Walking Goals on the Pingerup Plains

Walking Goals on the Pingerup Plains

For twenty five years

I was locked out, 

as if I’d snapped the key 

off in the lock.

Beside me, my happy self. 

Inside me, a monster and the dark room. 

Out on the Pingerup Plains

loneliness ate at my feet

and there, as the leaf litter 

sprang from the stepped-on twig

I could prove myself to my dark room, 

I could fester and requiem. 

What was distant was rest. 

What was easy was distant. 

I judged every thought, 

I damned every thought with judgement,

and counted my steps.

My body needed pain to feel

and after mud and heath and brume

the blister puss splattered in my eye

and I pressed outside the slit

to let the wound suppurate. 

The gear was fine, my body uninjured 

but I had found something missing 

I knew the victory I’d wanted would be hollow, 

my traffic was gone, my blood 

unclogged. My heart beat loud. 

A fine mist made an answer;

pointless to ascend to the summit,

the cockatoos stayed put, 

kangaroos didn’t stir,

my ears rang as if covered in wool, 

the waitress at Two Rubens Cafe

told me: a tradesman is free from obsession, you’re not. 

To walk to the highway on my own terms

was the right thing to do

you don’t have to be brave 

those reams written, they un-write

as the woman with MS drives me to Denmark 

and she tells me of brain legions 

and her broken immune system, 

how the knife is so blunt, 

the edge grows brighter 

where the leaf cutter bee 

says goodbye to Broke Inlet,

as I wave at the ocean and have a morning nap. 

– J. P. Quinton

The Dingo Poem

Hello. Please see attached The Dingo Poem. This poem is one of the longest poems I’ve written and took the longest to write — about two months, and then a few revisions in the preceding months. The notes were written while hiking the Larapinta Trail in 2016.

The length is not conducive to posting as an image so you’ll have to read as pdf. Hope that’s cool. Thanks

Death, A Sonnet for Josh Wilson

The WA Labor party want to turn Fremantle into a hub for war machines. Both Josh Wilson and Mark McGowan are gung ho.

 

 

In the bathroom or kitchen, the drain, grated in. Water passes 

the sound of a flushing toilet opposite the monument, 

you were in your suit and fedora and ‘The Doctor’ beat back the barber’s cuts

and as if we weren’t merely civilians, servants to whispers, 

or sheep on ships. As if accepting death were beyond 

our years and not knowing that voice was less frightening, the dark less dark. 

In the laundry I accept the pelican’s death because I will die, 

and to not be scared of dying is to say little, and be little, 

and to spin your way into that ancient simile – local jobs 

are like foreign casualties; you never know when the load is ready, 

when the spin cycle is finished, I tell myself, you can channel 

McNamara’s hollow soul, then your bigger slice of death entombs me.

 

You’re willing to build the war machines, and to send the planes

tanks and drones, but I bet you wouldn’t get in the ring with Ali.