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Best Famous Les Murray Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Les Murray poems. This is a select list of the best famous Les Murray poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Les Murray poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Les Murray poems.

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by Les Murray |

Cockspur Bush

 I am lived.
I am died.
I was two-leafed three times, and grazed, but then I was stemmed and multiplied, sharp-thorned and caned, nested and raised, earth-salt by sun-sugar.
I was innerly sung by thrushes who need fear no eyed skin thing.
Finched, ant-run, flowered, I am given the years in now fewer berries, now more of sling out over directions of luscious dung.
Of water crankshaft, of gases the gears my shape is cattle-pruned to a crown spread sprung above the starve-gut instinct to make prairies of everywhere.
My thorns are stuck with caries of mice and rank lizards by the butcher bird.
Inches in, baby seed-screamers get supplied.
I am lived and died in, vine woven, multiplied.


by Les Murray |

The Images Alone

 Scarlet as the cloth draped over a sword,
white as steaming rice, blue as leschenaultia,
old curried towns, the frog in its green human skin;
a ploughman walking his furrow as if in irons, but
as at a whoop of young men running loose
in brick passages, there occurred the thought
like instant stitches all through crumpled silk:

as if he'd had to leap to catch the bullet.
A stench like hands out of the ground.
The willows had like beads in their hair, and Peenemünde, grunted the dentist's drill, Peenemünde! Fowls went on typing on every corn key, green kept crowding the pinks of the peach trees into the sky but used speech balloons were tacky in the river and waterbirds had liftoff as at a repeal of gravity.


by Les Murray |

Bats Ultrasound

 Sleeping-bagged in a duplex wing
with fleas, in rock-cleft or building
radar bats are darkness in miniature,
their whole face one tufty crinkled ear 
with weak eyes, fine teeth bared to sing.
Few are vampires.
None flit through the mirror.
Where they flutter at evening's a queer tonal hunting zone above highest C.
Insect prey at the peak of our hearing drone re to their detailing tee: ah, eyrie-ire; aero hour, eh? O'er our ur-area (our era aye ere your raw row) we air our array err, yaw, row wry - aura our orrery, our eerie ü our ray, our arrow.
A rare ear, our aery Yahweh.


by Les Murray |

Predawn In Health

 The stars are filtering through a tree
outside in the moon's silent era.
Reality is moving layer over layer like crystal spheres now called laws.
The future is right behind your head; just over all horizons is the past.
The soul sits looking at its offer.


by Les Murray |

On The Borders

 We're driving across tableland
somewhere in the world;
it is almost bare of trees.
Upland near void of features always moves me, but not to thought; it lets me rest from thinking.
I feel no need to interpret it as if it were art.
Too much of poetry is criticism now.
That hawk, clinging to the eaves of the wind, beating its third wing, its tail isn't mine to sell.
And here is more like the space that needs to exist aound an image.
This cloud-roof country reminds me of the character of people who first encountered roses in soap.


by Les Murray |

To Fly In Just Your Suit

 Humans are flown, or fall;
humans can't fly.
We're down with the gravity-stemmers, rare, thick-boned, often basso.
Most animals above the tides are airborne.
Typically tuned keen, they throw the ground away with wire feet and swoop rings round it.
Magpies, listening askance for their food in and under lawn, strut so hair-trigger they almost dangle on earth, out of the air.
Nearly anything can make their tailcoats break into wings.


by Les Murray |

The Butter Factory

 It was built of things that must not mix:
paint, cream, and water, fire and dusty oil.
You heard the water dreaming in its large kneed pipes, up from the weir.
And the cordwood our fathers cut for the furnace stood in walls like the sleeper-stacks of a continental railway.
The cream arrived in lorried tides; its procession crossed a platform of workers' stagecraft: Come here Friday-Legs! Or I'll feel your hernia-- Overalled in milk's colour, men moved the heart of milk, separated into thousands, along a roller track--Trucks? That one of mine, son, it pulls like a sixteen-year-old-- to the tester who broached the can lids, causing fat tears, who tasted, dipped and did his thin stoppered chemistry on our labour, as the empties chattered downstage and fumed.
Under the high roof, black-crusted and stainless steels were walled apart: black romped with leather belts but paddlewheels sailed the silvery vats where muscles of the one deep cream were exercised to a bullion to be blocked in paper.
And between waves of delivery the men trod on water, hosing the rainbows of a shift.
It was damp April even at Christmas round every margin of the factory.
Also it opened the mouth to see tackles on glibbed gravel, and the mossed char louvres of the ice-plant's timber tower streaming with heavy rain all day, above the droughty paddocks of the totem cows round whom our lives were dancing.


by Les Murray |

The Harleys

 Blats booted to blatant 
dubbing the avenue dire
with rubbings of Sveinn Forkbeard
leading a black squall of Harleys
with Moe Snow-Whitebeard and

Possum Brushbeard and their ladies
and, sphincter-lipped, gunning,
massed in leather muscle on a run,
on a roll, Santas from Hell
like a whole shoal leaning

wide wristed, their tautness stable
in fluency, fast streetscape dwindling,
all riding astride, on the outside
of sleek grunt vehicles, woman-clung,
forty years on from Marlon.


by Les Murray |

Performance

 I starred that night, I shone:
I was footwork and firework in one,

a rocket that wriggled up and shot
darkness with a parasol of brilliants
and a peewee descant on a flung bit;
I was blusters of glitter-bombs expanding
to mantle and aurora from a crown,
I was fouéttes, falls of blazing paint,
para-flares spot-welding cloudy heaven,
loose gold off fierce toeholds of white,
a finale red-tongued as a haka leap:
that too was a butt of all right!

As usual after any triumph, I was
of course, inconsolable.


by Les Murray |

Aurora Prone

 The lemon sunlight poured out far between things
inhabits a coolness.
Mosquitoes have subsided, flies are for later heat.
Every tree's an auburn giant with a dazzled face and the back of its head to an infinite dusk road.
Twilights broaden away from our feet too as rabbits bounce home up defiles in the grass.
Everything widens with distance, in this perspective.
The dog's paws, trotting, rotate his end of infinity and dam water feels a shiver few willow drapes share.
Bright leaks through their wigwam re-purple the skinny beans then rapidly the light tops treetops and is shortened into a day.
Everywhere stands pat beside its shadow for the great bald radiance never seen in dreams.