When . . . .


When Betelgeuse holds out her shining hand

Across the hundreds of her years of light,

I marvel that I should be here at gaze

Upon the starry wonders of the night.



It matters not that I am poor and ill,

A pallid ghost waiting the pallid pall;

When I see wonder, all the marvel is

That I am here at all.


Llywelyn Lucas (1943)

Back to Llywelyn Lucas

Four Aphorisms

Llywelyn Lucas 


Nature didn’t invent marriage, let alone monogamy. 

Mere tidiness is the destroyer of creativity.

The only real poverty is possession of a mean spirit

We may seem to be and we may try to be, but we cannot really be – other than we are.

                                                                                                         Llywelyn Lucas.


Next poem by Llywelyn Lucas



The air at sweet Taringa

Is like Taringa's name,

Clanging and sweet and streaming forth

In a blue morning flame;

Bullock Team, Taringa 1921


The great hills of Mount Coot-tha

So gloriously steep

And the valleys that they mother

Distil it in their sleep.


It dissipates like dreaming,

It uplifts like a cloud,

It sets the people walking

With step remote and proud.


The air at sweet Taringa

Is like Taringa's name,

Clanging and sweet and streaming forth

In a blue morning flame!

                                                   Llywelyn Lucas: Brisbane Courier, 9 February, 1929, p 22

Next poem by Llywelyn Lucas




I love old flowers: the withering

Is natural and right: in mellowness to fall away;

Secession of a pear to pulp and tiny pips of seed,

The rot, the mother-date enriching wordless earth

                and earth's divinity – the incessant spark.

Why should you throw away a flower that droops

its dress of insect-call?

The godling Pan has not yet come.

I love old flowers: their autumn days

To me are lovely, lovable.  The mellowing, the withering,

The bronze and brown and seeding off, even in 

                a bowl the ghosting time,

The greying character of things inanimate or animate,

Beseeches, teaches: benison[1].


I love old horses: made, unmade by destiny of fate's decree

Sharp, sour, or humble, suns of power, as Jupiter's across our sky:

Earth takes the lightning of their eyes and man heaps up  his obloquy[2].


I love old people, craggy, rocked,

with purpose of their pilgrimage.

(The young are but a bladder-pulse

of formlessness within a form).

Life is the fashioning of age.

Let others  keep their new-born buds,

Their matron beauties, all the prime

Of creatures burgeoning and bold.

Within my heart the old I fold.


Llywellyn Lucas, (1965).

Next poem by Llywelyn Lucas

[1]A blessing

[2]Public criticism


Dark Angel


The wings of the great dark angel – I heard them brushing,

I heard them brushing but thank God not by me,

And the tide of battle came suddenly to me rushing

From a dark Malayan jungle over the sea:

And a child not six years old who had lost her brother,

Was hiding her face from me.

The wings of the great dark angel I heard them brushing

  • And the darkness fell on another’s Calvary.


And my own little one came running to me frightened,

Crying ‘Mummy, what was it made him killed?’

And I said, ‘It is destiny dark and doom the dreadful,’

And I showed her then how golden the sunlight spilled.

‘But Mummy what was it made him have to die?’

And I answered her gently of was in tribal places

And the cross of man with his endless battle-cry.

                                                  Llywelyn Lucas 1943

Next piece by Llywelyn Lucas