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 play the same instruments in the Celtic/English/Americana/acoustic ambient trio Escher's Dream. 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


LARKS ASCENDING I was 13 and staying with family friends in a damp, dilapidated but beautiful manor house called The Old Hall just outside the village of Reedham in Norfolk. Family friends John and Joyce Jacobs were running it as … Continue reading

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DIE MAUER IST RUNTER The wall is down. Incredulous we contemplate, through raw gateways, dawn in the West. You, the baker, me, the busdriver, there the student carrying a flag, there the woman who cannot forget or forgive; we move … Continue reading

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In 2015 Natalie d’Arbeloff and I had our collaborative work on Blaise Cendrars’ ‘La Prose du Transsiberien et de la Petite Jehanne de France’ published by the Old Stile Press, I translated the epic poem and Natalie created the illustrations. … Continue reading

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As stated a few weeks back, I visited Russia at the end of the ’90s and witnessed briefly the beginnings of the silent revolution that brought about the collapse of the Soviet Union, briefly presaged the advent of authentic democracy … Continue reading

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NIGHT POACHERS Full moon bold as a cry, clean as new ice. Two men running noiseless across frozen fields. Gin traps in canvas bags rattle like teeth. They fall laughing in clouds into the lee of a wall. A dog … Continue reading

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A Clear Blue Sky My dad was a man of prose – a specialist: words used like gardening tools to conjure shapes, to fashion patterns. Language mattered: correspondence ran to pages – letters to the council; ‘thank you’ cards to … Continue reading

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THE TIES THAT BIND The morning after you left I drew the curtains on the seven-acre field. Two hares were bowling through the stubble, wind-blown, skidding like broken wheels. They danced and sprung apart and danced again and then were … Continue reading

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