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 ( + 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 G0 EUV.


CLAYBURY HOSPITAL Shortly after leaving Goldsmiths’ College back in the late ‘60s and whilst awaiting creative and commercial success with what our agency touted as ‘South-East London’s First Flower-Power Band’, I took a job in the laundry at Claybury Psychiatric … Continue reading

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We are informed that digitisation will, ultimately, replace every function currently managed by human agency. We will be counselled by robots; automated doctors will diagnose and prescribe; classroom learning will be directed by a disembodied electronic presence; all vehicular transport … Continue reading

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PUTTING OUT THE CALL… Way back in 2003 one of the first posts that I uploaded to my hip new blog, the Patteran Pages (this via the steampunk software adopted by the American news and culture site Salon, who were … Continue reading

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GO WEST Nearly two decades ago, I read Barry Miles’ just-published The Beat Hotel. The book depicts an on-&-off six-year period spent by Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso & William Burroughs in a run-down little hotel in the back streets of … Continue reading

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names of the moon

names of the moon sucked pebble: tongued smooth by ancient salt night / starflecks in a quantum field / sour white beached as blue-black sucks out // old coin: dun metal edged like a flint scrap / spent / effaced … Continue reading

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Moraira is a small coastal resort about an hour’s drive from Alicante.  MORAIRA 1. We each of us carry a strange portfolio         of ghosts and vipers         spiny things and ticks that burrow … Continue reading

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Much as at the point when suddenly rain stops,             or wind abates,                         or cloud obscures the sun, there is a moment just between              breathe in and breathe     out                          when shock stops the spin and hum of … Continue reading

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