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

clouds make sky
into other spaces
glad for clearness?
Remember the birds

the material gathers
flocks premises degrees
of flux plastic
and vibrant bruised

like emails continued
heat in the hard drive
a love song

I earn, you
earn, we sometimes
stand and watch
minutes without labour

a little breathe
in the sexualized
the conditioned and
the happy sad

by service delivery
do you get it? Leaves
tenuous in late

hill, road, river
the moisture wish tangle
rusts in the old wall

a salty pull
expiration forecasts time
that carelessly hangs
habit is greedy

noise moves through
rooms, cars, fences
huge chords reporting
the lost sun

a walking breath
from a map
pinging the stratosphere
that invisible blue

chlorophyll wind beat
vegetable sprung growth
wages of distance
to the crumbling

somehow drops through
air the silvereyes
work of birds
where money never

eclipse early heat
this red in
sky talk love
brief filled with

great days allow
old organism song
wing fleshed current
breezy, arisen bloom

Clouding Sound

river plays at bridge
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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