Kurt Vonnegut

As far as I know,
Kurt Vonnegut
never saw Uluru.
On the day he died,
somewhere
in New York,
probably squinting
into a cloud of
Pall Mall smoke,
I was squinting
in front of
that huge desert stone.
It was all fire-red
in the last minutes
of the day.

Some Germans
who were also there,
watching beside
their rented motorhome,
had the news of his death
on their radio.
They had never heard
of Mr. Vonnegut
although they were
from Dresden,
the city where
he hunkered down
and became a novelist.
That place lit up
all fire-red
in the last minutes
of the war.

Paul Turley was born in Wales and mostly raised in Adelaide, where he now lives again after a number of years in Europe and the US. A Master of Philosophy graduate from the Department of English and Creative Writing at Adelaide University, and initiator of the inclusion of poetry readings at the McLaren Vale Serafino Wines 2014 Gorgeous Festival, he writes poetry, in part, “to make him pay attention to the little bits of life”.

Readers’ original and unpublished poems of up to 40 lines can be emailed, with postal address, to [email protected]. Submissions should be in the body of the email, not as attachments. A poetry book will be awarded to each accepted contributor.