Poetry: Truman Capote’s brownstone by James Walton

Truman Capote’s brownstone

Holly’s voice

fingers digging between ribs

the one-eyed cat’s

zig zag troupe

 

the shower running

 

after the call up

rooms full of old grey white men

in avalanche

interring country and western songs

 

a guitar taut as strung throats

 

no one’s Fred

callow as a phone booth at Joe Bell’s

should have listened sooner

a false note on every dollar

 

in old Spanish towns they believed

blindness gave voice a tone

birdcage on a sidewalk

 

a marmalade rescue

warming a window

 

awash in a cul de sac

 

our histories gutter up

perhaps for snow or fire

the past best kept as fine china

Jim portrait headBio: James Walton was a librarian, a farm labourer, a cattle breeder, and mostly a public sector union official. He is published in many anthologies, journals, and newspapers. He has been shortlisted for the ACU National Literature Prize, the MPU International Prize, and the James Tate Prize.

His poetry collections include The Leviathan’s Apprentice, Walking Through Fences, and Unstill Mosaics (forthcoming). He is now old enough to be almost invisible.  He lives in the old coal mining town of Wonthaggi, Australia.