As I drive home my blood
is talking to the man.
My salts and spices are telling
my story to a stranger.
Confession in absentia.

Unremarkable, that chapel
with its scattered single pews.
Then the curly-headed priest
in white, drawing the tincture,
a communion for two, into
its tiny phial. My blood, my
talkative blood, spinning
my secrets into pixels.

He reads through light
the narrative of basophils,
of monocytes and bilorubin,
antigens and ace inhibitors.
He knows the names of all
the heroes and the villains
and he calls them in, the
good shepherd, the sweet
young physiologist. His way
is calm; his song is soft and
when it’s run from clef
to staff, he turns away.

Later, I read it all in words,
an altogether sterner judgment:
sentence pronounced – its
syllables, its commas, its full stops.


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 ( 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 ( I play bass guitar & bouzouki in the song-based acoustic/electric trio Moorby Jones, playing entirely original material. spotify:artist:07MDD5MK9MnRGSEZwbsas9 I have a dormant blog with posts going back to 2004 at Dick Jones' Patteran Pages - - and I'm a radio ham. My callsign is G0EUV
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2 Responses to PHLEBOTOMY

  1. sackerson says:

    A strangely compelling poem. I like the philosophical aspect: a collection of matter which becomes information when seen by one who can interpret it. I like the way it runs alongside the deeply personal aspect of the poem, adding power and depth to it.

  2. Dick Jones says:

    Thank you, Dom. Your appreciation is, as always, much appreciated! They get carefully laid down here, the poems, like bottles of wine of only speculated quality & I am accustomed to to them then remaining in the dark; I accepted that that would be the case from the start of this, my second blog. But when one of them gets opened & sampled by a respected specialist, it matters a great deal to me.

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