Australia By Ania Walwicz?
I have heard of a poem named "Australia" by Ania Walwicz. I am trying to find a copy of this poem on the Internet.
If anyone has a link to the poem or a scanned copy I would greatly appreciate it.
Thanks in advance.
- Kevin SLv 71 decade agoFavorite Answer
Australia, a "prose poem" by Ania Walwicz
You big ugly. You too empty. You desert with your nothing nothing nothing.You scorched suntanned. Old too quickly. Acres of suburbs watching the telly. You bore me. Freckle silly children. You nothing much.
With your big sea. Beach beach beach. I´ve seen enough already. You Dumb dirty city with bar stools. You´re ugly. You silly shoppingtown. You copy. You too far everywhere. You laugh at me. When I came this woman gave me a box of biscuits. You try to be friendly but you´re not very friendly.
You never ask me to your house. You insult me. You don´t know how to be with me. Road road tree tree. I came from crowded and many. I came from rich. You have nothing to offer. You´re poor and spread thin. You big. So what. I´m small. It´s what´s in. You silent on Sunday. Nobody on your streets. You dead at night. You go to sleep too early. You don´t excite me. You scare me with your hopeless. Asleep when you walk. Too hot to think. You big awful. You don´t match me. You burnt out. You too big sky. You make me a dot in the nowhere. You laugh with your big healthy. You want everyone to be the same. You´re dumb. You do like anybody else. You engaged Doreen.
You big cow. You average average. Cold day at school playing around at lunchtime. Running around for nothing. You never accept me. For your own. You always ask me where I´m from. You always ask me. You tell me I look strange. Different. You don´t adopt me. You laugh at the way I speak.
You think you´re better than me. You don´t like me. You don´t have any Interest in another country. Idiot centre of your own self. You think the rest of the world walks around without shoes or electric light. You don´t go anywhere. You stay at home. You like one another. You go crazy on Saturday night. You get drunk. You don´t like me and you don´t like women. You put your arm around men in bars. You´re rough. I can´t speak to you. You burly burly. You´re just silly to me. You big man. Poor with all your money. You ugly furniture. You ugly house. Relaxed in your summer stupor: All year. Never fully awake. Dull at school. Wait for other people to tell you what to do. Follow the leader. Can´t imagine. Work horse. Thick legs. You go to work in the morning. You shiver on a tramSource(s): Editor, New Poets Press
- Anonymous4 years ago
My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but oh my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointed to the east, began to say: "Look on the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. "And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove. "For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and care And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice'," Thus did my mother say, and kissed me; And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. william blake