Doug Jones: from Posts


“Chris Torrance is out of Tupi – kicks a ball
up against a wall. He’s gone, out of county
Tupi – kicks a ball up against a wall. Listless
city – own wash water god – ain’t no jungle
monk at all. So call out the weather guard,
she’ll come and take him home. Please you
call out Yara – the weather guard – she to
come and reach him home. Out the agri
business – to the Buddhas, the deepens and
the stone”



“The red + green rushes wildly when you
leave the house, can never leave the mass
the rushes, never stop the hour discourse of
plants, or control a glass that shines on a
human mind that is no different. But one
fears totalitarian nature, it has ruined the
town. And it is right to feel swayed + ill
when you go to the house, through the
rushes + all the animals are red/green in a
ghost mind, comes birthing”



“The valley sin a mask. Glacier clay in a mask,
trying hard to push it words out toward an
interlocuter – from behind the sun dog who
farm it. Watch it at home, when you’re tired
after work, when you’re having some time
away from the kids. I know the name of the
singer, the stoneman of a horse – and she
will sing and dance for you. Directs of the
valley, striate the horse’s house – a woman
in mascara”



“How’d we address the problem of
repentance in nature? Is it really sorry?
The yellowhammer, the hawthorn, bracken –
what bits do we cut? Questions Chris
Torrance never got to: how to turn the great
place round. Of the candle fire, to write for
the stream prebendary shallow + gone – a
thing burning + transformative. Have seen
the priest in its capsule. Up to late
haymaking, a seed in prayer”



“You lost your record – Lamb dives, queen
wasp flops. Little exemplar animal of sport.
Is in my dark thoughts; someone’s come in,
frankly better than you + you’re burnt out.
Were the coldest saint in May, icy face
looked from the stadium walls at the people
as they push in to get the spring, event,
from one foot to the other spring, through
the air, no longer yours, carry mercy the
game that melts”



“I was going to sleep. Thought of the field at
the end of my road, used to play there as a
child. Could remember it exactly. Chomping
away. What faculty of the brain gave it back
to me? this ghost to my attention – what is
my intention? All them letters that have
come out of my mouth in time – transitional
forms, word in my sharp teeth as I lie a-bed.
Less than the boy. Less. than a field”



“Disordered, the word – bombing from
height the still recognisable grass, is legal.
An accelerated descent. Bill’s Lion
constantly goes back to the battlefield,
block cawing for his mum, who’s been
struck. His grief comes as a continuous
noise, characteristic of music, but
recognisable in a far greater narrative of the
earth scars, pattern moving outside in pitch,
rhythm. Form. Denaturing him”


Doug Jones has published four books of poetry with Veer and Salo press. covid posts has just come out with Contraband, a book is also pending with Loxham Press. Work has also appeared in datableed, VLAK, Chicago Review – as well as a few other places. He is currently working as a GP in Yarmouth.

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