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DICK JONES
Dick Jones
Author Archives: Dick Jones
DREAM DAD – a live reading.
DREAM DAD by DICK JONES … Continue reading
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LOCKDOWN
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
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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POPULATION VOID.
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
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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TWO EASTER POEMS
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
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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UNDER BLUE ANCHOR
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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