Thrilled to have my poem The Patterns published by Editor Barbara Leonhard in MasticadoresUSA
“THE PATTERNS” by Strider Marcus Jones
Posted by MEELOSMOMon19 APRIL, 2024
somewhere
in everywhere
everybody
happens
in the patterns,
like flocks
of rocks
gathered to the lobby
of Saturn's
rings,
graded
and sorted
into ugly and beautiful
useful
things;
all something
out of nothing
but not absolute nothing:
it seems matter
that Mad Hatter
and plectrums of light
make tunes of self similarity settle and fight
repeating this same existence
without remembered resistance.
Copyright © 2024 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in over 200 publications worldwide including: Dreich Magazine; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rye Whiskey Review; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; and Dissident Voice.
Delighted to have my poem Taking Off My Coat published by the superb Fixator Press. My thanks to Editor Jonathan Butcher.
TAKING OFF MY COAT by Strider Marcus Jones – Fixator Press (home.blog)
TAKING OFF MY COAT by Strider Marcus Jones
TAKING OFF MY COAT
each evening
is like taking off my coat.
i sit down
apart from the day
and nothing happens.
i let silence sing
her supernatural note-
in the air, i drown
in how the lonely play
as reality slackens.
curdling in a chair
with arms of broken branches
that used to be
and went somewhere
in circumstance and chances-
now greying, like wild hair
at the end of all its dances
with the gravity
gone from its romances-
i feel time's weight
compress the emptiness of fate,
into some sort of nothing
that held my hand,
and left me something-
to understand.
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford,
England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of
Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of
The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
PYRAMID PRISON
in detritus metronomes
of human habitation
the ghost of Shelley’s imagination
questions the elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse engineered
that suddenly appeared
as evolution yesterday.
her monster mirrors dark wells
of monsters in our smart selves,
the lost humanity and oratory
that fills laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism’s
ectopic extinction.
this is our pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the debased
opposite steps of extremism,
like Prometheus Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching sphinx
abandoned by missing links.
free masons of money and wars,
warp the alter of natural laws,
so reason withers
and wastelands rust-
no longer rivers
of shared stardust
in the equal symphony of spheres
in space,
filling our ears
with subwoofer bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford,
England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of
Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of
The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington
Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Photo Nick Victor
Saturno Magazine, Articolo: LA VITA È FLAMENCO - STRIDER MARCUS JONES
LA VITA È FLAMENCO - STRIDER MARCUS JONES
LA VITA È FLAMENCO - STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Strider Marcus Jones è un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex - funzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente è:
- Redattore ed editore del "Lothlorien Poetry Journal"
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.
- Membro della Poetry Society. I suoi 5 libri di poesie pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città, suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
- The Huffington Post USA;
- La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
- Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
- La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l'ama
e le loro sfumature all'interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell'entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
My thanks to Agron Shele and Angela Kosta for publishing my poem Life is Flamenco on Poetic Galaxy Atunis in Albanian, Italian and English. Delighted and honoured.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES - LA VITA È FLAMENCO - Perqasje
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones è un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex – funzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente è:
- Redattore ed editore del “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”
- Membro della Poetry Society.
I suoi 5 libri pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città, suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
- The Huffington Post USA;
- La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
- Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
- La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l’ama
e le loro sfumature all’interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell’entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society,
his five published books of poetry
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
outback, in Andalusian ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.
like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.
i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my Spanish guitar
like Paco.
Tradotto in italiano da Angela Kosta Accademica scrittrice, poetessa, saggista, critica letteraria, redattrice, traduttrice, giornalista
Thankye to editor Barbara Leonhard for publishing this poem on Masticadores USA. Most appreciated.
MASTICADORESUSA, POEM, POETRY
“THE OTHER SELF” by Strider Marcus Jones
Posted by MEELOSMOMon18 MARCH, 2024
Photo by JJ Jordan on Pexels.com
the other self
abstracted in the press
of turned down pages,
gets mucked up in the mess
and shows how unlaminated age is.
if nothing else-
these nude notes
being played behind the curtain
where the stage is,
by soloist strings
and hermit woodwinds-
are far hopes
of uncertain
opening chords
calling out
to the duet
i haven't come to yet.
and afterwards,
if all those afterwards
could talk and kiss and spout,
there would be
no more misery
move it out.
Copyright © 2024 Strider Marcus Jones
All Rights Reserved
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
Haiku by Strider Marcus Jones – 5-7-5 Haiku Journal (wordpress.com)
Haiku by Strider Marcus Jones
honeysuckle grows
around the arch of midnight
into the wormhole
Editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal –
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
LIFE IS FLAMENCO – A POEM BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES (mebusiness.ae) Egypt
LIFE IS FLAMENCO – STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
outback, in Andalusian ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.
like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.
i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my Spanish guitar
like Paco.
Prepared Angela Kosta Academic, journalist, writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator
Lothlorien Poetry Journal
Lothlorien Poetry Journal Edited by Strider Marcus Jones Poet –
LIFE IS FLAMENCO – A POEM BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES - Sindh Courier
LIFE IS FLAMENCO – A POEM BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Life is flamenco, To come and go, High and low, Fast and slow
Strider Marcus Jones is a poet from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales
Strider Marcus Jones, a poet, is law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. He is a member of The Poetry Society, and has his five published books of poetry. His poems reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Why can’t I walk as far
And smoke more tobacco,
Or play my Spanish guitar
Like Paco,
Putting rhythms and feelings
Without old ceilings
You’ve never heard
Before in a word.
Life is flamenco,
To come and go
High and low
Fast and slow.
She loves him,
He loves her
And their shades within
Caress and spur
In a ride and dance
Of tempestuous romance.
Outback, in Andalusian ease,
I embrace you, like melted breeze
Amongst ripe olive trees-
Dark and different,
All manly scent
And mind unkempt.
Like I do,
Picasso knew
Everything about you
When he drew
Your elongated arms and legs
Around me, in this perpetual bed
Of emotion
And motion
For these soft geometric angles
In my finger strokes
And exhaled smokes
Of rhythmic bangles
To circle colour your Celtic skin
With primitive phthalo blue
Pigment in Wiccan tattoo
Before entering
Vibrating wings
Through thrumming strings
Of wild lucid moments
In eternal components.
I can walk as far
And smoke more tobacco,
And play my Spanish guitar
Like Paco.
________________
Shared by Angela Kosta, a renowned poetess and writer, born in Albania and based in Italy
Delighted to have these 5 Poems published in Our Poetry Archive OPA Volume 108 Freedom. My thanks to the editors and congratulations to all contributors in this issue.
******OUR POETRY ARCHIVE******: March 2024
LOTHLORIEN
i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien
to marinate my mind
in your words,
and stand behind
good tribes grown blind,
trapped in old absurd
regressive reasons
and selfish treasons.
in this cast of strife
the Tree Of Life
embraces innocent ghosts,
slain by Sauron's hosts;
and their falling cries
make us wise
enough to rise
up in a fellowship of friends
to oppose Mordor's ends
and smote this evil stronger
and longer
for each one of us that dies.
i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien,
persuading
yellow snapdragons
to take wing
and un-fang serpent krakens,
while i bring
all the races
to resume
their bloom
as equals in equal spaces
by removing
and muting
the chorus of crickets
who cheat them from chambered thickets,
hiding corruptions older than long grass
that still fag for favours asked.
i'm come home again
in your Lothlorien
where corporate warfare
and workfare
on health
and welfare
infests our tribal bodies
and separate self
in political lobbies
so conscience can't care
or share
worth and wealth:
to rally drones
of walking bones,
too tired
and uninspired
to think things through
and the powerless who see it true.
red unites, blue divides,
which one are you
and what will you do
when reason decides.
IT'S SO QUIET
it's so quiet
our eloquent words dying on a diet
of midnight toast
with Orwell's ghost-
looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket
pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet-
our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin
re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes
that came to him
in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools
where conscience learns to lie within.
not like today
the smug-sly haves say and look away
so sure
there's nothing wrong with wanting more,
or drown their sorrows
downing bootleg gin
knowing tomorrows
truth is paper thin
.
at home
in sensory
perception
with tapped and tracked phone
the Thought Police arrest me
in the corridors of affection-
where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats
in collapsing houses, all self-made
and self-paid
smarmy scrotes-
now the Round Table
of real red politics
is only fable
on the pyre of ghostly heretics.
they are rubbing out
all the contusions
and solitary doubt,
with confusions
and illusions
through wired media
defined in their secret encyclopedia-
where summit and boardroom and conclave
engineer us from birth to grave.
like the birds,
i will have to eat
the firethorn
berries that ripen but sleep
to keep
the words
of revolution
alive and warm
this winter, with resolution
gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,
to be reborn and speak.
PYRAMID PRISON
in detritus metronomes
of human habitation
the ghost of Shelley's imagination
questions the elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse engineered
that suddenly appeared
as evolution yesterday.
her monster mirrors dark wells
of monsters in our smart selves,
the lost humanity and oratory
that fills laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism's
ectopic extinction.
this is our pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the debased
opposite steps of extremism,
like Prometheus Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching sphinx
abandoned by missing links.
free masons of money and wars,
warp the alter of natural laws,
so reason withers
and wastelands rust-
no longer rivers
of shared stardust
in the equal symphony of spheres
in space,
filling our ears
with subwoofer bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.
THIS IS THE FIELD
this is not the field
for truth to grow in.
its furrowed lips are sealed
with knowing
nothing can sing
in the wrong wind.
the crop is stunted
self expression blunted
opinion gagged
and head sagged
waiting for the final blow
from the farmer's shadow.
the field hands
cut to His commands
and every leathered face
has served in its place
like all the others, for centuries
in these peasant penitentiaries,
without bolting
or revolting
in union, except for Loveless's Tolpuddle few,
who knew what to do
but were jailed, or transported
and thwarted.
this is the field
to refuse to yield
in. at Peterloo, sabres slit gullets,
and now, tear gas and rubber bullets,
try to abolish workers rights,
but our solidarity is stronger and fights.
WE MOVE THE WHEEL
we move the wheel
that turns through each mistake,
giving motion
to the roles we chime
until both trickle out of time
like brittle steel
that rusts and breaks
into lapsed devotion.
less, or more,
you imagined it was sure
sharing the road
with you,
treading under dark, grey and blue
sky, wondering where it went going
to unfold
in fates wind blowing
fondling your full face
to some top-to-bottom place.
we have moved the wheel,
only to reveal
our high Metropolis
is still the same Acropolis
of extremes and obscenes
spreading gangrenous genes.
we have separated Dream from Time
and live in mirages
like Bacchus and Libera
duped in an era
condoning crime,
altering the images
of its illustrious self
stealing the wealth
of massed, divided synergies.
mY SINCERE THANKS TO angela KOSTA FOR TRANSLATING MY POEM LIFE IS FLAMENCO INTO ALBANIAN & ITALIAN & PUBLISHING IT IN GAZETADESTINACIONI.AL NEWSPAPER ITALY. HONOURED & DELIGHTED.
Angela Kosta përkthen në dygjuhësh vargjet e poetit Strider Marcus Jones (gazetadestinacioni.al)
Angela Kosta përkthen në dygjuhësh vargjet e poetit Strider Marcus Jones
Strider Marcus Jones është poet i diplomuar në drejtësi dhe ish-nëpunës civil nga Salfordi (Angli), me rrënjë krenarisht kelte në Irlandë dhe Uells. Aktualisht ai është:
- Redaktor dhe botues i “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
- Anëtar i Shoqatës së Poezisë.
5 librat e tij të botuara mund t’i konsultoni në faqen e internetit të mëposhtëm:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Ata zbulojnë një antikomformist, i cili lëviz midis qyteteve, duke I rënë saksofonit të tij në dhoma të tymosura.
Poezitë e tij janë botuar në shumë revista duke përfshirë:
- Huffington Post USA;
- Revista letrare e degës endacake;
- Crack, revista letrare Spine;
- Recensioni i Lampeterit dhe zëri disident.
JETA ËSHTË FLAMENCO
Pse nuk mund të eci aq larg
dhe të tymos më shumë cigare
Ose t’i bie kitarës sime spanjolle
Si Paco,
Të ndjell ritme dhe ndjesi
Pa papafingo të vjetra
Që kurrë s’ke dëgjuar ndonjëherë
Pëpara në një fjalë
Jeta është flamenco!
Vjen dhe shkon
E lartë dhe e ulët
Shpejt dhe ngadalë.
Ajo e dashuron
Ai e dashuron
Dhe nuancat e tyre në brendësi
Përkëdhelje dhe nxitje
Në një rreth rrotullim dhe një kërcim
Të një stuhie romantike
në brendësi të tokës, në lehtësinë andaluziane,
Të përqafoj, si një fllad që shkrihet
ndër pemët e ullinjve të pjekur
Errësirë dhe diferencë
Gjithçka parfum burrëror
Dhe mendje e trazuar
Ashtu si unë.
Pikaso dinte
Gjithçka rreth teje
Kur pikturoi
Krahët dhe këmbët e shtrira
Rreth meje
Në këtë shtrat të përjetshëm
Emocionesh
Dhe lëvizjesh
Në këto kënde të buta gjeometrike
Në kërcitjet e gishtërinve të mi
Dhe fjollat e shpërndara
Byzylyqe ritmike
Të mbështjell
Ngjyros lëkurën tënde Kelte
Me blu të errët primitiv
Pigment në tatuazhin Wiccan
Para se të hyj
Krahë vibrues
Përmes telave që rrahin
Në moment të egër të vetëdijshëm
në komponente të përjetshme.
Mund të eci deri sa të shoh
dhe më shumë duhan të tymos
Duke i rënë kitarës sime spanjolle
Si Paco.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones è un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex – funzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente è:
- Redattore ed editore del “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.
- Membro della Poetry Society.
I suoi 5 libri pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città, suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
- The Huffington Post USA;
- La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
- Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
- La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l’ama
e le loro sfumature all’interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell’entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society,
his five published books of poetry
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Why can’t i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you’ve never heard
before in a word.
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
outback, in Andalusian ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.
like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.
i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my Spanish guitar
like Paco.
Prepared Angela Kosta Academic writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, journalist
Përgatiti dhe përktheu Angela Kosta Akademike, shkrimtare, poete, eseiste, kritike letrare, redaktore, promovuese, gazetare
Preparato e tradotto in italiano da Angela Kosta Accademica scrittrice, poetessa, saggista, critica letteraria, redattrice, traduttrice, giornalista
The Crossroads : LIFE IS FLAMENCO By Strider Marcus Jones (thecrossroadlitmagazine.blogspot.com)
Wednesday, February 28, 2024
LIFE IS FLAMENCO By Strider Marcus Jones
why can't i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you've never heard
before in a word.
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
outback, in Andalusian ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.
like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.
i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my Spanish guitar
like Paco.
Strider Marcus Jones (Përktheu dhe përgatiti Angela Kosta) - Orfeu.AL
Strider Marcus Jones (Përktheu dhe përgatiti Angela Kosta)
Moderator
- Redaktor dhe botues i "Lothlorien Poetry Journal"
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/
- Anëtar i Shoqatës së Poezisë.
5 librat e tij të botuara mund t'i konsultoni në faqen e internetit të mëposhtëm:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Ata zbulojnë një antikomformist, i cili lëviz midis qyteteve, duke I rënë saksofonit të tij në dhoma të tymosura.
Poezitë e tij janë botuar në shumë revista duke përfshirë:
- Huffington Post USA;
- Revista letrare e degës endacake;
- Crack, revista letrare Spine;
- Recensioni i Lampeterit dhe zëri disident.
JETA ËSHTË FLAMENCO
Pse nuk mund të eci aq larg
dhe të tymos më shumë cigare
Ose t'i bie kitarës sime spanjolle
Si Paco,
Të ndjell ritme dhe ndjesi
Pa papafingo të vjetra
Që kurrë s'ke dëgjuar ndonjëherë
Pëpara në një fjalë
Jeta është flamenco!
Vjen dhe shkon
E lartë dhe e ulët
Shpejt dhe ngadalë.
Ajo e dashuron
Ai e dashuron
Dhe nuancat e tyre në brendësi
Përkëdhelje dhe nxitje
Në një rreth rrotullim dhe një kërcim
Të një stuhie romantike
në brendësi të tokës, në lehtësinë andaluziane,
Të përqafoj, si një fllad që shkrihet
ndër pemët e ullinjve të pjekur
Errësirë dhe diferencë
Gjithçka parfum burrëror
Dhe mendje e trazuar
Ashtu si unë.
Pikaso dinte
Gjithçka rreth teje
Kur pikturoi
Krahët dhe këmbët e shtrira
Rreth meje
Në këtë shtrat të përjetshëm
Emocionesh
Dhe lëvizjesh
Në këto kënde të buta gjeometrike
Në kërcitjet e gishtërinve të mi
Dhe fjollat e shpërndara
Byzylyqe ritmike
Të mbështjell
Ngjyros lëkurën tënde Kelte
Me blu të errët primitiv
Pigment në tatuazhin Wiccan
Para se të hyj
Krahë vibrues
Përmes telave që rrahin
Në moment të egër të vetëdijshëm
në komponente të përjetshme.
Mund të eci deri sa të shoh
dhe më shumë duhan të tymos
Duke i rënë kitarës sime spanjolle
Si Paco.
.............................................................
STRIDER MARCUS JONES - LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones è un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex - funzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente è:
- Redattore ed editore del "Lothlorien Poetry Journal"
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.
- Membro della Poetry Society.
I suoi 5 libri pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città, suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
- The Huffington Post USA;
- La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
- Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
- La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l'ama
e le loro sfumature all'interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell'entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
.............................................................
STRIDER MARCUS JONES - LIFE IS FLAMENCO
Strider Marcus Jones - is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society,
his five published books of poetry
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Why can't i walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
or play my Spanish guitar
like Paco,
putting rhythms and feelings
without old ceilings
you've never heard
before in a word.
life is flamenco,
to come and go
high and low
fast and slow-
she loves him,
he loves her
and their shades within
caress and spur
in a ride and dance
of tempestuous romance.
outback, in Andalusian ease,
i embrace you, like melted breeze
amongst ripe olive trees-
dark and different,
all manly scent
and mind unkempt.
like i do,
Picasso knew
everything about you
when he drew
your elongated arms and legs
around me, in this perpetual bed
of emotion
and motion
for these soft geometric angles
in my finger strokes
and exhaled smokes
of rhythmic bangles
to circle colour your Celtic skin
with primitive phthalo blue
pigment in wiccan tattoo
before entering
vibrating wings
through thrumming strings
of wild lucid moments
in eternal components.
i can walk as far
and smoke more tobacco,
and play my Spanish guitar
-Prepared Angela Kosta Academic writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, journalist
-Preparato e tradotto in italiano da Angela Kosta Accademica scrittrice, poetessa, saggista, critica letteraria, redattrice, traduttrice, giornalista
LA VITA È FLAMENCO – STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Strider Marcus Jones è un poeta, laureato in legge ed ex – funzionario statale di Salford, in Inghilterra, con orgogliose radici celtiche in Irlanda e Galles. Attualmente è:
– Redattore ed editore del “Lothlorien Poetry Journal”
https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/.
– Membro della Poetry Society. I suoi 5 libri di poesie pubblicati potete consultarli sul sito sotto:
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
Essi rivelano un anticonformista, che si muove tra le città, suonando il suo sassofono in stanze fumose.
Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in numerose pubblicazioni tra cui:
– The Huffington Post USA;
– La rivista letteraria del ramo randagio;
– Crack La Rivista Letteraria Spine;
– La recensione di Lampeter e la voce dissidente.
LA VITA È FLAMENCO
Perché non posso camminare così lontano
e fumare più sigarette
o suonare la mia chitarra Spagnola
come Paco,
mettere ritmi e sensazioni
senza vecchie mansarde
che tu abbia mai udito
prima in una parola
La vita è flamenco
Va e torna
alta e bassa
veloce e lenta.
Lei lo ama
lui l’ama
e le loro sfumature all’interno
carezza e sprone
in un giro e in un ballo
di burrascoso romanticismo
nell’entroterra, nella facilità Andalusa,
Ti abbraccio, come una brezza che si scioglie
tra ulivi maturi
oscurità e differenza
tutto virile profumo
e la mente sciatta
come faccio io
Picasso sapeva
tutto su di te
quando disegnò
le braccia e le gambe allungate
intorno a me
in questo letto perenne
di emozione
e movimento
In questi angoli geometrici morbidi
nei miei schiocchi di dita
e fumi sparsi
di braccialetti ritmici
avvolge
colora la tua pelle celtica
con blu ftalo primitivo
Pigmento nel tatuaggio wiccan
prima di entrare
ali vibranti
attraverso corde che battono
di selvaggio lucido momento
in componenti eterni.
Posso camminare finché guarderò
e fumare più tabacco,
suonando la mia chitarra spagnola
come Paco.
Tradotto da Angela Kosta Accademica scrittrice, poetessa, saggista, critica letteraria, redattrice, traduttrice, giornalista
Delighted to have my poem Two Misfits published in Oddball Magazine 14th February, 2024. Congratulations to the editors and all contributors.
Poem by Strider Marcus Jones - oddball magazine
“Manatees No. 1” © Bonnie Matthews Brock
Two Misfits
it was no time
for love outside-
old winds of worship
found hand and mouth
in ruined rain
slanting over cultured fields
into pagan barns
with patched up planks
finding us two misfits.
i felt the pulse
of your undressed fingers
transmit thoughts
to my senses-
aroused by autumn scents
of milky musk
and husky hay
in this barn’s faith
we climbed the rungs of civilisation
so random in our exile-
and found a bell
housed inside a minaret-
with priest and muezzin
sharing its balcony-
summoning all to prayer
with one voice-
this holy music, was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.
Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.
His poetry has been published in numerous publications including The Huffington Post USA, The Stray Branch Literary Magazine, Crack The Spine Literary Magazine, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Bonnie Matthews Brock is a Florida-based photographer, as well a school psychologist. She loves hiking the urban and woodland trails of “anywhere” (and pausing often to shoot photos) with her very patient husband (and often collaborator), Ted. Her images have been featured on the covers of magazines such as Ibbetson Street, Wild Roof Journal, Poesy Magazine, Humana Obscura, and Arkansas Review; as well as on the pages of publications such as Oddball Magazine, Ember Chasm Review, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Beaver Magazine, and Lateral. Her works are archived at institutions such as Poets House NYC, Brown University, and Harvard University.
Poem - The Dance (By Strider Marcus Jones) - Antarctica Journal
POEM – THE DANCE (BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES)
pull the roof off
knock the walls down
touch the forest
climb those mountains
and smell the sea
again.
watch how life
decomposes
in death
going back to land
to reform and be reborn
as something and someone else.
there’s no great secret to it all.
no need to overthink it through
food and shelter
fire and shamens
clothes and coupling
used to be enough
with musicians
artists
and poets
interpreting the dance.
then warriors with armies
religions with god
and minds buying and selling
stole the landscape
and changed time.
smash the windows
break down the doors
melt the keys
rub evil words from their spells
and puncture the lungs of their wheels
before they kidnap you from bed
call you dissident
hold you without charge
wheel you out on a stretcher
from waterboard torture
for years
without trial
in Guantanamo Bay.
they are selling
the sanctuary
we made
with our numbers
bringing back chains
making some of us slaves
outside the dance
in the five coloured rings
making winners
and losers
holding flags and flames.
Author Bio:
Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical. (view books) He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
His poetry has been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition; Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal, 2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal; East Coast Literary Review; Nightchaser Ink Publishing Anthology – Autumn Reign; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27/29/31/32/33/34; Poems For A Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Blue Lines Literary Journal, Spring 2015; Murmur Journal, April 2015; PunksWritePoemsPress-Rogue Poetry; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; Writing Raw Poetry Magazine;The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Coda Crab Books-Anthology-Peace:Give It A Chance; Clockwork Gnome:Quantum Fairy Tales; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts, May 2015 Issue and Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney.
Poem - Low Vaulted Ceilings (By Strider Marcus Jones) - Antarctica Journal
POEM – LOW VAULTED CEILINGS (BY STRIDER MARCUS JONES)
within those man stone walls
promoting their god
bringing us to him
i told the priest-
you tell us to be content
with poverty
while you live in this big house
throwing us scraps
begged from money lenders.
this is not what Jesus
asked his disciples to do.
this is not what he died for.
he said live amongst us
and share what they have.
the priest,
red with rage,
oppressive and oppressed-
pulled my mam aside
made her shrink in his stare
weep in his words
walk me in our sins
from his dark-damp house of angels.
outside
in feral sunshine
i pointed to grinning gargoyles
chasing chastened shadows
back down primitive paths-
to a cellar flat,
bare bulb dangling
prison beam probing
baptised flesh
and mam tipped tears
soaking into straw mattresses
sucking up cold from the flagstone floor
woodworms eating a Van Gogh table
where six mouths sat
sharing stale bread and cold beans
with whiskered skirting board mice.
years later,
i left Dedalus in Dublin
in the pages of a book
to his epiphany
and Jesuit suit of guilt-
while i quenched
my glistening fruit
in street light ladies-
drenched in smokey curling
dancing clouds
and stories from voices
bouncing off low vaulted ceilings
caressing human in darkness.
Bio: Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford/Hinckley, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.
His poetry has been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition; Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal, 2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal; East Coast Literary Review; Nightchaser Ink Publishing Anthology – Autumn Reign; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27/29/31/32/33/34; Poems For A Liminal Age Anthology; In The Trenches Poetry Anthology; Blue Lines Literary Journal, Spring 2015; Murmur Journal, April 2015; PunksWritePoemsPress-Rogue Poetry; Outburst Poetry Magazine; The Galway Review; The Honest Ulsterman Magazine; Writing Raw Poetry Magazine;The Lonely Crowd Magazine; Section8Magazine; Danse Macabre Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Coda Crab Books-Anthology-Peace:Give It A Chance; Clockwork Gnome:Quantum Fairy Tales; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts, May 2015 Issue and Don’t Be Afraid: Anthology To Seamus Heaney.
Thrilled to have my poem I'm Getting Old Now published in Porch Lit Mag Issue 5, February 2024. My thanks to the editors and congratulations to the other contributors.
I’m Getting Old Now – Porch Litmag (porch-litmag.com)
I’m Getting Old Now
by Strider Marcus Jones
i’m getting old now-
you know,
like that tree in the yard
with those thick cracks
in its skin bark
that tell you
the surface of its lived-in secrets.
my eyes,
have sunk too inward
in sleepless sockets
to playback images
of ghosts-
so make do with words
and hear the sounds
of my years in yourself.
childhood-
riding a rusty three-wheel bike
to shelled-out houses bombed in the blitz,
then zinging home zapped in mud
to wolf down chicken soup
over lumpy mashed potato for tea-
with bare feet sticking on cold kitchen lino
i shivered watching the candle burn down
racing to finish a book i found in a bin-
before Mam showed me her empty purse
and robbed the gas meter-
the twenty shillings
stained the red formica table
like pieces of the man’s brains
splattered all over the back seat
of his rambolic limousine
as i watched history brush out her silent secrets.
Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, laying his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
Delighted to have 3 poems published in Our Poetry Archive Issue 107, February 2024
******OUR POETRY ARCHIVE******: Search results for strider marcus jones
I'm Getting Old Now
i'm getting old now-
you know,
like that tree in the yard
with those thick cracks
in its skin bark
that tell you
the surface of its lived-in secrets.
my eyes,
have sunk too inward
in sleepless sockets
to playback images
of ghosts-
so make do with words
and hear the sounds
of my years in yourself.
childhood-
riding a rusty three-wheel bike
to shelled-out houses bombed in the blitz,
then zinging home zapped in mud
to wolf down chicken soup
over lumpy mashed potato for tea-
with bare feet sticking on cold kitchen lino
i shivered watching the candle burn down
racing to finish a book i found in a bin-
before Mam showed me her empty purse
and robbed the gas meter-
the twenty shillings
stained the red formica table
like pieces of the man's brains
splattered all over the back seat
of his rambolic limousine
as i watched history brush out her silent secrets.
Childhood Fires
late afternoon
winter fingers
nomads in snow
numb knuckles and nails
on two boys
in scuffed shoes
and ripped coats
carrying four planks of wood
from condemned houses
down dark jitty's
slipping on dog shit
into back yard
to make warm fires
early evening
dad cooking neck end stew
thick with potato dumplings and herbs
on top of bread soaked in gravy
i saw the hole in the ceiling
holding the foot that jumped off bunk beds
but dad didn’t mind
he had just sawed the knob
off the banister
to get an old wardrobe upstairs
and made us a longbow and cricket bat
it was fun being poor
like other families
after dark
all sat down reading and talking
in candlelight
with parents
silent to each other
our sudden laughter like sparks
glowing and fading
dancing in flames and wood smoke
unlike the children who died in a fire next door
then we played cards
and i called my dad a cunt
for trumping my king
but he let me keep the word.
The Ascent Of Money
the stars are those
we have forgotten
both living and dead,
floating in clustered constellations
not labouring in rows-
with hair growing grey
and teeth going rotten
singing songs, God's godless pray.
harvesting crops.
chants drowned in clocks
of tobacco and cotton,
the peasants and slaves of civilised nations
duped by liberty
in recent history-
dug out canals, made railways and roads
out of tarmac to tread-
into factories
like tribal junkies
hooked on cheap gin and beer instead
of joining the cholera's watery dead-
ten to a room in a slum and lead-
like human batteries,
sleeping without moonlight
on sarsen stones,
or druid voices in their homes-
where thoughts have no dreams or flight,
just sleep, recharge, get bled.
you have to be poor,
to think utopia
can be something real-
not to exploit or steal
that ambrosia aura of women and children and men
for the spoken wages of despair-
that suck you in,
glad but grim
when times' clock punches that card by the door
and mass myopia
conditions all to labour, keyboard and pen
for food and shelter with a roof and fourth wall
shanty made out of cardboard, wood and tin
in sunny Sao Paolo, where the samba rain leaks in
while orphaned children beg and play
eating the forage of capitalist waste
dodging death squads night and day
imitating Socrates at football to hope to taste
what's inside the cold, glistening towers
casting invisible powers
behind the smoked glass and soldiers of stone
leaving blood and bleached bone
from over there-
where the ascent of money doesn't care
about it all
because its infinity is small.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Our Poetry Archive; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.
******OUR POETRY ARCHIVE******: January 2024
MONDAY, JANUARY 1, 2024
STRIDER MARCUS JONES
Weeds Left
weeds left,
wilt in the sun
without work and water.
their seeds
are the wild flowers,
waiting for volcanic wind
and ash to fall,
so the fertile cinders
can colonize herbaceous borders
ending the old age
of selfish sediment
treading it down
in molecules of time.
another Marxist
dons his trench coat
and tears pages from his red book
planting the old words
of revolution
in minds of homogenous compost.
over-privileged gallows begin to swing.
bullets sweat in their chambers
waiting for the right heads.
The Darkest Flower Is The Evening
again
consensual persuasions
make sensual equations
as we smoke and share a think,
then the same
as she bends over the shingle sink
breasts slapping
on bowl and rim,
peachy buttocks yapping
as i slide in
and out of her velvet purse
each time deeper than the first
two parts making one perfection
of mental physical connection.
outsides
i saw two magpies
in the branches of a tree
barbed tower
watching our sharing eyes
shape fractured liberty
slipping the shackles of feudal power.
in this then,
i know how all of when
you're gone
reduces me to being one
and the darkest flower
is the evening
opened by your scent
giving everything
and receiving
mine in mind and meldings meant.
The Two Saltimbanques
when words don't come easy
they make do with silence
and find something in nothing
to say to each other
when the absinthe runs out.
his glass and ego
are bigger than hers,
his elbows sharper,
stabbing into the table
and the chambers of her heart
cobalt clown
without a smile.
she looks away
with his misery behind her eyes
and sadness on her lips,
back into her curves
and the orange grove
summer of her dress
worn and blown by sepia time
where she painted
her cockus giganticus
lying down
naked
for her brush and skin,
mingling intimate scents
undoing and doing each other.
for some of us,
living back then
is more going forward
than living in now
and sitting here-
at this table,
with these glasses
standing empty of absinthe,
faces wanting hands
to be a bridge of words
and equal peace
as Guernica approaches.
Love Wanes Like Old News
she left,
without remorse or love to lose-
and cleft
the music from the blues.
bereft,
in melancholy mental muse-
the theft
of love wanes like old news,
and jests
through pain to wear in new shoes-
the rest,
just words in ink and oral clues.
Poets In The Backfield
Stay a while?
The subliminal cuts are coming through
These days of deadly boredom,
And poets in the backfield
Writing
Something
Interesting.
Hardy, would not like today,
Life's become an angry play;
And our deoxyribonucleic acid
Carries no imagination,
That's not already put there
By a rival TV station.
I can hear you saying,
Yes, but we have the right to choose:
A colour, and a ball of string-
Or poets in the backfield
Writing
Something
Interesting.
You said:
"The Golden Bird eats Fish
In South America
And most of the peasants let him,
Because of Bolivar."
Yet, millions starved in Gulag camps,
And Czechs cried fears when Russian tanks,
Thundered through their traumoid streets
Pretending not to be elite.
As one old soldier put it:
"The West and East preach different dreams,
But ride the same black limousines."
Stay a while?
These sheets are cold
Without your sighing skin;
And this poet in the backfield
Is writing
Nothing
Interesting.
STRIDER MARCUS JONES
STRIDER MARCUS JONES – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.
No comments:
Post a Comment