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 ( 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

HOW IT IS. I’m old and I shall die soon. This much is true. For much of the time nowadays such anguished queries as to what manner of ‘soon’? whose ‘soon’? when does ‘soon’ transmute into pretty much now? go … Continue reading

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Old Man’s Tears There is a plantcalled old man’s tears.A thwart, disnatured thing,tall, but crooked tall,not bold tall likeits companions all around. And its leaves are thinner,but they’re fiercer,like its flower, which, thoughchewed and ragged, stillstares bright into the world. … Continue reading

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skies that make islandsof familiar treesand cause us to imaginegreat waters in betweennear and far and so probabilityyields to dreamingand there are wings

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Proposition. A song is a song and a poem is a poem.They share words but they don’t share function.I wrote this as a poem and then Steve Moorby ofMoorbyJones, the band we share with his daughterGemma Moorby, set it to … Continue reading

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Even when you know that with any given poetry magazine receiving maybe 3,000 submissions a month, the chances of acceptance are minimal, it can be a rough push in the chest when yours is rejected. Against the inevitable sense of … Continue reading

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i leave the earthin vapour evenunder a winter suni become a cold-shouldered clouduneven inconstanti hide the skyand you wonderwill we ever knowblue aroundour heads againi eatthe children cloudswhere they playand become all heftand hubrisbut as empires fallso i fragmentand the … Continue reading

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