Paul Steffan Jones 1st


 

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Anger One


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2018-05-06

Grind my teeth down

mortar and pestle

molar pestilence

at the dentist

get a new set

a horse look

my masculinity blurs

whatever it is or was

weight piles on

semi-industrial consumption

of ill advice

that amorphous shape

my eyes dim with tears

my ears struggle to keep up

everyone wants

my money

my effort

my support

my attention

my input

my time

my vote

my life

while the flora

and the fauna

disappear

memory as a sequence

of half snatched-back vignettes

that perhaps I was never in

we can’t escape our parents

they’re in our faces

our ways of moving

of hoping

their bad luck

their diseases

their misjudgement

in the diaspora of kids

leaving home

the energy of synergy

in hangars of anger

the anchors of rancour

with truncheons of tension

in Anger One

anger has won

Posted in: Poetry | 2 comments

The Levels


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2018-04-14

The land bridges

were always handy

if not at hand

each time of asking

of hoping

we walked across water

swam over land

I walked with you

you walked with me

from Iberia to Hibernia

from Arcadia to Armorica

from Camelot to California

from Cantref Gwaelod to Catterick

from Stonehenge to Stenhousemuir

from Doggerland to Sunderland

and from Tir na n0g to Tintagel

with a lioness from Lyonesse

all over the place

we have been practically

all over the place

so walk with me

please carry on

walking with me

Posted in: Poetry | 0 comments

Plastic Heroism


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2018-04-04

View all history

the voices tell me

sing to me

member or not

the murder of St. Valentine

the lie of neoliberalism

not my kind of people

barely humanitarian

nominally human

buying clearance items

in rancid opera intervals

what brought us here?

need a new gun amnesty

the dafties

the smokies

the medicinal use of whisky

prescribed medication

prescribed loneliness

planned isolation

disassociation

aniseed:any seed

the self-inflicted wounds

of the second half of the 20th century

health care and diet conflict

scribble

scratch out the words

see what they reveal

what they see

bad weather is coming

anxieties about planned journeys

if we don’t get there

we don’t get there

wait for the snow

wait for the snow to fall

wait for snow to fall on plans

wait for water to freeze

wait for water

water for the wait

water the waiting

await the watering

hold things up to the sun

in winter to dry them

always wanting something to evaporate

I fought with monsters

I fought with my teeth

I fought with uncertainty

I fought with time

all the time

in Guadalajara

Rizla Deutsch

Stone Tony and the others

the hot air balloons

of my way of thinking

where is spring?

show us your spring

notes for a future

the future of notes

the life and aftermath

of gift wrapping

does it boil down to this?

no

lung versus kidney

cancer versus everything else

pricking oneself lightly

with a French knife

versus not trying

Joseph of Arimathea

earth tremors

encouraged by the nearing end

but the scaffolding is still up


the rock and roll dream

the technology dream

the medical dream

a mental illness epidemic

the pills bonanza

in the streams of unconsciousness

it’s not touching me

anti-freeze

anti-climb

anti-heroic

anti-Nazi

a postcard from a lost village

to some Swedes with axes

wish you were here

in these isles

that have become aisles

the great retail swindle

buy your way out of unhappiness

bondage and not belonging

the places I used to work

used to work

never go back

keep facing forward

for fire

forever

a country music funeral

the air always there

always air

hope they don’t tax it

that air

promote sanctity

promote scarcity

promote something special

please

see the ink run out in a pen

no loyalty anymore

wait like an animal waits

wish I could

de rigeur or an actor

out of context

out of time

wear a head

always wear a head

to bed

wake up with it

modern jazz wolverines

creatures that eat other creatures

passwords for heaven

fall out of love with plastic

something to do before I die

Posted in: Poetry | 0 comments

Otherlander


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2018-04-04

He came from a lost village

he couldn’t remember which one

or how it came to be missing

as it was so long ago

perhaps it had been a frowned

drowned sort of place

or a bulldozed overdosed one

somewhere that wouldn’t be missed

he had been wet behind the ears

but soon fitted in with

the new strangers

although they spoke differently

and seemed disinterested

in anything that was other

his parents never talked about

their origins

and stayed that way until the end

those nights when he could sleep

deep in the cosy burrow of forgetting

he dreamt of a place

that smiled

that worked

that knew its history

what he couldn’t know

was that everyone else

was dreaming

of returning to somewhere

they had never been

he got over it

there had been many villages

lost for various reasons

that’s the way it was

people becoming unwitting

pieces on a giant chess board

that used to be their country

Posted in: Poetry | 2 comments

Fetter


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2018-03-03

The wealth of our princes

in swords bent

and thrown into meres

in the feared wildernesses of their time

when they were deposed by invaders

their leaderless subjects

lived similarly fettered

until liberated by learning

the alchemy of the word

the occasional brilliance of finance

like sunlight in a forest

I break the legs of my poems

to prevent them escaping from me

in my hobbled search for

my private Excalibur

Posted in: Poetry | 0 comments

(When) We Were


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2018-02-22

The hunters came from afar

to the vacuum of

scraped and scratched mountains

and scourged and scoured valleys

uninformed but brave

confident and hardy

they would stay

finding something that contented them

where the land ran out

in the north west of the continent

they had crossed as ice mass melted

their skins black against white

the waters gushing

through territories re-emerging

after their long concealment

they built homes

started families

harnessed ploughs

husbanded beasts

worked together

to engineer and erect

monumental structures

sailed the coasts

exploring

and sharing products

and ideas

they used whale bone

flint and tusk

to fashion tools and weapons

hunting some creatures to extinction

their shamen helped them

to know how to revere

and commune with their ancestors

the stars

the sun and the moon

thunder and lightning

and the munificence of the fauna

of the ocean without end

in time that sea rose around them

cutting them off from their wider family

leaving them stranded

and forgetful of who they were

where they had come from

prefering to tell a new myth of island isolation

those mothers and fathers of ours

Posted in: Poetry | 4 comments

The Ministry of Loss


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2018-02-18



What lies beneath the surface

below the wake of cheerful pleasure craft

and the hopeful lures of anglers

this privileged day of summer?

the old village now lies silenced

its windowless buildings

have wide open doors

that permit brown trout

to enter and leave

this street of skulls

forgotten in the march of progress

stepped over by big money

eels coil around the rusted railings

that contain the cemetery

the dead sleeping

the disturbed sleep

of new surroundings

the chapel

eyeless

wordless

the new wildlife in its pews

that does not understand

it had gasped its last hosannas

in bubbles of oxygen

that escaped its ancient walls

on the day it succumbed to deluge

the final ministration of loss

pike skulk in the classrooms

of the primary school

silt is forming over the white lines

of its playground

the lilt of lullabies

the echo of children’s boisterous songs

stifled by millions of litres

of industrialised water

the shop had been run by

a man surnamed “Shop”

on its shelves

Great Pond Snails colonise

large glass jars

that used to dispense

sherbet fountains

Parma violets

and pink and white mice

the pigeon holes at the post office

have become the domain

of smooth newts and gudgeon

managing as efficiently in their way

as had the former postmistress

who was nicknamed “Post”

the practical and descriptive

naming conventions of a people

who had loved to describe

in an inaccessible corner of the lake side

a sheep wool-snagged

barbed wire-topped fence

disappears into the depths

still taut

still connecting the abandoned homes

to the life that persists on the hillside


...

Posted in: Poetry | 0 comments



Hellish London

melting tower block

melting faces

plummeting bodies

front seat atrocity

death on live TV

as firefighters attempt to tackle

the emboldened blaze

with depleted numbers

low water pressure

and delayed equipment

the bravery and dedication

of the “ordinary” citizens of a state

without courageous and honest leadership

the so-called Blitz spirit trundling on

unaware that a kind of war

is still being fought

in every home

in every workplace

in every school

in every hospital


it’s now OK to feign amnesia

about vulnerable people

especially if they’re “foreign”

and deregulation and austerity

don’t admit to their  hand

in the  production

of the corpses

from among this disposable section

of the population

the invisible and expendable

who don’t qualify for adequate

health and safety

whose voices cannot be heard

who can’t even be enumerated

or identified quickly enough

among the shambles jumble

that used to be their homes

in one of the richest corners

of the unearthly omnishambles

that is their country

meanwhile the Secretary of State for Health

gets a £44,000 bathroom

and nurses pay furtive visits

to food banks

it’s time to make our country our own

our rulers don’t need us

and we don’t need their misrule


...

Posted in: about | 2 comments
 
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