Biography of Esmond Jones
Esmond Jones Poems
In the gloom of the dusty shed he pulls faces at seed potatoes, then shakes off their reek, snatches back his breath from the underworld mould
I Feel For It
Dust. Rubble. Caterpillars. I’d known those walls well, slept within them-as a man, chalked my name on the black iron pillars
Stay put - don’t move a thread of silver hair. Be stiller than your love atop the bier. I have you close together one last time;
Do not be fooled-it is not on my back, with all my heart I push the crazy thing along and it nor I will bend or crack while we maintain a groovy rhythmic swing.
When you have seen my music move the grass where you have lain outside the willow’s shade and heard the wind’s high-pitch descend to bass, you stroll away into the dusk and fade.
She’s Not Impressed
I’ve well and truly botched my laundry up: I’ve shrunk my shirts in water far too hot - the cuffs are flapping halfway up my arms.
On the moon I dig holes with a pelvis, throw in femurs and skulls and ribcages, then read words from the Songs of Solomon. During my search for the tranquil sea
When you have seen my music move the grass
where you have lain outside the willow’s shade
and heard the wind’s high-pitch descend to bass,
you stroll away into the dusk and fade.
You make me feel my music might contain,
a strophe or two of Dylan’s underground
that sheds no lasting light beyond a stain,
but rings a mellow bell of pleasing sound.