Different Directions

The days are different. Each day is different than any other day that has gone before – significantly different. Certain things are the same on many days but even those things are different when you zoom in on them. What does this mean? OK – elaborate. You can go into your (or any other) garden, or a park or a field, or I suppose, go and look at a roadside hedge. Choose a leaf. Study it. Go back the next day, at the same time if you like, and it will be different. It will have grown, or decomposed, or become wetter, or drier, or droopier, or perkier – and that’s just one leaf – even a rock – even a diamond will be different from one moment to the next. Some things will require a higher zoom, some things will be obvious, some things will cease to exist between one day and the next, and some things will come into existence. What does that mean? Time is the path through the tangled mess that is the universe – inner and outer (what a fucking cliché – sorry). Life is awareness, life is best when it is simply lived. Age comes to us, we move towards it – we are actually time travellers – we think we can only go in one direction – forward – but how do we know that? Answer – because we remember what has happened before and we can’t see what will happen in the future. But maybe that’s only because of the direction we’re looking in.

  

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Look

Rolling around – being blown – blowing – blown. I am blown through the universe – buffering – buffeting, being buffeted, blown and buffeted – through a universe of song and colour – everything – all of it, a glimpse, a snap, a snip a flash of breath, a spark, a one of them, too many clichés and the meaning is lost – too many words the same – There is, this is – a Time Space cubicle – it is in this cubicle and in the cube or is it a sphere – a ball, a world – a planet, and there under a blade of grass a chiv of life, light, feeling, and the light, the light the right, it’s all there here round and down and up and spherically shaped – - – - – - there is nothing to wait for to look for to hope for – it is here – now – the time space bubble bauble – inside and everywhere and then and now and then of course it is of course and you know it – you have to – no – should – should will – in the end discover – unearth find it always gleaming dreaming and worlds and planets and galaxies and universes and inside, deep inside – the light – the truth + time to learn and time to be and it is a start to finish / in between. So there so there it is it is there – Look.

  

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My Dragon

My Dragon

it is time again
it has been long coming
poking at my consciousness
in the night – asleep
or should be
but it nags
it is my dragon
I woke it
demanded its breath
it resisted
said – let me lie
I am sleeping
I said – you are a dragon
not a dog
it sighed
and complied
now it nags
when neglected
yaps, bites
sometimes snarls
I sigh
and try
to comply
  

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Everything Changes

Everything Changes

everything-changes

The rush of existence, the crush of the game
Everything changes, it’s always the same

Open the basket, dig deep inside
Gorge on potatoes, boiled, mashed, and fried

Scrub up the carrots, dice up the swede
Add in the garlic, and that’s all you need

Wait for the winter, remember the snow
Laugh in the sunshine, relax in its glow

Continue reading

  

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A visit to Margam steelworks

A Visit to Margam Steelworks

(i)
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Roads meandering
Imposing structures
Imposing structure
Meandering roads
Giant Nostrils
Disgorging Clouds
Winds disturbing
Black noxious dust
Railway tracks
Slow-down bumps
Black puddles
Yellow jacks
Distance
Miles
Lives
Lived
Bad
Smell
Taste
Sound
Sight.
#
 (ii)
FAT FLIES
Fat flies in the portacabin office
cheeky flies
flies with confident looks
licking their feet on
the mayonnaise roll
Continue reading
  

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first words

cleansed
he returns to his work
ready
he takes his tool
(no – not that kind, you dirty-minded bugger)
he makes the marks
and starts to pare
more gently than before
softer than before
slower than before
the shape will come
it will be
what it’s meant to be
and he will be
what he is
because the rest
doesn’t matter
  

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On a broken lighter

A series of poems (circa 1999)

On a Broken, Worn Out, Cheap, Plastic, Cigarette Lighter.
( i )
Oil processed, metal mined,
Gas released, so refined;
Cog turning, flint burning;
Ergonomically designed.
( ii )
reflections on a cigarette lighter:
distorted – not much.
 ( iii )
Shall I compare it to a source of light?
Or shall I simply call it flaming junk?
When it was new it struck and lit all right.
But now it’s just a useless, lifeless hunk.
Of plastic, metal and of gas composed,
A man made thing to do the job of fire.
It might be clever if I juxtaposed,
The foundry’s rush and a heavenly choir.
Singing its song it lit up many nights,
But now it’s gone and ever will reside,
On the council tip with the other shite.
Silting the globe, why did it have to die?
Do not believe its life has been in vain,
‘Cos from the dump it will rise once again.
 ( iv )
The thing is like a stick of light.
It is a bite of frost.
Its lion’s roar, its breath so bright,
A broken beam, it’s lost.
( v )
Fruit of mans’ hand,
We don’t understand,
How much you demand.
Continue reading
  

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Twin Towers

October 2, 2013: This poem was written in September 2001, not long after the planes hit the Twin Towers – it is by far the most popular page on this site due to the extraordinary number of people who still google “Twin Towers” every day. I don’t know if anyone actually reads the poem, or just looks at the picture but it would be nice to know. So. if you do read until the end of the poem please click like/dislike icons – thanks.

Twin Towers

I was wounded first –
the blow caught me in the neck.
I couldn’t breathe,
then –
with a whoosh of fire,
my mouth opened
and huge clouds of smoke fled out.
I didn’t realise I had such energy,
such love.
I smiled when I knew I was dying;
I always said I would go first.
You watched as I choked, incredulously,
not wanting to believe
in my mortality.
My belly shook, I retched and coughed,
but your strength,
the power of your gaze,
began to mend.
Then –
you were smacked in the chest;
a direct hit to your heart,
and you shuddered
but you didn’t scream;
there was no sound
yet.
That’s when I caught your eye;
that’s when I knew
we were both going to die.
In that silent lightless time
I watched, still wounded,
still breathing burning breath,
then –
you deflated with a groan
that shook the world.

I stood, shocked, alone in emptiness
that spread like nothing
through the universe.
With no light left, I crumbled too;
we sighed together, merged –
forever
in mounds of dirt.
Then
I knew that love can never die
not even then, not in that place
where the world was witness
to our hurt.

  

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Stopping Stone

 Here we have a stopping stone
a place to pause and be alone
Take it in your hand and stare
at nothing in particular
Rub it clean and roll it round
let it rest upon the ground
Chuck it, kick it, lob it high
watch it dropping from the sky
Let it rest, be on your way
thank it humbly for today
Tomorrow someone else will pause
and have their day, and think of yours.
  

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Where is your song

A poem from a few years back – playing with audio recordings

:http://derecjones.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/where-is-your-song.mp3|titles=where

transcript below

 

Where is Your Song?

What is there to sing about
in the dirty valleys of Wales?
The land of my fathers’ follies,
the land of Mam’s poison cake.
Where sheep flood the green hills
like maggots, munching
to certain slaughter,
and pass their moronic character
to the people, through their plates.
The rivers run cold and collect
the toxic discharge that the Lords left.
The stone-walled slate-roofed mausoleums
of mediocrity, house the bigots
and the hypocrites of fear.
Why allow these demons
to inhabit our beautiful land?
Where is the sleeping Prince
who promised to return?
Wales is not a place of blood and tears.
Wales is not a deposit of dirty rain.
The evil of our history has skewered
our hearts to a red jersey,
the only paltry pride we have left.
Oh Wales, where is your song of joy?

  

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I am the Moon

I am the moon. I have always been the moon. I will always be the moon. My heart beats with cool light. I move my thoughts over the blue emptiness. I vibrate with blue emotion.

There is no thing except the cool blue. There is no place except the cool blue. There is only the cool blue.

I am the moon. I do not feel. I do not see. I do not hear. I am the moon.

There is no thing. Nothing. I am the moon.

I am the blue moon. I am alone.

“Did you say something?”
“Did you say something?”
“Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
“Who am I?”
“Who am I?”

“I am the moon.”
“I am the moon.”

I am the blue moon.
I am alone.

#

“The moon looks blue tonight.”
“No it doesn’t, it is white. The sky is blue”
“The sky has no colour. The moon has no colour”
“It’s the light from the sun. It has no light itself.”

“It’s late. It’s cold.”
“The moon affects the sea.”
“And me.”
“Everyone.”
“Always.”

#

“Take my hand, it’s dark.”
“Your hand is cold.”
“Warm enough. You are not alone.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”

#

“It’s a beautiful night.”
“A beautiful sight.”
“A beautiful light.”

“Let’s go home.”

“Goodnight moon.”
“Goodnight moon.”

“Take my hand.”

“I love you.”
“I love you.”

“Let’s go home.”

“You are with me now.”

#

I am the moon. I am the blue moon. I am alone.

  

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Time is a triangle

Back, back, back
Stop
Start
Go
A slow awakening
A rude boy is born
He is
An old man
already
He has lifelong
vision
He can see
the reality
in between
And ends
and ends
Go again
He waits
and he hopes
still . . . . . . .
still . . . . . . .
Go, Go, Go
More
More
Stop
An old man
vision blurred
unheard
and the connection
the coruscating thread
the light
the love
the white-out
Time is a Triangle.

  

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