Sunday, July 25

midweek high point

The highlight, possibly the only bright moment, in last week, was wangling my name onto the guest list for a talk by possibly the world's greatest living poet. If he was British, he'd be poet laureate and a Sir. Instead of which, he lives in deepest uninhabited New Caledonia, and only ever comes up to Dinna Say to launch another book.

He shared the stage with a former Brain Of NSC. There they were, two very different brains the size of planets, just conversing for 90 minutes. What fun!

And there was free booze. Not just the usual red or white, but you ordered whatever you wanted from the bar, and took it with you into the theatre. And finger food served by young things.

Sometimes you can hardly believe your luck. Not often though.


  1. Albert? Who is he then? Hotboy

  2. I say!

    I expect he was a cricket poet. There are lots of them in the colonies.

    I wandered in from short fine leg,
    Floating high o'er bowler's footmarks,
    When all at once the batsman struck,
    An edge in my direction.
    Beside my outstretched hand it
    Fluttered momentarily, just like a butterfly,
    Until I plucked it before it reached the daisies.

    MM III

  3. Albert? Was it the boy who wrote this?:
    As I rode into Ballarat,
    I met a man who wore no hat.
    When I asked him if he might catch cold,
    He said those hills are just as old as yonder plains,
    but not so flat.
    So I rode into Ballarat

  4. Hotters. Here's a clue:

    There is a kangaroo on yonder hill.

    He didn't write that one. PS Albert's favorite poet is Les Murray.

    Mingers. That poem could well have an Aussie author. It has no rhythm, rhyme or reason. Otherwise it's good. PS I don't know the first thing about poetry, so if you wrote it, you could be a genius for all I know.