Writing poetry is a beautiful thing, and has long been an essential part of my life, helping me to make sense of events and feelings, sometimes long after they happen. 

The poems here, some published, others not, relate to feelings and unconscious responses. They aren’t about external events or real people as far as I can tell. They seem to touch a kind of universal part  of the human sense of self, and so I hope other people will be able to relate to some of them and to use them to also make sense of the world.

Daisaku Ikeda encourages us to write poetry, for it is a process which awakens the human heart. If someone is also stirred by these attempts to write for themselves, and so get more delight from life, I would consider my job done.

As always, comments and criticism are welcome.

Jill Rees

You won’t be gone for long

You wont be gone for long
The wind constantly blows
Reminding me that there,s someone
Who cares

I too
Will continue my daimoku
For you
Till dawn

My best I will do

I know
Deep, deep in my heart
You wont be gone for long

B. M. Afolabi

On 11/8/07

____________________________________________________________________ 

Running through water 

Today

I was running throough water

because I enjoy futility.

Running through water.

I’m not strong, but

running through water

makes me stronger -

which is nice.

One day I hope to

run through ice.

today I was

running through water

It’s easy at the shallow end.

but as it gets deeper

it gets harder

until suddenly

you’re swimming.

___________________________

The White Woman

What’s she doing there -

the white woman?

Who is she waiting for?

Hasn’t she got anyone

to go home to?

She’s been travelling

around the world,

crossed the desert

like a camel

carrying her belongings

on her back.

Why has she come so far,

causing her children

to miss her?

There are treasures

hidden in the heart

which some people find

sitting close to home

and other people only find

when they roam.

She is waiting to find

the treasure in her heart

so she can go home.

Sitting backwards - Looking Backwards

I’m sitting backwards

on a train, but I don’t feel

pessimistic - just saying goodbye

and leaving again.

The rails are singing but

it’s not ‘Crossing The Border’

for me, the world is so small

and you are my brother.

In the future everyone will know

about the peace dividend

and that we’re all friends -

this is my view.

my green eyes, your blue eyes

My green eyes, your blue eyes

attached by a thin line -

a regard which says everything

that could ever be said,

yet your destiny’s not mine.

So we say goodbye.

_______

We say goodbye as if it’s just

for a day, yet your pride

and my fear rule the roost,

and your indecision,

and my determination

not to be taken another time.

__________

With every goodbye, two children

sit in the sand

building castles and

smiling with a glance,

your blue eyes, my green eyes,

at our impermanence.

__

5 September 2007 Nantes

_____________________________________________________________________________

Holiday in the rain

Holiday in Brittany

in the rain

sheets of rain that

isolate us

waiting for you to come.

listening to the diesel engines

as everyone leaves

peering through their windscreens

I’m going to wear my dark glasses

just to piss them off.

__________

You didn’t come.

I put up my umbrella

and make my splashing way to the

tramway

and the Algerian said

your head’s in a state

’cause you’re still in love with me

because you can be in a state

if you don’t communicate.

_________

I love the tramway.

I love the rain hammering

against metal

as we race through the city.

I love living in my

camping car

and driving through

the night

to beat the rain

following your lights

happy traveling with you

again.

__

3rd September Nantes

_________________________________________________________________________________-

What did you say?

No long times -

communicate this!

free jazz is dead -

does this mean it’s no longer free? and me

do I have to rhyme

my poetry?

___________

I sit and ruminate

by the rine -

which is a long ditch -

how long ago was youth

and love? and is this

all there is to life? Then I’ll

keep dancing…

__________

Johnny Dune sits in his room

composing all alone

tunes no longer known;

but it’s better than

decomposing… boom boom!

____________

Creativity died in the 1970s

of subservience.

I doff my cap and say,

‘Yessir yessir’.

No long times -

communicate this.

____________

September 3 2007 Nantes jazz festival

__________________________________________________

Across the Country

Click on the title to view this collection. For hard copy email jill@jillrees.com price £2

_______________________________________________________________________________________-

Looking out for the Perseids

Where else but the dark sky

do stories tell themselves?

I lie on my back on the cold ground,

listening to the rustling creeping sounds

of lives invisible and, by day,

mysterious. I breathe in, and above

ah! as I exhale, great white warriors

brandish their swords, raise their bow,

fight, kill, hunt and dance their path

over the deepest blue so dark as to

be taken for black. Ladies more profound

and universal in their beauty, gaze

across at gods in vain, or shelter,

helpless arms cowering, from eternal

blows and I see, from the Lion’s jaw,

rain arrows, sharp and piercing bright,

over the firmament in a great roar,

crushing the night.

---

Storm in Bamako

Dark crash of thunder encompasses

the possessed skies of Bamako,

boiled from the encloaking heat, the

lashing rain steams against my skin.

On the roof I gaze at the sprawling city

the gods gone mad, annihilated

the desert wind, an

unrecognisable climate,

bucket showers over me.

the basking Niger swollen round

the linen beating women

has risen into the sky

lightening like a giant electric hand

grasps at the terraces and I hide.

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