SELECTED POEMS from MAVERICKS by Strider Marcus Jones
MAVERICKS
you taste of cinnamon and fish
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.
when you wish
to be romantic-
and the ciphers of our thoughts
make ringlets with their noughts
immersed in magic-
like mithril mail around me
stove dark forest, pink flesh sea
touchings tantric-
make reality and myths
converge in elven riffs
of music, so we dance it-
symbols to the scenes
of conflict, mavericks in dreams
that now sit-
listening to these pots and kettles
blackening on the fire
of rhetoric and murderous mettles-
before we both retire
to our own script.
ONE LAST ODYSSEY
now the back of you is gone-
i must move the moment on,
but not forget
the private part i played-
and made.
we were strangers when you left
but lovers when we met,
so though bereft-
i don’t hold any ribbons of regret
to send me back
into that sunset
and paint it black.
the best of me
is yet to come,
rolled up
rolled out,
calm in cauldron’s cup
but hot no doubt,
with no divisions-
hiding
scenes from someone elses play,
riding
dreams i want with you today,
confiding
means you are meant to me, so stay-
in the rhythms
of my hum,
for just one
last odyssey
to roam in and be.
THE SAME DUALITY
those long summer days,
spent lazing
and grazing
under your pink umbrella,
smoking pipe and panatella-
with your heats haze,
gleaming
and streaming
on my lips
and far in fondling fingertips.
mind floating,
in your fluffy fissured moat
of cerebellum,
where its sepal boats
of words and phrases spoke
wearing different coats
of personality
set down on my vellum,
raising our reality
to share the same duality.
those even strokes,
so unrehearsed
on solitary senses,
were more than promissory notes-
though fate cursed
without pretences.
i look inside now
and wonder how
fate can be both so set and random,
and why the two, so often, co-exist in tandem.
THIS THEATRE OF SHOW
i want to go
where love songs grow,
on the radio
into someone’s heart.
i want to know
if i play too slow,
and fade before the glow
can flame and spark.
i mend a dream,
distil it, to mountains seen
through mind and eyes potcheen,
lotioned by loves mark;
with tongue dabbing gleam
in fast flowing stream
of sweet nectarine
from sunup through sun dark.
i want your glow
in the thoughts i know,
before they dim down low
and depart-
this theatre of show
above and below,
where we all act to know
our own part.
so many vines
in the times
i know,
grape, but fail to flower.
i taste their wine
in its summertime,
but show
i am just a shower.
REJECTING OVID
the fabulous beauty of your face-
so esoteric,
not always in this place-
beguiles me.
it’s late, mesmeric
smile is but a base,
a film to interface
with the movements of the mind behind it.
my smile, me-
like Thomas O’Malley
the alley
cat reclining on a tin bin lid
with fishy whiskers-
turns the ink in the valley
of your quills
into script,
while i sit
and sip
your syllables
with fresh red sepals of habiscus,
rejecting Ovid
and his Amores
for your stories.
ALCHEMY SO RARE
when i make love with you sunny,
i dont worry about money-
or other things, come to that-
i just soar away
in everything you say
and never dream of turning back.
in this faded old room,
we look up at the moon-
through its worn beige curtain-
what we dont have, some say
can turn the heart away,
but that’s not us, i’m certain.
come and stay with me sunny,
being poor can be funny-
it's not about the things we’re not,
let others have their walls,
with everything it falls-
without love, gold is pot.
what we have to share
is alchemy so rare-
precious in and by itself.
the moon and stars are free,
some mountains and some sea-
and we are forests in ourself.
we don't need cars and boats,
or pockets in our coats,
just these senses and to be-
my movie and my star,
my candle in its jar-
burning bright enough to see.
TELEPATHIC LOTUS
hot ride
in you,
quick quim
cum too,
shaft slide
deep wide,
grip him
veined blue.
deep throat
with smoke,
moans moat
invoke,
tongue like a limpet
on your moon-
crescent lit
syrup spoon.
rocked round your rim
four fingers in,
soft stroke
your high note
in drab dusk
and damp dawn-
through its musk
warm swarm.
THE FOREST OF FORGETS
i don’t do remembers, or regrets,
not knowing, i belong in what comes next-
without the edge and angle of pretext,
find me in the forest of forgets-
watching your perfections dance and breathe
in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves-
imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-
before they fade, and fall, and leave.
back inside the house, picture rails
of love hang empty
from bent hooks, that promised plenty,
leaving frameless tales in musty trails-
to dusty cabinets of more
trinkets and traces-
whose duality displaces
sky and floor.
METAPHORS OF NOTHING
one more summer comes to nothing
and is shed like old skin
to look back into
its pattern of disappointments
painted into autumns
mist of fire blanket
flapping frosts
over fields and woods
to suffocate
those last flowers wearing collars of browning leaves.
bright beads of memories remain
like firethorn berries, red and ripe
hiding in white hands of hanging fallopia
blowing in the wind
holding onto no notes
eyes cast elsewhere-
such metaphors of nothing opiate
the silence and close conclusions
but behave like grunging groupies
behind the final curtain.
and is shed like old skin
to look back into
its pattern of disappointments
painted into autumns
mist of fire blanket
flapping frosts
over fields and woods
to suffocate
those last flowers wearing collars of browning leaves.
bright beads of memories remain
like firethorn berries, red and ripe
hiding in white hands of hanging fallopia
blowing in the wind
holding onto no notes
eyes cast elsewhere-
such metaphors of nothing opiate
the silence and close conclusions
but behave like grunging groupies
behind the final curtain.
NIRVANA
soft and moist sensual nirvana
slip sliding all day,
its pulse persuading
and never fading,
a panorama
exceeding this stay.
the notes of your lute
play wild in my mute
tripped tropical mind,
and speak soft sendings
without endings
i see behind.
slip sliding all day,
its pulse persuading
and never fading,
a panorama
exceeding this stay.
the notes of your lute
play wild in my mute
tripped tropical mind,
and speak soft sendings
without endings
i see behind.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones 2009 MAVERICKS.
All Rights Reserved.
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1
Top reviews from the United Kingdom
Colm Herron
5 out of 5 stars
This flawless collection
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 13 April 2016
Verified Purchase
And now I have to read all his words again.
Rebecca Anne Banks
5 out of 5 stars
Mavericks, a study in New Age Renaissance poetic alchemy.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 3 August 2016
Format: Paperback
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com)
Title of Book: Mavericks
Author: Strider Marcus Jones
Publisher: Strider Marcus Jones
Date of Publication: 2009
Page Count: 69
“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days
Since u took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since u took your love away”
- from Nothing Compares 2 U by Sinead O’Connor
Lovelorn Summer heat and the Celtic beat . . . Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones is a study in the alchemy of New Age Renaissance poetics and language. Strider Marcus Jones lives in Paris. He is a Poet/Musician/Law Graduate/retired Civil Servant born in Salford England, his family originally from Ireland and Wales. He is widely published online, in journals and in anthologies. Poet Jones has written 5 books of poetry, Mavericks is the first book of poetry This Writer has reviewed for him.
This poetry is an event in love themes, romance, sometimes sexual imagery, often expressing want and not. Perhaps the violence of ended covenants, as if the undertoad of Western culture raises it’s Medusa’s head. Woven into the Celtic lyric lilt are nature images, flowers, jasmine, leaves, trees, berries the landscape of forest walks in poetry. The original use of language as music, new allusions and sometimes original words create an art nouveau poetic experience.
“STAYING IN THE JASMINE
i'm falling,
falling into jasmine,
someone, who is, has been
put back on the shelf.
i'm calling,
calling from the jasmine,
sounding, like i have been
part of someone else:
not as the me, i used to be,
who did the doubts, of in and out,
not knowing, what i was about
hiding behind stealth
a favourite raindrop in the sun was he,
coming down and straight back up, without
a word when finding others out
suspicions kept inside this self.
i'm stalling,
stalling in the jasmine,
knowing who was, is seen
as more than something else.
i'm staying,
staying in the jasmine,
making truer roots, than these have been
out of something else.”
The entire presentation is magical, using various forms of rhyme creating cadence, discord and mystery. The Poet is the alchemist, through various experiments with rhyme stirring the pot, in search of the perfect poem. The poetry presents different forms of rhyme, from rhyming couplets to end of lines a – b – a rhyme schemes, internal rhymes, repetitive words, amongst others, that regularly flow through each poem. It is a rich cadence, considered, sophisticated, creating a whole earth affect. It’s danger is to fall into over familiarity, it’s height is a magical take on poetic dance which it achieves more often than not, as if on the wings of peace.
“BARK
what's the point of crying into me
but i can see,
to set you free.
don't you know
i did this long ago,
by turning songs off the radio.
silence is the bark
around my ark,
i wear it on, to eat the dark
and to keep out the images
of once shared symmetries,
standing, like stone circle cemeteries
in the open air, made
for the wind and rain to fade,
for the sun's bleach and icy blade
to erase it all,
to forget its fall,
to remove its face, from beauty's wall.”
Staring in the face of free verse Modernism, the return to beauty with the Post-Moderns and now the return to rhyme in the New Age. As if the rebirth of civilization with the ease of information flow, the Holy Spirit tenets, in the Online Society is calling the Poet into higher climes of romance and the quest for karmic purity, the quest for the ideal, in all things peace. His influences are largely Celtic Poets, Seamus Heaney, W.B. Yeats, Robert Frost as well as Sylvia Plath and Pablo Neruda. Evolving from the Modernist, “God is dead” post WW II epoch into the era of dance with the introduction of regular rhyme, it is as if the poetry is evolving into the Internet journey of Zen and home.
“THE VASE
standing silent proud,
alone, or in a crowd
life glazed mood and skin
outside and in
for you, i think out loud
and take you in
where thoughts abound reversible
and convertible
where saying being wrong
reaches out beyond
the natural need to win.
moulded by my hands
to this shape that understands;
its cloth of clay holds you warm,
a mummer masked in costumes storm
react with its receptacle of reason
for sorting truths from treason,
but you don't need to have a season
to put your flowers into me
swaying here, in wind and wild, as born so be.”
This poetry speaks of hope and dance as the lyric rhythm, trees in summer breezes that move against the sky. Fantastical New Age Celtic poetry, Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones.
Genre: Poetry, New Age
Colm Herron
5 out of 5 stars
This flawless collection
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 13 April 2016
Verified Purchase
I draw a deep breath before I put words to my feelings of awe on reading this flawless collection of poems. Mavericks is the best I've read of this amazing wordsmith Strider Marcus Jones. His love poetry takes my heart away. His wondrous words about love, deep sensual love, make nonsense of the universal stampede for sex relief and show that stampede to be a sad and lonely thing.
Like the true Celt that he is, Jones puts the language of the invaders to his own use by tempering it in the fire of his passion for words, words that tell of the true meaning of love. Which is? Ah. I think it's what we receive if we give well enough. But this modern day Robert Browning has much much more than that to tell us.
And now I have to read all his words again.
Rebecca Anne Banks
5 out of 5 stars
Mavericks, a study in New Age Renaissance poetic alchemy.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 3 August 2016
Format: Paperback
Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com)
Title of Book: Mavericks
Author: Strider Marcus Jones
Publisher: Strider Marcus Jones
Date of Publication: 2009
Page Count: 69
“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days
Since u took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since u took your love away”
- from Nothing Compares 2 U by Sinead O’Connor
Lovelorn Summer heat and the Celtic beat . . . Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones is a study in the alchemy of New Age Renaissance poetics and language. Strider Marcus Jones lives in Paris. He is a Poet/Musician/Law Graduate/retired Civil Servant born in Salford England, his family originally from Ireland and Wales. He is widely published online, in journals and in anthologies. Poet Jones has written 5 books of poetry, Mavericks is the first book of poetry This Writer has reviewed for him.
This poetry is an event in love themes, romance, sometimes sexual imagery, often expressing want and not. Perhaps the violence of ended covenants, as if the undertoad of Western culture raises it’s Medusa’s head. Woven into the Celtic lyric lilt are nature images, flowers, jasmine, leaves, trees, berries the landscape of forest walks in poetry. The original use of language as music, new allusions and sometimes original words create an art nouveau poetic experience.
“STAYING IN THE JASMINE
i'm falling,
falling into jasmine,
someone, who is, has been
put back on the shelf.
i'm calling,
calling from the jasmine,
sounding, like i have been
part of someone else:
not as the me, i used to be,
who did the doubts, of in and out,
not knowing, what i was about
hiding behind stealth
a favourite raindrop in the sun was he,
coming down and straight back up, without
a word when finding others out
suspicions kept inside this self.
i'm stalling,
stalling in the jasmine,
knowing who was, is seen
as more than something else.
i'm staying,
staying in the jasmine,
making truer roots, than these have been
out of something else.”
The entire presentation is magical, using various forms of rhyme creating cadence, discord and mystery. The Poet is the alchemist, through various experiments with rhyme stirring the pot, in search of the perfect poem. The poetry presents different forms of rhyme, from rhyming couplets to end of lines a – b – a rhyme schemes, internal rhymes, repetitive words, amongst others, that regularly flow through each poem. It is a rich cadence, considered, sophisticated, creating a whole earth affect. It’s danger is to fall into over familiarity, it’s height is a magical take on poetic dance which it achieves more often than not, as if on the wings of peace.
“BARK
what's the point of crying into me
but i can see,
to set you free.
don't you know
i did this long ago,
by turning songs off the radio.
silence is the bark
around my ark,
i wear it on, to eat the dark
and to keep out the images
of once shared symmetries,
standing, like stone circle cemeteries
in the open air, made
for the wind and rain to fade,
for the sun's bleach and icy blade
to erase it all,
to forget its fall,
to remove its face, from beauty's wall.”
Staring in the face of free verse Modernism, the return to beauty with the Post-Moderns and now the return to rhyme in the New Age. As if the rebirth of civilization with the ease of information flow, the Holy Spirit tenets, in the Online Society is calling the Poet into higher climes of romance and the quest for karmic purity, the quest for the ideal, in all things peace. His influences are largely Celtic Poets, Seamus Heaney, W.B. Yeats, Robert Frost as well as Sylvia Plath and Pablo Neruda. Evolving from the Modernist, “God is dead” post WW II epoch into the era of dance with the introduction of regular rhyme, it is as if the poetry is evolving into the Internet journey of Zen and home.
“THE VASE
standing silent proud,
alone, or in a crowd
life glazed mood and skin
outside and in
for you, i think out loud
and take you in
where thoughts abound reversible
and convertible
where saying being wrong
reaches out beyond
the natural need to win.
moulded by my hands
to this shape that understands;
its cloth of clay holds you warm,
a mummer masked in costumes storm
react with its receptacle of reason
for sorting truths from treason,
but you don't need to have a season
to put your flowers into me
swaying here, in wind and wild, as born so be.”
This poetry speaks of hope and dance as the lyric rhythm, trees in summer breezes that move against the sky. Fantastical New Age Celtic poetry, Mavericks by Strider Marcus Jones.
Genre: Poetry, New Age
No comments:
Post a Comment