Rubens Innocents
IF all those tumbling babes of heaven, Plump cherubim with blown cheeks, Could vault in these warm skies, or leaven Our starry silent mountain-peaks— O painter of chub-faced, shining-thighed Fat Ganymedes of God—what noise Would churn between the clouds and stride Far downward from those rose-mouthed boys! Down to our spires their lusty whooping, Fanfares of Paradise, would speed, Far down to dark-faced clergy stooping Round altars of their doleful creed; And God, whose wings of silver sweep Like metal afire on heaven's rim, Would daze them with a twinkling peep Of those young moon-stained cherubim— Then, for a trice, their skies might sparkle, And some gold ichor splash amid Those most respectable, patriarchal Purveyors of stale pardons, hid Behind their old cathedral closes From this unguessed, unguessable God, Shining before their learned noses Down roads that Peter Rubens trod.
Kenneth Slessor
Other author posts
South Country
After the whey-faced Of river-gums and scribbly-gums and bush, After the rubbing and the hit of brush, You come to the South Country As if the argument of trees were done,
Crow Country
ED of station, noise alone, The crow's voice trembles down the sky As if this nitrous flange of stone Wept suddenly with such a cry; As if the rock found lips to sigh, The riven earth a mouth to moan; But we that hear them, stumbling by, Confuse t...
Cock-Crow
HE cock's far cry From lonely yards Burdens the night With boastful birds That mop their wings To make response— A mess of songs And broken sense So, when I slept, I heard your call (If lips long dead Could answer still) And snapped-off thoug...
Country Towns
Country towns, with your willows and squares, And farmers bouncing on barrel To public houses of yellow With 1860 over their doors,
