Gwen Harwood (1920-1995) tilldelades the Patrick White Award år 1978 och fick även många andra litterära priser för sin diktning.
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.... to strip the cloak of daily use
from language. Could one seize and move
the stubborn words to yield and sing,
then one would write as one makes love
and poems and revelations spring
like children from the mind's desire,
original as light and fire.
(från O Could One Write As One Makes Love - Poems- 1963)
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Language is not a perfect game,
and if it were, how could we play?
The world's more than the sum of things
like moon, sky, centre, body, bed,
are all the singing masters know.
(från "Thought is Surrounded by a Halo")
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Death has no features of his own.
He'll take a young eye bathed in brightness
and the raging cheekbones of a raddled queen.
Misery's cured by his appalling taste.
His house is without issue. He appears
garlanded with lovebirds, hearts and flowers.
Anything, everything.
He'll wear my face and yours.
Not as we were, thank God. As we shall be
when we let og of the world, late ripe fruit falling.
What we are is beyond him utterly.
(Death Has No Features of His Own - The Lion's Bride 1981)
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Rock on, rock on, my songs enfold you,
the moon slides down and the water's wild,
the snowpeaks gleam on the far horizon,
the sun will rise like a golden child.
You asked for night and look it is falling
your peace is here, your sorrow is gone,
lie at my side in the rocking darkness
Baby, my baby, the night comes on.
(Från The Owl and the Pussycat Baudelaire Rock- The Present Tense 1995)
