John Holton

Award-Winning

Short Story Writer & Poet

John Holton is more than a fine writer, more that a wonderful poet. John Holton is my friend. Now I have never met John in the flesh and the distance that separates us is vast, but both John and I share a great deal in common as well as a mutual admiration for each other’s work. If you have never had the opportunity to read any of his writings, now would be a good time to start. They are insightful, original, and truly brilliant in the way he approaches and sees life. There is no doubt in my mind why he has become one of the premier writers of today. I have always enjoyed reading his works… and am proud to be his friend.

C. J. Krieger, Poet

Woodstock, New York

John Holton is a full-time writer from Bendigo, Australia. He came to writing by accident. While backpacking around Europe in the late eighties he realised that the postcards and letters he was sending home were actually fiction.

John has since published two collections of short fiction (Snowdropping & The Affairs of Men), a book of children's stories (Teacher Free Day) and Doorways a history of St Luke's, one of Australia's most unique human service organisations.

John's short stories have received more than 50 literary awards and have been published in Australia, Europe and the USA. He is currently working on three non-fiction projects, all scheduled to come off the press in 2007.

He lives with his wife and three sons by the drought ravaged shores of Lake Eppalock in Central Victoria, where he has never caught a fish.

The Books Of John Holton

The Affairs of Men

Snowdropping

Look below for some of the fine writtings of John Holton

A Ridiculous Man

His face veiled in melancholy

crowds gather noisily about him

as he steps onto the grand stage

of history

mother's kiss still tingling on his brow

With each appearance

he is a little older

his relationship with the ordinary world

a little more complicated

It's true he is ridiculous

but even this

renders his destiny more beautiful

more clumsy than a first kiss.

Elevensies

He’d never been good at reading the signs

not when she commented

on the colour of his jacket

or the stylish cut of his trousers

not when his favourite music happened to be playing

each day at eleven

when he came in for his caffeine hit

or when his coffee arrived

with a chocolate coated almond

resting on the teaspoon

not even when she charged him

half the listed price

So of course he didn’t notice

the morning she lovingly

crafted a heart shape

into the crema of his flat white

or the gentle

electric brush of her hand

against his bare arm

It’s not hot enough

were the only words

that came from his lips

I find John’s work unique in every way… here are some wonderful examples… hope you enjoy “Nowhere, Montana” as much as I do.

Office job

They tried to curb

his imagination

but didn’t understand

how daydreams

can slip through

the tiniest cracks

in the system.

Nowhere, Montana

She’d never won anything in her life, so she couldn’t believe her luck when the radio station rang to say that she’d won a no expenses paid holiday to Nowhere, Montana.

Of course she’d read about Nowhere, Montana in coffee table books and seen it’s eerily, evanescent landscape on her favourite travel programs, but never in her wildest dreams did she imagine getting on a plane and flying there. She didn’t even own a passport.

Nowhere, Montana turned out to be everything she’d imagined and less. Her hotel room had no furniture, not even a bed, and every morning at the Hotel Nowhere buffet she helped herself to as much nothing on toast as she could eat.

There was absolutely nothing to see in Nowhere, Montana. She spent her days doing nothing in particular in no particular place, browsing the empty souvenir stands and taking photographs she would show to no one.

The sun set unspectacularly in Nowhere, Montana and you could rarely see the stars. The stars and the moon and the other celestial beings knew to be some other place.

There was little talk in Nowhere, Montana. Tourists kept mostly to themselves. She could sit at the bar of the Hotel Nowhere each night with an empty glass, alone with her empty thoughts, and not be bothered by idle conversation or unnecessary gossip. There was no more peaceful place on earth.

On the flight home she flicked through her empty photographs and ruminated on all that she hadn’t done.

She truly felt like the luckiest woman alive.

And Still More!!

The Museum of nothing

In Nowhere, Montana,

you can visit the museum

of nothingness

glass case after glass case

filled with nothing

from the long and

fascinating history of

Nowhere

and if you smile at Diedre

on the front desk

she will usually let you in

for nothing

Diedre has nothing to lose

there is nothing

to buy in the museum

gift shop

and anyway

what do you buy

the person

who has nothing?

A poem far, far away

I miss every minute of you

in the long days

between dripping canvas

the longing of sea and mud

of mosquito coils and soft, soft flesh

The pipers and fiddlers played

on the villiage green

like something from Lawrence

and we, cast there as love’s bait

bit players in a seaside tragedy

Now kiss by kiss we disappear

between the lines of fading sentences

beneath the filaments of unreliable memory

to a tent by the ocean

in a poem far far away

To order "Snowdropping"

Press the Green Button

To order "The Affairs of Men"

Press the orange button

Say Hello To John Holton

Soup-sipping lunchtime girl

full to the brim with lyric youth

through shimmering soup steam

you flipped your croutons distractedly

stirred your coffee and something in me

Your long brown hair

and long brown legs

this long brown lunchtime

slips silently along coffee spoons

pooling in lazy saucers

So, I watch you sip

not out of love

or desperate need

or fornicated fantasy

just a moment of lightness

like croutons floating on soup

Taxi Dharma

I don’t usually take taxis. You could count the number of taxis I’ve taken on one hand. I like to walk. You see a lot of things when you walk. But today I’m not feeling myself – I’m out of sorts – today I hail a taxi.

The taxi driver is a huge man with thick, dark hairs growing on the backs of his fingers. His stomach is a snug fit beneath the steering wheel. One of the reasons I don’t like taking taxis, apart from the fact that I like to walk, is that I never know what to say. It’s uncomfortable to be so close to a total stranger, knowing you might be together for ten minutes, maybe twenty if the traffic is slow. It’s like a blind date in a dream that’s gone terribly wrong.

The taxi driver has sweat stains on his blue shirt. He doesn’t look anything like the Dalai Lama.

I have to say something. It would be rude to sit so close to a person and say nothing. I don’t know what people talk about in taxis. I’m used to doing my talking on foot.

‘Do you like driving a taxi?’ I say.

‘I love driving a taxi,’ he says.

Silence.

‘Do you ever get bored?’ I ask.

‘No never – I never get bored,’ he says.

More silence.

I think I’ve exhausted my taxi conversation when he turns to me and says, ‘Do you want to know why I never get bored?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I would love to know.’ And it’s true. Suddenly the world of the taxi is very important to me.

‘I’ll tell you,’ he says. ‘I’ve been driving these streets for more than twenty years…’ He gestures with both hands like an overweight prophet, steering with his navel. ‘…and they never look the same twice. They’re always changing – every second of every day.’ He smiles serenely and chuckles to himself. He sounds a lot like the Dalai Lama.

We stop at a red light and sit in silence. He is backlit by the eerie glow of a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. And, for an instant, I am the disciple of an overweight taxi driver, waiting for the light to turn green.

Happy Birthday Johann Strauss

Dancing cheek to cheek

along the white line

of an Amsterdam street

shizzled to the eyeballs

on chocolate spacecake

I am Australian

he is Canadian

and we waltz

in mirrorball light reflecting

off filthy canals

like lovestruck Austrians

celebrating the birthday

of Johann Strauss

it is October 25, 1987.

Hello

His suitcase sat

packed

behind the front door

it came as shock that

everything he valued

could fit within its

cardboard confines

she arrived home

on time

as usual

‘hello,’ he lied.

To Contact John Holton:

Writer

Innovative Resources

137 McCrae Street

Bendigo VIC 3550

Fax: (03) 5442-0555