"Five Bells" is a poem by Australian poet Kenneth Slessor, first published in 1939. The poem is a meditation on time, loss, and the human experience, told through the lens of a man standing on the wharf at Circular Quay, a popular tourist destination in Sydney, Australia.
The poem is structured around the ringing of five bells, each representing a different moment in time. The first bell is the "lonely bell of midnight," marking the start of a new day. The second bell is the "drowsy bell at two," signaling the halfway point between midnight and dawn. The third bell is the "three-o'clock bell in the tower," marking the end of the night and the beginning of a new day. The fourth bell is the "four-o'clock bell in the tower," signaling the start of the workday. The final bell is the "five-o'clock bell in the tower," marking the end of the workday and the start of the evening.
As the bells ring, the speaker reflects on the passage of time and the ways in which it has shaped his life. He thinks about the people he has known and loved, and how their time on earth has come and gone. He remembers a friend named Joe, who died at sea, and how his absence is still felt by those who knew him. The speaker also reflects on the impermanence of life, and how all of us are ultimately doomed to succumb to the passage of time.
The poem is written in free verse, with no set rhyme scheme or meter. This allows Slessor to convey the speaker's thoughts and feelings in a more natural and authentic way, capturing the sense of introspection and contemplation that one might experience while standing alone on a quiet wharf at night.
Despite its somber themes, "Five Bells" is ultimately a celebration of life, as the speaker reflects on the joys and sorrows that have shaped his own existence. The poem serves as a reminder of the fleeting nature of time, and the importance of living each day to the fullest.
Five Bells
Deep and dissolving verticals of light Ferry the falls of moonshine down. I felt the wet push its black thumb-balls in, The night you died, I felt your eardrums crack, And the short agony, the longer The Nothing that was neither long nor short; But I was bound, and could not go that way, But I was blind, and could not If I could find an answer, could only find Your meaning, or could say why you were here Who now are gone, what purpose gave you breath Or seized it back, might I not hear your voice? Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name! For other uses, see "Five Bells" by Written 1935-37 First published in Five Bells: XX Poems Country Australia Language English Publication date 1939 " Five Bells" 1939 is a meditative poem by Australian poet Five Bells: XX Poems, and later appeared in numerous poetry anthologies. Between the double and the single bell Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells From the dark warship riding there below, I have lived many lives, and this one life Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells. Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face In agonies of speech on speechless panes? Everything has been stowed Into this room - 500 books all shapes And colours, dealt across the floor And over sills and on the laps of chairs; Guns, photoes of many differant things And differant curioes that I obtained. You have gone from earth, Gone even from the meaning of a name; Yet something's there, yet something forms its lips And hits and cries against the ports of space, Beating their sides to make its fury heard.
You have no suburb, like those easier dead In private berths of dissolution laid — The tide goes over, the waves ride over you And let their shadows down like shining hair, But they are Water; and the sea-pinks bend Like lilies in your teeth, but they are Weed; And you are only part of an Idea. Five bells Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. The poem's speaker can hardly believe that his friend Joe who drowned in Sydney Harbor is really dead and gone. I felt the wet push its black thumb-balls in, The night you died, I felt your eardrums crack, And the short agony, the longer dream, The Nothing that was neither long nor short; But I was bound, and could not go that way, But I was blind, and could not feel your hand. Joe remains alive in the speaker's memory yet painfully out of reach, beyond the border that divides life from death. In Melbourne, your appetite had gone, Your angers too; they had been leeched away By the soft archery of summer rains And the sponge-paws of wetness, the slow damp That stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind, And showed your bones, that had been sharp with rage, The sodden ectasies of rectitude.
Deep and dissolving verticals of light Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name! Why do I think of you, dead man, why thieve These profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought Anchored in Time? The tide is over you, The turn of midnight water's over you, As Time is over you, and mystery, And memory, the flood that does not flow. Night and water Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water. I thought of what you'd written in faint ink, Your journal with the sawn-off lock, that stayed behind With other things you left, all without use, All without meaning now, except a sign That someone had been living who now was dead: "At Labassa. Night and water Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water. Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face In agonies of speech on speechless panes? But I hear nothing, nothing.
Five Bells · Poem by Kenneth Slessor on childhealthpolicy.vumc.org
If I could find an answer, could only find Your meaning, or could say why you were here Who now are gone, what purpose gave you breath Or seized it back, might I not hear your voice? Grief, this poem suggests, leaves mourners in a strange limbo, unable to reach the dead they remember so clearly. Between the double and the single bell Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells From the dark warship riding there below, I have lived many lives, and this one life Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells. Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face In agonies of speech on speechless panes? The tide is over you, The turn of midnight water's over you, As Time is over you, and mystery, And memory, the flood that does not flow. . Slessor first published this poem in his 1939 collection Five Bells: XX Poems. Where have you gone? But I hear nothing, nothing. Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life, There's not a mouth can fly the pygmy strait - Nothing except the memory of some bones Long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud; And unimportant things you might have done, Or once I thought you did; but you forgot, And all have now forgotten - looks and words And slops of beer; your coat with buttons off, Your gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales Of Irish kings and English perfidy, And dirtier perfidy of publicans Groaning to Five bells.
You have no suburb, like those easier dead In private berths of dissolution laid - The tide goes over, the waves ride over you And let their shadows down like shining But they are Water; and the Like lilies in your teeth, but they are Weed; And you are only part of an Idea. Five bells coldly ringing out. Then I saw the road, I heard the thunder Tumble, and felt the talons of the rain The night we came to Moorebank in slab-dark, So dark you bore no body, had no face, But a sheer voice that rattled out of air As now you'd cry if I could break the glass , A voice that spoke beside me in the bush, Loud for a breath or bitten off by wind, Of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man, And blowing flutes, and how Tahitian girls Are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls Are white and angry-tongued, or so you'd found. Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life, There's not a mouth can fly the pygmy strait - Nothing except the memory of some bones Long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud; And unimportant things you might have done, Or once I thought you did; but you forgot, And all have now forgotten - looks and words And slops of beer; your coat with buttons off, Your gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales Of Irish kings and English perfidy, And dirtier perfidy of publicans Groaning to God from Darlinghurst. . There's not so many with so poor a purse Or fierce a need, must fare by night like that, Five miles in darkness on a country track, But when you do, that's what you think.
Time that is moved by little fidget wheels Is not my time, the flood that does not flow. . . But all I heard was words that didn't join So Milton became melons, melons girls, And fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night, And in each Or something that had just run, gone behind the grass, When blank and bone-white, like a maniac's thought, The naphtha-flash of lightning slit the Knifing the dark with deathly photographs. In Melbourne, your appetite had gone, Your angers too; they had been leeched away By the soft archery of summer rains And the sponge-paws of wetness, the slow damp That stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind, And showed your bones, that had been sharp with rage, The sodden ectasies of rectitude. Deep and dissolving verticals of light Ferry the falls of moonshine down.
But all I heard was words that didn't join So Milton became melons, melons girls, And fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night, And in each tree an Ear was bending down, Or something that had just run, gone behind the grass, When blank and bone-white, like a maniac's thought, The naphtha-flash of lightning slit the sky, Knifing the dark with deathly photographs. Five bells coldly ringing out. But I hear nothing, nothing…only bells, Five bells, the bumpkin calculus of Time. In Melbourne, your appetite had gone, Your angers too; they had been leeched away By the soft archery of And the sponge-paws of wetness, the slow damp That stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind, And showed your bones, that had been sharp with rage, The sodden ectasies of rectitude. I felt the wet push its black thumb-balls in, The night you died, I felt your eardrums crack, And the short agony, the longer dream, The Nothing that was neither long nor short; But I was bound, and could not go that way, But I was blind, and could not feel your hand.
Room 6 x 8 On top of the tower; because of this, very dark And cold in winter. . . Time that is moved by little fidget wheels Is not my time, the flood that does not flow. I thought of what you'd written in faint ink, Your journal with the sawn-off lock, that stayed behind With other things you left, all without use, All without meaning now, except a sign That someone had been living who now was dead: "At Labassa.
This article is about the Kenneth Slessor poem. You have no suburb, like those easier dead In private berths of dissolution laid - The tide goes over, the waves ride over you And let their shadows down like shining hair, But they are Water; and the sea-pinks bend Like lilies in your teeth, but they are Weed; And you are only part of an Idea. Room 6 x 8 On top of the tower; because of this, very dark And cold in winter. There's not so many with so Or fierce a need, must fare by night like that, Five miles in darkness on a country track, But when you do, that's what you think. Why do I think of you, dead man, why thieve These profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought Anchored in Time? Night and water Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water. Room 6 x 8 On top of the tower; because of this, very dark And cold in Into this room - 500 books all shapes And colours, dealt across the floor And over sills and on the laps of chairs; Guns, photoes of many differant things And differant curioes that I obtained.
Where have you gone? Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name! You have gone from earth, Gone even from the meaning of a name; Yet something's there, yet something forms its lips And hits and cries against the ports of Beating their sides to make its fury heard. . If I could find an answer, could only find Your meaning, or could say why you were here Who now are gone, what purpose gave you breath Or seized it back, might I not hear your voice? Why do I think of you, dead man, why thieve These profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought Anchored in Time? I looked out my window in the dark At waves with diamond quills and combs of light That arched their mackerel-backs and smacked the sand In the moon's drench, that straight enormous glaze, And ships far off asleep, and Harbour-buoys Tossing their fireballs wearily each to each, And tried to hear your voice, but all I heard Was a boat's whistle, and the scraping squeal Of seabirds' voices far away, and bells, Five bells. Then I saw the road, I heard the thunder Tumble, and felt the talons of the The night we came to Moorebank in slab-dark, So dark you bore no body, had no face, But a sheer voice that rattled out of air As now you'd cry if I could break the glass , A voice that spoke beside me in the bush, Loud for a breath or bitten off by Of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man, And blowing flutes, and how Tahitian girls Are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls Are white and angry-tongued, or so you'd found. .
