Posts tagged ‘Gavin Jones’

29/08/2013

The One Consoling Beauty

 

The one consoling beauty is

These words will fade and pass away.

The sun will dim, the moon will fall,

And everything will cease to be.

 

We’re one: we’re all just one alone.

The earth and sky, the walls of stone,

The foals and horses running free,

Yes, everything will cease to be.

 

I touch your hair, and know its flow.

There is a tear beneath the smile,

And after all, it had to come,

For everything must cease to be.

 

I breath the air: it reeks of pasts,

Of love which came and meant so much.

 

 

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24/08/2013

The Song of Ondine (Limestone Dales) – video poem

 

 

video poem for the piece Limestone Dales – one of the poems from the sequence The Song of Ondine.

This piece was filmed on location at various waterfalls around the Yorkshire Dales, places with a long association with water spirits and elementals.

18/08/2013

The Things (Les Choses)

 

Video Poem: The Things (Les Choses).

Poetry by thecheesewolf (aka Gavin Jones), music by Joseph Kwasnik

Inspired by the writings of Georges Perec and Walter Benjamin, The Things (Les Choses) is a history of the everyday, of objects imbued with personal meanings and stories. The five poems together tell the tales of five objects which have formed part of my life (indeed part of me) for the last twenty or so years. The images were all filmed in my home on the Lancashire and Yorkshire border (in the North of England). The music, by Joseph Kwasnik, was recorded in the same room as the filming. In keeping with my other works, this poem looks at the central theme from a range of perspectives.

18/08/2013

Object No.5 – Flat Pack

 

 

We’d join the meteorites of life:

The points of light, the dying tails.

The “thing” and then the “consequence”,

The reasons why it might make sense.

 

Each move we’d make we’d need some more:

Another shelf, another chair,

Another clothes rail for the shirts,

Another crater for our hopes.

 

We’d join the panels, find the slots,

The pins and dowels, the creaking locks.

Then gravity would pull them in:

Our fallen stars, our lifetime’s things.

 

The drawers might stick, the mirrors crack,

And once they’ve gone, there’s no way back.

 

 

17/08/2013

Object No.4 – Pot of Basil

 

An ordinary world of light,

A luminescent line in time,

I’d walk along and breathe along,

And perhaps forget to look and know.

 

Forget to hear the questions posed,

Forget to smell the basil plants,

Forget my time perhaps would end:

So sad I’d leave those things unsaid.

 

Around that pot pasts might adhere.

All through the room of light so strong,

A trace was strong, a life was long,

An ordinary world was lost.

 

The basil scent would linger here,

You’d sense my echoes through your fear.

 

17/08/2013

Object No.3 – Box File

 

I’d set its flawed trajectory

On shelves in dust and broken trust,

In New Town where I’d left the clues

And lived on loneliness and lust.

 

I’d bury all its sorrows deep,

Escape and wander through Kings Cross,

Through London’s raging, aching streets,

Through hotel rooms booked by the hour.

 

I’d fall again and jump the Strid,

Leave echo patterns on its shelves,

Take on the shadows it had made,

And mark regret upon its lid.

 

Within that air of many pasts,

Pathetic proofs that nothing lasts.

 

16/08/2013

Object No.2 – Soap Stone Monkeys

 

The tins of peaches, tins of cream,

All stirred with sugar, served with juice,

Shot through with North Sea gas and war,

With woodsheds, polish and despair.

 

There could have been the three wise apes.

They’d sit beside that music box,

Where Maurice Jarre and Pasternak

Were lost amongst the jewelry paste.

 

And off downstairs, the TV times

Would bring the wrestling, bring the scores,

And pools results and solemn prayers,

Before the pier-end sing-alongs.

 

Those three wise apes would see it all,

They’d hear, then chant their soap stone curse.

 

 

16/08/2013

Object No.1 – Bedside Clock

 

I’d count the pills, you’d slip the ticks,

The clicks that flicked the days away,

Mechanical and fractured flow,

The souvenirs of sleep and fear.

 

You would have been with me throughout:

Between the pier and Marble Arch,

Before the facts, before these deaths,

Before computers drove my world.

 

We’d count together, fall as one:

Your face at night, at two, at three…

I’d ache with age, you’d creak with time:

The world outside would take us soon.

 

We might be measured, might be cast,

My skin as dust, your cogs as rust.

 

 

16/08/2013

Trailer for “The Things (Les Choses)”

 

 

 

Trailer for the video poem “The Things (Les Choses)”.

07/08/2013

The Summit of Pen-y-Ghent (Walk No. 7) – video poem

 

Pen-y-Ghent and Language

 

A video poem for Walk Number 7 from thecheesewolf’s series Ten Walks. This piece was filmed on Pen-y-Ghent (The Hill of the Winds) in the Yorkshire Dales National Park, northern England. One of the main themes of this poem is language and naming – in this case the names of hills. Pen-y-Ghent is believed to be the Brythonic name for the hill – it is very similar to the Welsh for “Hill of the Wind”. Clearly there is a Celtic resonance in the name, and there are many remnants of the pre-“English” cultures of the Dales. Indeed, on nearby Ingleborough there are the clear outlines of ancient round houses, and just up the dale from Pen-y-Ghent itself are the remains of a small Roman outpost. If you are ever in this neck of the woods, do try to check out Pen-y-Ghent, and the other hills around (Ingleborough, Whernside, Buckden Pike etc). It is a special place, and the food, wildlife and walking are all wonderful.

if you would like to read the poem, go to www.thecheesewolf.wordpress.com, it’s down below… Alternatively, click on the captions button on the video for a “sub-titled” version. this may not work on Kindles, for some reason.

04/08/2013

The Letter Bird of Recurring Nightmares

 

I knew in sleep the beast would come,

And so I stayed awake too late.

My forest village lived to fear

My nightmares, clawing from their skies.

 

Beyond the lights of round-hut fires,

The Letter Bird had wasted worlds,

And screamed and stalked and hawked its prey.

It ripped at meat with metal beak.

 

They waited, huddled, through the night.

They heard its wings. I tried to wake,

And hoped, if not, their walls would hold,

And keep the Letter Bird at bay.

 

I rarely woke before it claimed

Another victim from my world.

 

 

for the prompt “Childhood Dreams” put up by

mindlovemisery link here… CLICKY

 

03/08/2013

A Breath (A Stream) – video poem

 

 

A video poem of the piece A Breath (A Stream). This video poem was filmed in the summer of 2013, and is of the upper reaches of the River Wharfe (Yorkshire Dales National Park, England).

It is one of a series of video poems made to accompany my 14 line poetry.

 

The words for the poem can be found in this collection (below).

02/08/2013

Honeysuckle Fire

 

I thought I saw you come alive
The night the honeysuckle died.
So cold: it froze the moon in place.
So cold: it turned the air to ice.

Yet there you were, in rainbow scarves
And gloves as thick as bobcat paws.
You took a shovel to the snow
And dug on down, ‘til fire was found.

That glowing trace of slowing Earth,
Which – just for once – we watched as one,
Gave eyes their glints of petal stars:
The burning planet lit our soul.

It took you to its ember heart.
You lived undimmed as scent, as flame.

 

 

31/07/2013

High Summer at the Roman Fort (Mastile’s Lane) – video poem

 

a video poem by set around the site of a Roman fort on Mastile’s Lane, above Malham in the Yorkshire Dales.

 

the written version of this video poem can be found at:

http://www.thecheesewolf.wordpress.com

 

this video poem is copyright Gavin Jones 2013

31/07/2013

Suburban Sylph of Crying Owls (video poem)

 

Suburban Sylph of Crying Owls is a video poem for thecheesewolf (aka Gavin Jones)’s poem of the same name. This video poem features the artwork of Carine Brosse.

 
video poem copyright Gavin Jones 2013

30/07/2013

High Summer at the Roman Fort (Mastile’s Lane)

 

I heard the ravens calling south,

And crows and jackdaws called as loud.

They tumbled off towards the scar,

And hung on uplifts by the cliff.

 

I heard the promise of the clouds,

The tick of wheatear, buzz of wire,

The ceaseless flowing of the grass,

The voice of bees, the songs of breeze.

 

The sounds were here, were always here,

Were here when Romans piled their stones,

And here to carry off the screams

Of sacrifice to temple gods.

 

I heard the ravens call the rain,

I heard them call through time again.

 

 

25/04/2013

Pungguk

 

Pungguk di antara bumi dan bulan

Menari di awang awangan

Meluncur, memanjat awan

Embun menanti penuh harapan

 

Mencabar deruan angin

Meniti malam yang dingin

Pandangan tajam menikam

Pabila bahaya mencengkam

 

Hilang seketika, tiba-tiba

Mengentap angan angan hiba

Terbang sayup, alah bergaya

Ajaib dan sungguh perkasa

 

Tiada yang anih lagi kerdil

Tiada yang mustahil.

 

 

Malay version of the poem “The Barn Owl”, translated by:

http://www.lapoesieparninotaziz.blogspot.co.uk/

 

trans. © Copyright 2013 ninotaziz

Original by Gavin Jones, 2013

26/01/2013

The Summit of Pen-y-Ghent (Walk No. 7)

 

So what is truth and what is not?

In words, the evidence of loss,

Of spirits swirling round the peak:

The nameless souls who named the hills.

 

I heard the songs, I saw the dance,

I felt the heartbeat in the rock,

I saw the springs of pasts converge,

I formed Brythonic words again.

 

This place – where lapwings guard the skies,

And ravens roll about their throne –

Has stripped my language from its roots:

My English never climbed this far.

 

Relentless winds have scarred its name,

Across the passing clouds of time.

 

 

08/01/2012

Treecreeper

 

They live another planet’s life,

Their world a maze of creviced wood ,

And flakes of bark and spider’s webs.

They seek the scent of insect’s paths.

 

And up they spiral, ever up –

Their probing, prizing spikes of beaks

Are thrust into the rotten reek –

They never reach the canopy.

 

Then out across the autumn woods

Where fungal spores spread sickly mats,

They claim their trees with needle trills

Like crystal wrens at misting dawn.

 

In otherness they live their lives,

As alien spirits of the oaks.

 

08/01/2012

Ring Ouzel

 

A lunar crescent, skyward horned.

A tail which traces scree and ling.

A plaintive tone, a mournful tune.

A solitary black and bib.

 

Alone in rocks above the scars,

Where streams from bogs first scratch their beds

With steady tick like lowland merle,

A lost and wayward song of moors.

 

The moon is pitched in afterglow

And scattered with the trace of stars.

The melancholy call of space

A flick of night pitched wing and gone.

 

And left as one with what was once,

The sadness of a memory’s song.