it’s like hurtling through the moment of creation
where the dog beguiles the trajectory
of convoyed vans slogging it out to the next town
a grand marquee in centre hinges all these grounds
flings of carousel shift between performances
taking the gloves off rushing to the country and western
dark voice sings white love strums nearly healed fingers
the boxing tent always brimming with clenched need
he could sing the undies off anyone mum said
does the whole catalogue of Jim Reeves throw in some Elvis
and new folk Dylan flowing off those untouched trembling lips
three rounds at a time couldn’t mark them reduce the pout
of gangling southpaw no farmhand saw coming
but he was a bastard too sent the cops and sisters
to save his girls from the communists better to keep the faith
in the over cream monastery by the main junction
I only came to spit on the grave aunt Gwennie scolds
redgum wetlands guitar smokes its tune along the river
women of marble in swag are sure he’s not the one
a cavalcade out of dust meets the bitumen of partition
the slaty plains are songs made of travelling rings
a three part God wearied priest will never manage it
he’s gone to a better place some stranger says
well they’ll lose their knickers real quick there Joanie laughs
Photo: Courtesy of my sister Jo, our mother and one of my Aunties at another Auntie’s wedding.
My grandparents fed and housed a number of street kids and indigenous kids in the 20’s, 30’s, and into the 40’s. I’ve changed the names of my Aunties, but the quotes at the end are true, from their father’s funeral. Darby had a fabulous voice, and was a carnival performer and boxer. A man of incredible charm, demons, and not the best of fathers. He’d send the police to retrieve the girls when he was in town, and drop them at the Abbotsford Convent. Each time they’d escape and return, and it would happen again…..
The poem picked up a prize at the MPU International in 2015. I appeared on the night and read it and another commended poem. That’ll be a surprise to a lot of people, I don’t appear very often!
‘Walking Through Fences’ Flying Island Books December 2018.
James Walton Poetry 