Wokalup Tavern

The headlights shine to the left.

I follow two red dots.

A small stone cracks the windscreen.

In Pinjarra I give an ETA

And recall riding, riding, riding

Back when I had to run.

Inside she is behind the front wall.

She senses in me her own

Disappointment, I’m undatable

Were her words, before she deleted

What little of us we had.

I’m not sure what she thought

I was looking for, as two bowls

Of half eaten salad sat between us,

But what I saw were these eyes

And inside was a fire trying

To extinguish itself, a light

More intense than I’ve ever witnessed

A colour colliding, shattered

And slaughtered by red

That stuck across her iris

And bit deep into her pupils

That said she was barely able to cope;

That her illness didn’t care

For my sympathy and that soon

She would have to leave.

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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

The Day of Dave’s Funeral

On the day of Dave’s funeral I was the sole passenger
on the bus from Fremantle via Coogee and Henderson
to Rockingham. A shotgun splatter of grey-white clouds
floated inland from snake infested Garden Island
And, being a Saturday, not a single engine revved
inside the engineering sheds, or even at the Coastal
MotorCross Club. Smoke pulled upwards and outwards
from the tall stacks which were the only signs of movement.
Having a look around Rockingham? yelled the driver,
looking around the corner in the mirror, through steel mesh.
No, I’m going to Dave’s funeral, I said.

The driver then turned his two-way off.

There must be funerals everyday, I thought, as we crossed
a railway and passed the place that collects grass trees
before they’re demolished for another suburb, they grow
a centimetre a year and some are three metres tall
and have more than four heads forking skyward. I had
taken the wrong address and missed the service,
but I remembered Dave pulling an all-nighter at the Nannup
Rec. centre, chatting away sombrely, always wearing shorts,
as dozens of bikes needed fixing in one way or another.

At the corner of Read and Leghorn I used the toilet
in Hungry Jacks, chatted to Tony on the phone,
then walked across the road to sit in shade and wait
for Alison and Wayne to arrive, so we could go to the wake.
While some people were smoking cigarettes
before going inside for a Whopper, seagulls stalked the huge
cars idling in the drive-thru. To my surprise, on the concrete footpath
between on my feet, a half melted ice block sank
into its own puddle, and was catching broken yellow flowers
from the overhanging gum tree; seed pods shook side-to-side in the breeze.

 

Centre for Stories interview

Hello,

Please make yourself a cup of tea and/or coffee and listen to an interview between Robbie Wood and I at the Centre for Stories on the 11th of May 2017.

This interview is the most comprehensive I have been part of to date; discussing walking, poetry, environment, music, ecology and death.

Link here: https://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/groups/Aust-Po/Centre-for-Stories/Quinton-James_Poetry-in-Conversation_Perth_5-11-2017.mp3

Cheers

 

Ten Years Gone

10 Years Gone

The troubles began on distant shores,
before you were born, and then you stood
on the brown and cream shag pile
in the hallway of the Mosman Park apartment,
I could see you in the mirror as I brushed my teeth
you had the courage to tell me you loved me
and that was all, the world didn’t end,
cars didn’t break down, your first born son
was in the living room, barely one,
and his mother was loving him, trying to be your number two.

I’ve gone through every cupboard and drawer
tipped all the tubs and shoe boxes on the floor
certain, in some way, I’d written more,
all I found was the dirt track lined with brown-wheat-weeds,
like a bull banksia you high five
the forty-five degree Greenough trees lying down,
path, ditch, cut, path, ditch, cut
the lump in your throat, the boglands
the infinite beach filled with suburbs
your foot stuck in a rabbit warren
and your sons may have been too old
to not have been affected by your absence,
that’s the synapse that says one more drink, just one more toke, one more drag.

When I climbed Mt Ventoux, Mt Rintoul, Mt Cooke,
climbed to temple number twelve,
anywhere the body wanted discomfort to cease,
the thought of you arose,
not in a I’m doing this for you sense,
no, more of you would love this shit, you arsehole,
and I also questioned why the person who I had spent
a third of my life with still said I was a mystery to her,
why all conditions lead to cessation,
and why we need to make more of an effort to use the gifts you left;
the bees have taken over a whole room
of Gary’s house, there’s enough honey to fill a Kombi:

Do you know that tomorrow
is the ten year anniversary
of your suicide; when I wake up
I shall wish you every happiness.