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I find myself in no-man’s-land—a large and largely empty space between freedom and detention.

‘We’ve come a long way’ since, say, May 1901, when our first prime minister, Edmund Barton, told our first parliament that ‘the doctrine of the equality of man was never intended to apply to the equality of the Englishman and the Chinaman’.

My mother Margaret is an artist, although she wouldn’t say as much without adding some qualification. Let’s say she is a landscape painter. When she turned 70 I invited her to spend two weeks as artist in residence at a place in Bilpin, west of Sydney.

Reviewed: Lucy Dougan and Tom Dolin (eds), The Collected Poems of Fay Zwicky, UWAP, 388 pp; Thea Astley, Selected Poems, ed. Cheryl Taylor, UQP, 167 pp; Judy Johnson, Dark Convicts, UWAP, 138 pp; Melinda Smith, goodbye, cruel, Pitt Street Poets, 107 pp; Shevaun Cooley, Homing, Giramondo, 102 pp. The Zwicky Collected has been superbly edited by Lucy Dougan and Tom Dolin, and beautifully produced by UWAP: the book is a pleasure to the eye and feels good in the hand. That said, I am not sure what I feel about its contents. The poems from Zwicky’s earliest book, Isaac Babel’s Fiddle, read now like the work of a 1970s academic: quick-witted […]