An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

Author: Les Murray

The word goes round Repins, the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
At Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
The Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
And men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There’s a fellow crying in Martin Place.
They can’t stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
And drained of motion.   The crowds are edgy with talk
And more crowds come hurrying.   Many run into the back streets
Which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There’s a fellow weeping down there.
No one can stop him.

The man we surround, the man no one approaches
Simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
Not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
And does not declaim it, not beat his breast, not even
Sob very loudly ––– yet the dignity of his weeping

Holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
In the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
And uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
Stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
Longing for tears as children for a rainbow.

Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
Or force stood around him.   There was no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
But they will not have been there.   The fiercest manhood,
The toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us

Trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
Judgements of peace.   Some in the concourse scream
Who thought themselves happy.   Only the smallest children
And such as look out of Paradise come near him
And sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.

Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
His mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit –––
And I see a woman, shining, stretch out her hand
And shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
As many as follow her also receive it.

And many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
Refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
But the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
The man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
Of his writhen face and ordinary body

Not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow
Hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea –––
And when he stops, he simply walks between us
Mopping his face with the dignity of one
Man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.
Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.

The Critique

Ron Heard.

I think it would be impertinent to comment on such a fine and lucid poem, except to make a couple of personal comments.   I find this one of the most profound and moving poems I know.   The poem was written in an Australian context, where virtues traditionally praised are reticence, sardonic humour, and not showing emotions.   At one stroke it re–writes this tradition and the idea of virtue –– the marvellous phrase “the gift of weeping”.

The Last Word

To all the good men and women who are suffering hardship in one form or another, the team here at EOTR™ wish to give you hope—just hold on for a little more.   The rainbow of hope is coming after the rain.

Things WILL GET BETTER.

EOTR - A Light for Life

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