Author Archives: Dick Jones

About Dick Jones

I'm a post-retirement Drama teacher, currently working part-time. I have a grown-up son and daughter, three grandchildren and three young children from my second marriage. I write - principally poetry but prose too, both fitfully published. My poetry collection Ancient Lights is published by Phoenicia Publishing (www.phoeniciapublishing.com) and my translation of Blaise Cendrars' 'Trans-Siberian Prosody and Little Jeanne from France' (illustrated by my friend, the artist, writer and long-time blogger Natalie d'Arbeloff) is published by Old Stile Press (www.oldstilepress.com). I play bass guitar & bouzouki in the song-based acoustic/electric trio Moorby Jones, playing entirely original material (https://www.facebook.com/moorbyjones?ref=aymt_homepage_panel + http://www.moorbyjones.net/). I have a dormant blog with posts going back to 2004 at Dick Jones' Patteran Pages - http://patteran.typepad.com - and I'm a radio ham. My callsign is G0 EUV.

POETRY ID AT HITCHIN FESTIVAL

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HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY 2014

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by | January 27, 2014 · 18:08

POEMS IN AGE

I posted a piece to my blog about poets writing in age that might be of interest to (senior?!) ID-ers.

http://patteran@typepad.com

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WATER

WATER

The original form
of flesh, it moves,
animate, but boneless.

Consider vapour. Steam
in the breath
of cattle, from the

dawn grass. Water sprinting
millionfold for the
limitless deserts

of the air. Water
drunk. Water falling
in its soft lattices

over our bodies.
Water with skin.
We sink beneath

its flat top,
flesh on flesh,
beneath its stiff

meniscus. Such mating
with the pellucid self
of water joins the circle

of our time here.
Unboned, we assume
the property of dream.

From ‘Ancient Lights’ by Dick Jones, published by Phoenicia Publishing (http://www.phoeniciapublishing.com)

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‘Sorry, it’s not for us’.

For all those who have had their submissions rendered down to ‘it’ by hubristic editors who have elevated themselves to the status of ‘us’.

http://jamezchang.wordpress.com/2013/07/14/paradigm-shift-theater-a-call-to-action-for-editors-writers-readers/

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Just a week away..!

Just a week away..!

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by | March 17, 2013 · 10:07

YEARS

YEARS

A bell chimes,.
Midnight. The kids
long since wrapped
around their artifacts:
a hairless doll,
an orange bear,
a mushroom-coloured monkey

And now inside
their amniotic dreams,
they whir and mutter.
In the gunpowder dark,
a thin caul of years
hoods each head,
a fragile membrane.

My years orbit
like great birds
looking to roost.
I only sense their drift,
but I catch their wind.

DICK JONES

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TOUCHED

TOUCHED

We’re in a hospital lift going up
from ground floor to the seventh,
just the two of us, strangers and
I’m thinking (as you do) what if

the cable breaks and we drop like
a stone in a well? How would you
reckon the moment at which
to jump before the point of impact?

Then, with a jolt, the lift just stops.
We look at each other, look away.
Too soon yet for that dreadful intimacy
that prefigures panic. Now it’s grunts

and chuckles, pantomime impatience
and some random button punching. Then
comes language, blunt and businesslike.
“Right. Now what? Should be an alarm

somewhere or a ‘phone. Let’s see”. But
all from me. My partner in misfortune
hasn’t moved. Within the ticking silence,
he is motionless, head cocked like

someone listening for a distant birdcall
or for bells on a breeze. And even as I
watch for a flicker, both unfocussed
eyes tip back to white and, still without

a word, he drops straight down, within
the circle of his standing, like disembodied
clothes.  My first impulse is just to
leave him like some 3-D puddle that I

have to step around as I organise escape
or rescue. Two disasters in succession
out of a blameless morning seem unfair.
But then, as unexpected as the other,

both eyes open, wide and blue and his lips
kiss air like a baby blowing bubbles.
He’s going to die; we know it, both of us
in a simultaneous heartbeat. And I kneel,

like a bad actor genuflecting, and I lean,
fingers spread against the tin-can wall
and watch the urgent lips trying to mould
words out of the unaccommodating air.

I stoop to listen – more, maybe, to read
the fragile shapes in flight. “Touch me”,
he breathes. “Touch me”. But I hesitate:
unlinked, I’m free, like standing water;

once connected, there’s a current drawing
me towards another place. But then I cup
his cheek as I might a child’s and, on a long
unwinding breath, he speaks quite clearly –

“Mummy” – and he doesn’t breathe again.
Sometime later, with a jolt, the lift glides
upwards, graceful, silent, as if no time
had passed for anyone, as if I might step

through those doors, untouched, untouchable,
as if the light should shine as brightly evermore,
doors open, close again,  as if the axis of
the world still held as trustworthy and true.

Dick Jones

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by | March 5, 2013 · 23:11

WE ARE

A new poem in a first draft.

A new poem in a first draft.

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PID AD 6

And another.

And another.

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