Paterson Poem Quotes

I would say poetry is language charged with emotion. It's words, rhythmically organized . . . A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has any worth expresses the whole life of the poet. It gives a view of what the poet is.

A poetic form is essentially a codified pattern of silence. We have a little silence at the end of a line, a bigger one at the end of a stanza, and a huge one at the end of the poem. The semantic weight of the poem tends to naturally distribute itself according to that pattern of silence, paying especial care to the sounds and meanings of the words and phrases that resonate into the little empty acoustic of the line-ending, or the connecting hallway of stanza-break, or the big church of the poem's end.

The province of the poem is the world. When the sun rises, it rises in the poem and when it sets darkness comes down and the poem is dark . and lamps are lit, cats prowl and men read, read–or mumble and stare at that which their small lights distinguish or obscure or their hands search out in the dark. The poem moves them or it does not move them. Faitoute, his ears ringing . no sound . no great city, as he seems to read–

Even the most apparently autobiographical poem cannot help but deploy a persona that, while gesturing towards a flesh-and-bones speaker, remains, paradoxically, no more than a dramatised representation. The illusion of the presence of the poet within a poem is made possible by that poem’s conjuring of the illusion of the present moment. Poems may utilise language in such ways as to gesture towards an immediacy that, in turn, gives rise to the seeming presence of a very real speaker.

The province of the poem is the world. When the sun rises, it rises in the poem and when it sets darkness comes down and the poem is dark

That the poem, the most perfect rock and temple, the highest falls, in clouds of gauzy spray, should be so rivaled . that the poet, in disgrace, should borrow from erudition (to unslave the mind): railing at the vocabulary (borrowing from those he hates, to his own disfranchisement) . —discounting his failures . seeks to induce his bones to rise into a scene, his dry bones, above the scene, (they will not) illuminating it within itself, out of itself to form the colors, in the terms of some back street, so that the history may escape the panders . . accomplish the inevitable poor, the invisible, thrashing, breeding . debased city

Where The Dead Men Lie" "Out on the wastes of the Never Never - That's where the dead men lie! There where the heat-waves dance forever - That's where the dead men lie! That's where the Earth's loved sons are keeping Endless tryst: not the west wind sweeping Feverish pinions can wake their sleeping - Out where the dead men lie! Where brown Summer and Death have mated - That's where the dead men lie! Loving with fiery lust unsated - That's where the dead men lie! Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely Under the saltbush sparkling brightly; Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly - That's where the dead men lie! Deep in the yellow, flowing river - That's where the dead men lie! Under the banks where the shadows quiver - That's where the dead men he! Where the platypus twists and doubles, Leaving a train of tiny bubbles. Rid at last of their earthly troubles - That's where the dead men lie! East and backward pale faces turning - That's how the dead men lie! Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning - That's how the dead men lie! Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning Hearing again their mother's crooning, Wrapt for aye in a dreamful swooning - That's how the dead men lie! Only the hand of Night can free them - That's when the dead men fly! Only the frightened cattle see them - See the dead men go by! Cloven hoofs beating out one measure, Bidding the stockmen know no leisure - That's when the dead men take their pleasure! That's when the dead men fly! Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover: He sees the dead pass by; Hearing them call to their friends - the plover, Hearing the dead men cry; Seeing their faces stealing, stealing, Hearing their laughter, pealing, pealing, Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling Round where the cattle lie! Strangled by thirst and fierce privation - That's how the dead men die! Out on Moncygrub's farthest station - That's how the dead men die! Hard-faced greybeards, youngsters caflow; Some mounds cared for, some left fallow; Some deep down, yet others shallow. Some having but the sky. Moncygrub, as he sips his claret, Looks with complacent eye Down at his watch-chain, eighteen carat - There, in his club, hard by: Recks not that every link is stamped with Names of the men whose limbs are cramped with Too long lying in grave-mould, cramped with Death where the dead men lie. (Banjo Paterson thought this was one of Barcroft’s first class works