The Poet

Artwork: Emily O'Neill


The poet is slain

she lies in vain,

wishing, praying, for that sweet refrain.

For years she has craved

a breath of salvation –

her pen lies empty,

the words are broken –

trapped –

temporary relief.

She is crying.

The poet dies,

the poet cries –

around and around we go

children on a carousel.

We think we escape,

but never.

Never –

the poet is silenced.

She lives in the shadows –

forced to write without a sound,

her own death note.

She is empty.


The poet is killed,

she lives unfulfilled –


Sylvia –

tell Emily, I am on my way home –

Ophelia calls to me,

I can hear her, in the daffodils.

We are all one –

you and I –

we are soldiers,

wading in on the tide –

searching for the light.

For when she is fallen – deep within the flowers,

the poet sighs –

She is free.


We acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Woroni, Woroni Radio and Woroni TV are created, edited, published, printed and distributed. We pay our respects to Elders past and present. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.