Sunday, November 2, 2014

Jill Jones

And What is Hurt

what if I recycle my length
or width that will not tell
you any more about me
I could have a party or song

pressing about the other
song of all this it’s nothing
to do with comfort or steel
becomes a following it’s not

a work or a craft
or beginning of epic love
as these things fly
walk along paths and beaches

not so clear nothing is when
you think of being born
what you see out a window
where you drove

to get here where you had to
grow up refuel extend
your knowledge estimate
where you might be for

the rest of the century
all of this is not
obvious even though
the courtyard fills with snow

soldiers guest for the ball
mourners indeed the panoply
of what you need to see
through you need to lift

like a servant a saviour
amongst the dying or a person
someone else who needs
nothing but to know is this

right and what is hurt
not only in the morning
but also all night as
history lifts its veils

as you become more
than you thought you
would need to as like
and unlike the sun

Rosendalsvägen, Sunday

light is smoky above
the cookhouse, there’s a scattering
of salt and accents, I never meant
what I said, but I did, children play
their own games, touching
because it doesn’t matter, if it does
little dogs watch each mouthful
although they’re not begging
if I ran by the shore every afternoon
it would not make a difference
or I would die, the air fills with steak
and pommes frites, the beer
and the rosé have been drunk
a gull calls to another gull
how they call these waters
boats have crossed one sea to another
delivering american tshirts, faux fur
mayonnaise, everything
now seems to depend
on icecream, this is the long autumn
four pm bells ring from the kyrka
we wanted you to last longer
than you did, the lawn is covered
in ducks’ feathers and lovers

To Absent Bodies!

Where is the
vanishing point of
cloth? Whose body
will it increase?

The material falls
away. Who has
drunk and who
has left? Nothing

is the same.
The raptness washes
over you, waves

in the weft.
We are never
free of body.

Absent hands, here
“drink to me”.


You read about visitants.
It’s often hard to tell, sometimes
they’re normal or green.
It doesn’t much matter.
You see these things.
They appear as comments,
updates, news items.
Nevertheless they record
something that’s passed
by you, has moved on
from corners, billows,
wobbly horizons,
appearance that years ago
someone may have said
was otherworldly but you know
that shades of day, time,
makeup and skin are more
or less the way things appear.
Nothing more spooky than light,
or iffiness that makes you
drop things, stutter over mistakes,
as if time could be
anything but time,
some thing that passes.

Accident – A Medium

‘a medium for accident or chance’ – Francis Bacon

Left over or
nothing to scream

gap, gape
the figure
in all this

teeth ribs arrows
working loose
that middle age
before / after

the unsettled
sitting / sitter
with skin

doubling over or
balling fragmented
‘seriously damage’

who tells
or listens

from running
emerging from
the night sea

or folding
onto the floor
in a circle

© Jill Jones


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