Moraira is a small coastal resort about an hour’s drive from Alicante. 

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We each of us carry a strange portfolio
        of ghosts and vipers
        spiny things and ticks that burrow
              wherever we go.
And self-securing then self-releasing
        like a magical Gladstone bag,
it can hold in check and then deliver all
        at the sudden doorway of the moment.

Here, the sliders, the shiny-shelled, the leggy things
are eclipsed in nature: walls and trees bear their weight
in a symbiosis of colour, form and texture.
        Good to see them free, untrammeled,
        where they ought to be amongst the webs,
        the moth husks and the tendrils.

And the ghosts:
   each baggy, flapping bedsheet sham
      caught by the hem amongst alien thorns
         as long as bread knives, caught
            on the rough-tongued bark
               of the Bismarck palms, until
                  blue dawn finds them
                     white, creased and silent.

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 MORAIRA 1

  1. Jim Murdoch says:

    I’ve sat on this for a while trying to frame a half-decent comment but if I don’t say something I’ll forget completely. It’s already slipped down the to-do pile. Let me just say how much I enjoyed… I suppose I can only call it the mouth feel of this poem. Yes, that’s as good an expression as any. I haven’t tried to read it aloud—not really my thing—but I don’t need to to say that. What I mean, I think, is that the musicality of the poem is quite overpowering and meaning has to take second place or maybe third or fourth because the music takes up more than its fair share. That’s not a bad thing. Just think of John Cooper Clarke.

  2. Dick says:

    Happy to have popped out sideways from your to-do pile, Jim! I’m delighted to have the poem assessed for its mouth-feel. I do read bits out loud constantly during the process of putting a poem together and how it settles in the oral cavity and then emerges vocally are of major priority. So praise for the music therein is welcome and thank you. (Weirdly, whilst writing it in Spain as I did, the sound of John Cooper Clark’s Manchester scally sneer wrapping itself around the three syllables of ‘Majorca’ came into my mind more than once!)

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