We who travel between worldslose our muscle and bone.I was wheeling a barrow of earthwhen agony bayoneted me.I could not sit, or lie down,or stand, in Casualty.Stomach-calming clay caked my lips,I turned yellow as the moonand slid inside a CAT-scan wheelin a hospital where I met no oneso much was my liver now my direpreoccupation. I was sped down a road.of treetops and fishing-rod lightpolestowards the three persons of Godand the three persons of John HunterHospital. Who said We might lose this one.Twenty days or to the heat-deathof the Universe have the same duration:vaguely half a hour. I awokegiggling over a jokeabout Paul Kruger in Johannesburgand missed the white court stockingsI half remembered from my pronestill voyage beyond flesh and bone.I asked my friend who got new lungsHow long were you crazy, coming back?Five days, he said. Violent and mad.Fictive Afrikaner police were at him,not unworldly Oom Paul Kruger.Valerie, who had sat the twenty daysbeside me, now gently told me talesof my time-warp. The operative canyonstretched, stapled, with dry roseate wallsdown my belly. Seaweed gelplugged views of my pluck and offal.The only poet whose liverdamage hadn't been self-inflicted,grinned my agent. A momentarilyholed bowel had released florawho live in us and will eat uswhen we stop feeding them the earth.I had, it did seem, rehearsedthe private office of the grave,ceased excreting, made corpse gasesall while liana'd in tubesand overseen by cockpit instrumentsthat beeped or struck up Beethoven'sFifth at behests of fluid.I also hear when I lay liplessand far away I was anointedfirst by a mild metaphoric churchthen by the Church of no metaphors.Now I said, signing a Dutch contractin a hand I couldn't recognise,let's go and eat Chinese soupand drive to Lake Macquarie. Was Inot renewed as we are in Heaven?In fact I could hardly endureEarth gravity, and stayed weak and crankytill the soup came, squid and vegetables,pure Yang. And was sane thereafter.It seemed I'd also travelledin a Spring-in-Winter love-barque of cards,of flowers and phone calls and letters,concern I'd never dreamed was therewhen black kelp boiled in my head.I'd awoken amid my State funeral,nevermore to eat my liveror feed it to the Black Dog, depressionwhich the three Johns Hunter seemto have killed with their scalpels:it hasn't found its way home,where I now dodder and mendin thanks for devotion, for the ambulancethis time, for the hospital fork lift,for pethidine, and this face of deity:not the foreknowledge of deathbut the project of seeing conscious liferescued from death defines and willatone for the human.
Travels With John Hunter Analysis Les Murray critical analysis of poem, review school overview. Analysis of the poem. literary terms. Definition terms. Why did he use? short summary describing. Travels With John Hunter Analysis Les Murray Characters archetypes. Sparknotes bookrags the meaning summary overview critique of explanation pinkmonkey. Quick fast explanatory summary. pinkmonkey free cliffnotes cliffnotes ebook pdf doc file essay summary literary terms analysis professional definition summary synopsis sinopsis interpretation critique Travels With John Hunter Analysis Les Murray itunes audio book mp4 mp3 mit ocw Online Education homework forum help