Biography of Jane Brunton
Many of my poems were inspired when I lived in Ecuador, South America for ten years (1990 to 2000.) I had never written poetry before but the sheer wonder and beauty of that country was a source of sensory stimulation compelling me to write.
After languishing in a government job for over 20 years I now free-lance for a local paper and have a monthly column on creativity.
Other interests include sculpting in clay, fibre art, tai chi, yoga and gardening.
Jane Brunton Poems
Overhead-passes spit contemptuously at passing cars. Power lines emerge from dripping silver cocoons.
The world is a frigid waiting room of pebbled glass. We make the chipping chopping sounds of an ice-storm morn.
A bud! What joy! Fulfillment of life’s purpose. The never ending circle of life and death and life.
What’s he doing at the side of the road? He’s sleeping In his matted tatted fur, Weathered leather and crushed bone. Sleep on squashed squirrel
It’s summer. Dogs barking in closed cars. It’s summer.
Did She Scream As She Fell?
Cocoon-like, she clings to the very tip of life. She clings through the gentle spring rain that swells her tender body till it bursts its crisp confine. Then she opens like a tiny green fist and blinks in the spring sunshine. She gathers strength and toughness and when the autumn comes, unafraid, she turns her ruddy face into the wind, proud of her new clothes. Buffeted, she clings stubbornly to life, refusing to be torn away by the whim of the wind, but her strength is sapped as the tree draws into itself. Rain and hail and savage winds tatter her gaudy raiment but still she clings, hanging by a filament till one day her tenuous grip gives way.
The valley, green and flat as a pool table, stretches in the protective embrace of a jealous mountain. Like a ripe young woman she is too beautiful to last. Even the craggy arms of her mountain lover cannot stay the ravages of man. He will slice through those arms and rape her flower-filled womb. From the rape will issue the children, Rock, Sand and Mud who betray her.
Spiky cacti sprout cloth flowers of purple, pink and orange wool. Bushes bear sequined, bell shaped, skirt flowers. It’s laundry day. Home-bound sheep hurriedly crop their last bite of the polluted provender masquerading as wayside grass.
Out Of Alausi
Oh Mountain! You’ve a froth of cloud pinned to your voluminous green lap like a snow-white hanky pinned to a lady’s skirt The mountains are rounded like a giants cast-off hats; here banded by straw huts; there adorned with cows.
The man ploughs his field and sows his abundant seed into the furrow’s depth From this union of man and earth are born their edible children
The Condor's Back
Clouds at my feet; the condors back glistens in the misted light below. We glide, he and I, through the steaming cauldron, oblivious to the villages hidden below. Far beneath me slides your disappearing majesty. Sad, solitary one; your mate’s the victim of Indian sacrifice. Your children are in zoos. Hated enemy of the poor, whose scrawny sheep you carry off. The enveloping mists obscure you like a shroud.
The animals and birds seem to exist only in books now. Or were they someone’s fantastic imaginings – the ravings of a mad man? The rivers and woods are as silent as my book of colored pictures.
Out Of Alausi
Oh Mountain! You’ve a froth of cloud pinned to your voluminous green lap like a snow-white hanky pinned to a lady’s skirt
The mountains are rounded like a giants cast-off hats; here banded by straw huts; there adorned with cows.
Just out of Alausi, Indians in red ponchos are jammed into truck beds like strawberries in a crate. The lion-mountains are clothed in yellow velvet, panting in the drought.
The road is walled at places by dried mud cliffs.
Smoky Indians descend the bus at r