Poetry Blog by Terry Jones
I took a Fiat Volvo back to 1606.
Shakespeare was coming out the Globe,
full of himself, tragic, a whore on his arm.
‘Get in!’ I shouted. He ignored me.
‘Right,’ I said; ‘Last chance.’
But the girl he was with gave me the V sign,
carried him off into the shadows.
Friday 15th December 2017 7:31 pm
I took a lightbulb back to 1492:
Christopher Columbus showed me his map,
hand-made, accurate to within 5000 miles;
I showed him the lightbulb.
He peered at the pea-seed of the filament,
breathed lightly on the glass,
let it sit on the palm of his hand like an egg.
I explained it would glow – a moon, a cold candle;
he nodded, turned back to his map,
tracing a ...
Friday 15th December 2017 7:18 pm
Before the spirit left,
you had one leg out of bed, toes
touching the floor,
hand tightened on the sheet
as if for a moonlight flit.
I stayed with your cast,
rearranged leg, hand, sheet;
I even called you back,
but you were walking quickly,
lightly towards morning.
Sunday 10th December 2017 11:16 am
Collecting the Bins at Emily Bronte’s
‘What is the matter, my little man?’ I asked.
‘There’s Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t’ nab,’ he blubbered, ‘un’ I darnut pass ’em.'
Long after she’d gone, being reborn
on teapots and table mats - daguerrotyped,
imaged and impressed ...
Thursday 7th December 2017 9:46 pm
Lovers By The Ice-Age Tarn
Lovers by the ice-age tarn
locked within the season’s frame
tender to the ancient sun
all their urgent naked claim:
"Until the climate takes my eyes,
sun is darkened with its spores,
and all the twisted ammonites
turn to brittle amber tears,
bend me by the golden ice,
tip me to reflected stars;...
Sunday 3rd December 2017 9:58 pm
My mother leaned against dreams.
she did not row above the river of thought,
she did not bleed a flower of imagination –
my mother leaned against dreams.
On a morning when her children rose in sunlight
to squeeze the kitchen back to waking,
and the table found its legs like a foal,
the black cooker shook its head,
chairs were branch...
Sunday 3rd December 2017 11:11 am
Pressed in the pages of this book
the moth that must have rested here
has turned into this powder blur,
the one dimension of itself.
Someone reading one Spring night
shut a sudden paper tomb
and trapped this echo of a flight.
A feint of light drew it there:
a dull reflection off the page
Saturday 2nd December 2017 3:43 pm
The poor apparitions. It would be easier
if they ceased to care and took their nowhere
as the end of being here. Substanceless,
forgetful, they miss what has come to pass,
and nothing remains of them but pranks?
They dull cold mirrors; barely sway candle flames;
on anniversaries appear in dreams;
in thin involvements bumble under glass,...
Friday 1st December 2017 9:39 pm
I will teach my child to read fences
tell the X, from the Y,
judge tension in the note and the not
I will teach how to curl like a mouse
sense thunders of touchdowns and tarmacs
climb, roll, smell borders
Mother, lover, blood-trafficker,
for sheer map and milk of her life,
I will teach h...
Friday 1st December 2017 9:29 pm
As loved ones buried
grow nails and hair
a fistful of peelings
thrown slovenly to earth
came back in Spring,
leaving me to finger,
stunned as Crusoe,
a row of cold knuckles.
One, forgotten in the cellar,
turned pure alone
and grew a halo of white hair;
Friday 1st December 2017 1:17 pm
stop leaving all the lights on I say
we live in a dark house
I want to see you say
get used to it, bats can see in the dark
they get used to it
bats can't see in the dark
course they fucking can, with sound
you mean like with rhyme
shout and bounce it off the world
whisper it into corners
we turn the lights off and try it
bugger you shout
Friday 1st December 2017 8:47 am
- 2017 (11)