Scatterbrain

May 29, 2024 | Posted by Guest Reviewer | Poetry, WRITING & LITERATURE |

By E. H. Visiak (1878-1972) He goes wool-gathering ‘neath the stars; He hath a screw loose: Scatterbrain. He hath a window loose that jars Open to heaven, and falls shut again.

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Dinner at Antoine’s (Frances Parkinson Keyes)

(1949). “Keyes” rhymes with “skies” not “keys”.  Being privy to arcane pronunciations is the sort of marker which separates those who are in New Orleans Society from those who are not. Only the former know that the sidewalk in 1940’s-50’s New Orleans is called the “banquette”. Only the former are admitted to Antoine’s Restaurant on St Louis Street without a long wait on the banquette, if at all. Orson Foxworth is certainly one of the former and, on a warm afternoon, is immediately lead into the special lunch room when he entertains his niece and several intimate friends. The layout…

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The Old City

October 26, 2023 | Posted by Guest Reviewer | LIFE, Short Stories |

By Margot Jakobsen Moments of teenage conflict with Dad, explode into my adult mind. “You treat me like the enemy!”, he says. “You are!” Then softening, “Dad, you’re damaged by the war.” “What!? Are you a psychiatrist, now?” “You don’t win by yelling the loudest!” “You don’t respect me.” “You have to deserve respect!” No surrender. I left Adelaide for Sydney, and that was hard for him to forgive. Now my father, the school librarian, is in a beige, plastic casket in the wall to ceiling shelves that I made some time ago out of cypress floorboards. I enclosed some…

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Black Mischief

Reflections on the Rainbow Nation, South Africa ‘You know,’ he added reflectively, ‘we’ve got a much easier job now than we should have had fifty years ago. If we’d had to modernize a country then it would have meant constitutional monarchy, bi-cameral legislature, proportional representation, women’s suffrage, independent judicature, freedom of the Press, referendums . . .’ ‘What is all that?’ asked the Emperor. ‘Just a few ideas that have ceased to be modern.’  (Evelyn Waugh, Black Mischief, (1932), p. 128). South Africa’s once diamondiferous soil was always leavened with blood, running down the anthill to the lowest point of Kimberley’s…

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Write, Don’t Talk

(Random thoughts regarding Adelaide Writers’ Week, 2023 – a verse dialogue) (With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Thomas Stearns Eliot) READER A lovely form there sate beside my bed, And such a feeding calm its presence shed, A tone so pure, far from earthly leaven, A message reassuring, newly down from heaven. ‘Twas some comfort – A fact drawn from bone; “We read to know that we are not alone.” AUTHOR And yet here it shrinks back, as if mistook! That weary, wandering, disavowing look! ‘Twas all another feature, look and frame, And still, methought, I knew, it was…

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