Dorothy Porter was an Australian poet and author.
November 2004, no. 266 • 01 November 2004
This six a.m. momentin the cool-blue coolof early morningis not eternal. ... (read more)
Waiting on a reeking strange railway station –then the dead-quiet but crowded night ferry. ... (read more)
We were never married, Dido.Cease weeping, let me leave and agreewe both knew real spouses. Even as the ghost of my precious wife passedthrough my clutching arms like mistI swear on my soul I could taste her. O the scorch of lost Trojan morningsin our rumpled bed with bread, figsand, yes, honey! I could taste honeyas if every bee in Troyhad made her phantom its swarming hive. Of course I will ... (read more)
It’s the silence. Even by the river, my ears are straining. It’s the silence. At this moment it’s a warmish humid silence with the grass outside lushly mesmerising the eye. Then there’s the drone of a fly. And the hum of the fridge. And down by the river at dawn, where I sat watching this morning’s mist melt over the water with the poet Judy Beveridge, there was suddenly from the far ban ... (read more)