want to accept the past as a lesson, uproot the emotional weeds yet they cling vine like and seem ...

Added 05 Jan 2012 | Category Poetry | Votes 11 | Avg Score 5 | Views 1,176 | 7 Comments

This small forgotten bar in the middle of the city The girl sits behind the piano No one pays her any mind except me Her smile a slash of sadness She plays her first chord And from nowhere this jazz sound emerges She should be playing in concerts Her fingers caress the ivory keys She coaxes brilliance out of the tired old piano in the corner And she sings of heartache and beauty ...

Added 30 Nov 2011 | Category Poetry | Votes 19 | Avg Score 4.84 | Views 1,078 | 14 Comments

And you thrummed you fingers into my life. I felt these defences lower Like a retreat called in Battle And you made this heart beat, Beloved. When it had refused for years It creaked, groaned and broke asunder And so I began to feel slowly. I flailed and stumbled Within the murkiness of feelings And then I began to write, Beloved. Of feelings, of colours With emotion and passion ...

Added 21 Oct 2011 | Category Poetry | Votes 10 | Avg Score 4.6 | Views 1,358 | 3 Comments

Don’t you miss stanzas?  I do  I do They order you, my words, like soldiers in a game of strategy Separating ideas like Fair trade farmers shoving coffee beans into piles Don’t you miss poetic devices? I do I do My good pals, onomatopoeia, assonance and allusion They take common words or phrases and imbue them with extraordinary meaning Don’t you miss the simplicity of it all? I do ...

Added 16 Jun 2011 | Category Poetry | Votes 8 | Avg Score 4.75 | Views 1,235 | 6 Comments