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

DREAM DAD – a live reading.

                                       DREAM DAD by DICK JONES                                 … Continue reading

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Lockdown Readings §1: PILLOW

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LOCKDOWN Back to the beginning, then. Who lives here still? Some shepherd swain chewing on a stem, staring over the lonely treetops? Fool if you expected silence, or thought that the trees would be empty. But the contrails have gone … Continue reading

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LINGUA FRANCA Language ought to be the joint creation of poets and manual workers. George Orwell Ever since the acquisition of words provided me with a receptacle for memory, I have loved language.  Its music, its power to evoke, its … Continue reading

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AIW – 2007

On a Christmas morning many years ago I was born. Mum and I were in a small maternity home in Horton Kirby, West Kent. A few miles away in my grandparents’ terraced cottage on Hockenden Lane, Swanley, Dad and Alan … Continue reading

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On July 25th 2015 my friend the poet, blogger and curator Dave Bonta was kind enough to publish on his eminent blog, Via Negativa  a first draft of French-Canadian poet Yves Préfontaine’s extraordinary poem Peuple Inhabité. Life in a time of Corona has … 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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STAINED GLASS The quality of light: this, a piece of late evening sky. How darkness can shine: last of the sun, a first breath of stars, a waxing moon. Judas walks out of the small room while they are still … Continue reading

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IMMORTAL A summer morning. I’m 10. I’m sitting in a sandpit, back supported by a bucket upside down. The sun is brilliant, and standing high; it must be nearly noon. I tip back my head and I yawn and the … Continue reading

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Memories of loneliness within the crowd and seeking solitude in order to conjure up home… UNDER BLUE ANCHOR They were singing The Parting Glass. The fire was high. Some eyes were closed with the weight of the song; others gleamed. … Continue reading

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