Jill Jones
When The Green Starts
You dangle in sweet wreckage
escaping the doubt of the world,
a small stone at the heart of the matter,
or a shadowy self in dusty clothes,
such a one who praises
a god of inversions.
Or you wander about purified
despite carbon, to breathe among
flowers bearing colour into the place
where dailiness stretches, grain by grain,
or where it parallels your unstable night’s
sudden chrome intersect, of silence,
when the green starts
being brave, atomic,
everything which is sung.
A Humming World
(Synchronous Optical Network)
A day writes its names in the wire,
but the waves did cancel it: Agayne
the day wrote but here comes the tyde
and it makes rivers in the mind and payne
demanding , until I gave away my Vayne
analysis of useless things, of mortall
worries, thickets, my forests of dis-lykeness
indeed, within a humming world, cars, bees, all lykewize
with the dying, and the dust, but alive
to the most fundamental things, to devize
without reputation but with rarer vertues
not eternal, surely, but to wryte of hevens
around streets and houses, splendour full and of,
whenas the world fills even an hour of its love.
(The poem contains the ghost of Spenser’s sonnet ‘One Day I Wrote Her Name Upon the Strand’. Synchronous Optical Network, or SONET, is a standard for connecting fibre optic transmission systems.)
My Reading
The eye’s as much a part of this
searching a sign through the weathering
wrecked at surface, worn tapestries
junk and styrofoam, as a thermo rig
drives thru today’s orgy, noisy talismans
shaking you, piercèd at the root
the worm-eaten leaf, misplaced stones.
But let’s see, how I try to read clouds
or bend to zeph’ring air that passes
along curling sounds, flicked, uncaught.
I’d rather feel my way along the phrases
each as it places on the sign, the wall.
To kiss each sound, to be in the blood
nerve the dancing lid, cochlea, lens, the throat.
They Are About Love
Today begins colder, amongst magpie scurf, bird mind.
A man looks like the past to me, memory fools memory.
There’s effort, people holding themselves, ready in the silent rage.
Three phones thumbed for news, engineering creaks.
Conversations describe conversations.
Wing lines argue with extinction as survival changes tack.
The guano of ages can be stepped over. What confusions!
It’s hard to balance words, they fall off clouds.
Among sponsorship deals, arguments become belated.
In the issue of union, don’t suggest celibacy as an awakening.
You get what you pay for. That old lie.
Seven anxious angels sleep in the folds of newspapers.
I don’t know all my languages but they are about love.
Cleavage is a kind of engagement, every t-shirt a sign.
14 Particulars
Wing
clouds make sky
into other spaces
glad for clearness?
Remember the birds
particulars
Fleshed
the material gathers
flocks premises degrees
of flux plastic
and vibrant bruised
easily
Great
temperatures
like emails continued
heat in the hard drive
a love song
businesslike
Days
I earn, you
earn, we sometimes
stand and watch
minutes without labour
gathering
Allow
a little breathe
in the sexualized
the conditioned and
the happy sad
air
Breezy
undermined
by service delivery
do you get it? Leaves
tenuous in late
autumn
Old
hill, road, river
the moisture wish tangle
rusts in the old wall
resistance
Organism
a salty pull
expiration forecasts time
that carelessly hangs
habit is greedy
tasted
Song
noise moves through
rooms, cars, fences
huge chords reporting
the lost sun
music
Bloom
a walking breath
from a map
pinging the stratosphere
that invisible blue
trellis
Arisen
chlorophyll wind beat
vegetable sprung growth
wages of distance
to the crumbling
ground
Current
somehow drops through
air the silvereyes
work of birds
where money never
lands
Walking
eclipse early heat
this red in
sky talk love
brief filled with
time
Let
great days allow
old organism song
wing fleshed current
breezy, arisen bloom
walking
Clouding Sound
river plays at bridge
coasts
brilliant floods
lagoon deep-met
afloat in delays
of sound, stone, loss
eye down, down
the river
feathers sink
water clouding birds
spirit flirts
ascending bridge and way
the caught collects time, becomes
spark flickering each cell
Jill Jones has published poetry in print and on-line journals in Australia, UK, USA, New Zealand, Canada, France, the Czech Republic and India. Her most recent books are Broken/Open (Salt, 2005) and a handwritten "tiny" book, Speak Which (Meritage Press, 2007). In 2009, she took part in the Micro-Festival Poetry Series held in Prague and Brno. She keeps a blog at http://rubystreet.blogspot.com/.
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When The Green Starts
You dangle in sweet wreckage
escaping the doubt of the world,
a small stone at the heart of the matter,
or a shadowy self in dusty clothes,
such a one who praises
a god of inversions.
Or you wander about purified
despite carbon, to breathe among
flowers bearing colour into the place
where dailiness stretches, grain by grain,
or where it parallels your unstable night’s
sudden chrome intersect, of silence,
when the green starts
being brave, atomic,
everything which is sung.
A Humming World
(Synchronous Optical Network)
A day writes its names in the wire,
but the waves did cancel it: Agayne
the day wrote but here comes the tyde
and it makes rivers in the mind and payne
demanding , until I gave away my Vayne
analysis of useless things, of mortall
worries, thickets, my forests of dis-lykeness
indeed, within a humming world, cars, bees, all lykewize
with the dying, and the dust, but alive
to the most fundamental things, to devize
without reputation but with rarer vertues
not eternal, surely, but to wryte of hevens
around streets and houses, splendour full and of,
whenas the world fills even an hour of its love.
(The poem contains the ghost of Spenser’s sonnet ‘One Day I Wrote Her Name Upon the Strand’. Synchronous Optical Network, or SONET, is a standard for connecting fibre optic transmission systems.)
My Reading
The eye’s as much a part of this
searching a sign through the weathering
wrecked at surface, worn tapestries
junk and styrofoam, as a thermo rig
drives thru today’s orgy, noisy talismans
shaking you, piercèd at the root
the worm-eaten leaf, misplaced stones.
But let’s see, how I try to read clouds
or bend to zeph’ring air that passes
along curling sounds, flicked, uncaught.
I’d rather feel my way along the phrases
each as it places on the sign, the wall.
To kiss each sound, to be in the blood
nerve the dancing lid, cochlea, lens, the throat.
They Are About Love
Today begins colder, amongst magpie scurf, bird mind.
A man looks like the past to me, memory fools memory.
There’s effort, people holding themselves, ready in the silent rage.
Three phones thumbed for news, engineering creaks.
Conversations describe conversations.
Wing lines argue with extinction as survival changes tack.
The guano of ages can be stepped over. What confusions!
It’s hard to balance words, they fall off clouds.
Among sponsorship deals, arguments become belated.
In the issue of union, don’t suggest celibacy as an awakening.
You get what you pay for. That old lie.
Seven anxious angels sleep in the folds of newspapers.
I don’t know all my languages but they are about love.
Cleavage is a kind of engagement, every t-shirt a sign.
14 Particulars
Wing
clouds make sky
into other spaces
glad for clearness?
Remember the birds
particulars
Fleshed
the material gathers
flocks premises degrees
of flux plastic
and vibrant bruised
easily
Great
temperatures
like emails continued
heat in the hard drive
a love song
businesslike
Days
I earn, you
earn, we sometimes
stand and watch
minutes without labour
gathering
Allow
a little breathe
in the sexualized
the conditioned and
the happy sad
air
Breezy
undermined
by service delivery
do you get it? Leaves
tenuous in late
autumn
Old
hill, road, river
the moisture wish tangle
rusts in the old wall
resistance
Organism
a salty pull
expiration forecasts time
that carelessly hangs
habit is greedy
tasted
Song
noise moves through
rooms, cars, fences
huge chords reporting
the lost sun
music
Bloom
a walking breath
from a map
pinging the stratosphere
that invisible blue
trellis
Arisen
chlorophyll wind beat
vegetable sprung growth
wages of distance
to the crumbling
ground
Current
somehow drops through
air the silvereyes
work of birds
where money never
lands
Walking
eclipse early heat
this red in
sky talk love
brief filled with
time
Let
great days allow
old organism song
wing fleshed current
breezy, arisen bloom
walking
Clouding Sound
river plays at bridge
coasts
brilliant floods
lagoon deep-met
afloat in delays
of sound, stone, loss
eye down, down
the river
feathers sink
water clouding birds
spirit flirts
ascending bridge and way
the caught collects time, becomes
spark flickering each cell
Jill Jones has published poetry in print and on-line journals in Australia, UK, USA, New Zealand, Canada, France, the Czech Republic and India. Her most recent books are Broken/Open (Salt, 2005) and a handwritten "tiny" book, Speak Which (Meritage Press, 2007). In 2009, she took part in the Micro-Festival Poetry Series held in Prague and Brno. She keeps a blog at http://rubystreet.blogspot.com/.
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