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
__________________________________________________
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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