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Rebecca Kylie Law’s poems reflect her views as a practising Catholic while contemplating subjects ranging from nature and love to philosophy and social history. She captures elements of the creation – flowers, animals, birds, trees – so their beauty can be brought to the ecstatic in accordance with the unity of the Trinity.

Rebecca Law

Rebecca Law wrote her first poem and autobiography at the age of sixteen. She is now the author of three collections of poetry, and her work has been published in Australia and overseas. Poems in this collection have appeared in The Australian, The Lake, The Euroscientist Ezine, Poetry Pacific, The Afternoon Journal and various other magazines.

Her subject matter reflects her religious bias as a practising Catholic, ranging from a focus on nature and love to philosophy and social history.

For Rebecca, reading and writing go together, and she is influenced both by poets she values and those she has reservations about but finds significant.

With a Master’s Degree in Poetry, Rebecca enjoys writing reviews and essays, long-distance running in natural surrounds, listening to classical music, home decorating and friendships. She lives in Sydney, Australia.





ISBN 9781925231045 (PB, 64 pp);
140mm x 216mm
(release date 15 April 2015)

AUD $25 USD $18 NZD $27 GBP £12 EUR €14
ISBN 9781925231052 (eBook) AUD $12 USD $9 NZD $14 GBP £6 EUR €7

Rebecca Law writes admirably taut, focused poems in which no word is wasted. They are at once sensual and brimming with spiritual insight. These are poems that invite reading, re-reading and meditation.
– Professor Kevin Hart

Rebecca Law’s poems have a clear minded immediacy revealing rich, ever changing worlds of sacred sensuality. Paradoxically, her careful choice of words and descriptive phrases, with allusions to the wind, silences, water, and how aspects of nature can echo human emotions, seem reminiscent of the ancient heart of Virgil's Georgics. Her poem ‘Tendering The Ghostlight’ is magical – a joy to read.
– Rodger Sykes




Rebecca's website

Feature on the IP Blog

Feature in Overland Emerging Poets Series

Rebecca on Wonder Book of Poetry

Profile in Poets & Writers


Born of the Sacred

I’ve been here twenty minutes 

but the ibis still surprises me: 

for what they were, firstly,

in type and for their age

All several of them, old 

until one day, old enough.

So I stood still on the same path 

that had led me through palms 

and adult flowers to their lawn, 

as it were; and its surviving pool,

despite the sallow weeds, the depletion.

Staring until I forgot I was 

staring at a bird, seeing instead 

a head that wore the shape

of a hand-patting affection, 

a head whose brain knew

its nature so well that’s all there was 

beside features, black sharp eyes 

blinking at every stroke, every thought.

Such taut skin as that

had known wind since birth;

and perhaps time was the hand-patting 

every birthday, another palm

passed gently over the crown.

Then, more profoundly, I saw 

what the ibis saw,

the wide ocean, distance;

And what the hand passed over, 

his ears and the lingering sorrow 

of a seagull’s vocal departure.

As a Stream, Glistens

My sister phones to ask 

if my niece can have

the doll’s house, pulled out 

and dusted from the garage 

during a spring clean, my dad

supervising on pain killers, and I 

text back ‘no’ in haste. Later, 

talking to mum, I don’t need

to explain what I want it for, 

just a short negative is enough,

but in some ways I want to,

a present from mum and dad, 

wooden and matching my height 

(then); not much good for dolls 

(the size I kept anyway), so 

owned and utilised by a small

brown bear, fitted out with hat stand, 

crimson lounge, iron stove, bed

with striped mattress (see? manly) 

and dresser in that consecutive 

order over three levels; and following,

that name dad called me, China, his 

six months of chemo and I think 

no. It’s postcolonial anyway.

To a Sparrow

There’s a line of thought

starting with a charcoal prayer,

a morning sun abiding, 

the short and long of twigs,

my crowea exalata, 

a presence of heart;

that shadowlike follows 

in small bird feet,

even, dressed in finery, 

doggedly pulling at my skirts,

the rubbed tear-ducts, to shade;
Where almost stooped 

you are listening

to small songs

your whole life, 

a line of thought

you could question

as to the necessity of rain-breaks 

overhead, in a hot month.

Peering through Water

Mist congregating near the lull 

and trek of a mountain range;

the colours of rain. Under this

stone portico, sunlight on the far

fawn wall an excerpt from someone’s 

wandering rainbow, perhaps lost.

Like stars, they say, can roam

or drift how many flowers to date 

broken twenty centimetres from first 

emanation brought in from our garden.

Countless but not bouquets they 

intertwined in my palm, stem across 

stem. Clutching the middle to raise 

near your nose there was a likeness, 

the warmth of your eyes...

Afterwards, flat as wreaths atop 

a kitchen table with the lit candle

night after night, dinner passing on to 

sleep, ‘the body of Christ’, 

a procession of shadows, ‘the body

of Christ’. In the variegated light 

falling through the ghost gum

one heated day, this holy obligation.

From my picnic rug in its shade 

the colours of the world, white.

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