{"id":32441,"date":"2016-06-07T06:30:15","date_gmt":"2016-06-06T18:30:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/?p=32441"},"modified":"2016-06-04T22:58:56","modified_gmt":"2016-06-04T10:58:56","slug":"tuesday-poetry-south-of-my-days-excerpt-by-judith-wright","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/2016\/06\/07\/tuesday-poetry-south-of-my-days-excerpt-by-judith-wright\/","title":{"rendered":"Tuesday Poetry: “South of My Days” (Excerpt) by Judith Wright"},"content":{"rendered":"

South of My Days<\/span><\/h3>\n

South of my days’ circle, part of my blood’s country,<\/span>
\n rises that tableland, high delicate outline<\/span>
\n of bony slopes wincing under the winter,<\/span>
\n low trees, blue-leaved and olive, outcropping granite-<\/span>
\n clean, lean,\u00a0 hungry country. The creek’s leaf-silenced,<\/span>
\n willow choked, the slope a tangle of medlar and crabapple<\/span>
\n branching over and under, blotched with a green lichen;<\/span>
\n and the old cottage lurches in for shelter.<\/span><\/p>\n

…<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, they slide and they vanish<\/span>
\n as he shuffles the years like a pack of conjuror’s cards.<\/span>
\n True or not, it’s all the same; and the frost on the roof<\/span>
\n cracks like a whip, and the back-log break into ash.<\/span>
\n Wake, old man. This is winter, and the yarns are over.<\/span>
\n No-one is listening<\/span>
\n South of my days’ circle<\/span>
\n I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country<\/span>
\n full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep.<\/span><\/p>\n

by Judith Wright, 1915 – 2000<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

Since I am in Australia this week, I thought I would feature an excerpt (the first and last stanzas) from South of My Days<\/em> by renowned Australian poet, Judith Wright.<\/p>\n

I love the language of this poem, and the vivid evocation of landscape and sense of place. If you get the opportunity to read the whole poem, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

South of My Days South of my days’ circle, part of my blood’s country, rises that tableland, high delicate outline of bony slopes wincing under the winter, low trees, blue-leaved and olive, outcropping granite- clean, lean,\u00a0 hungry country. The creek’s leaf-silenced, willow choked, the slope a tangle of medlar and crabapple branching over and under, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[14,6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-32441","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-other-writers","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32441","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=32441"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32441\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":32443,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32441\/revisions\/32443"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=32441"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=32441"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=32441"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}