In this episode of Australian Book Review's States of Poetry podcast, J.P. Quinton reads his poem 'Reading the Landscape' which features in the 2016 WA anthology.... (read more)
The river has always
sat in front of me,
mud between toes
shooting down grassy
hills on cardboard. My
brother dragged a sheep
behind a canoe
to the other side,
and painted a warning
on his rose canvas
when my sister drowned.
She was throwing rocks
Dog barks heard from the kitchen.
Mum ran screaming up
To read a landscape by another landscape;
Valley cloud reveals altitude.
To read the landscape visits the ego
That prevents a proper reading.
To this landscape, the circular fireplace
And a straight trunk – xanthorrhoeas present.
To read this landscape to the tune of other words,
As moisture moves us, is us, drowns us.
To read the landscape ...
Part of the river begins here, car carcasses
Filter run-off, houses fenced off
A two foot foam toy stealth bomber
Discarded in the buffalo – 'the F27C
Striker Brushless' neglected, ignored.
Broken winged, landlocked like concrete islands.
Part of the river begins here,
Sweet mud smell, the hill you slide down
On tin, the old man keen to shoot to shoo ...
grasses sweep grooves in sand, the way streams forge sweeps in earth;
their soft brown tips dangle, like me, the narcissist,
searching for recognition, the call and response
the topographic certainty, the black and white pinions.
cloud gaps are light patch are sunglasses on.
loose rock and lost watch – the alpine flowers dry,
the travelling snow is sliced by skis ...
I walk to the river,
I am searching,
I am searching for a jar of leeches.
In the distance I see something flashing
so I head toward it.
As I come closer I see
it's a mirror dangling from a tree,
and beneath it, a table with six sealed jars.
I open a jar, stick my finger inside
pull it out –
blood slides down my arm.
I feel the sh ...