I was taken by some of the phrasing in Jill's poem, such as " How a hand is
fixed above what is thrown way." I did wonder whether it is supposed to be
'away' and contains a typo, but never mind. It's been very enjoyable to see
the outbreak of poems here, boldly going where no verbs have gone before,
instead of furtively smuggling themselves into public, I haven't I'm afraid
had chance to take them all in, but it is a delight to see.

Best

Dave



David Bircumshaw

Leicester, England

Home Page

A Chide's Alphabet

Painting Without Numbers

http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm
----- Original Message -----
From: "Deborah Russell" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Monday, April 14, 2003 4:04 PM
Subject: Re: No regrets


Dear Jill:

This is an enjoyable composition. The images are quite nice, I especially
was taken by the phrase:

...'How a hand is fixed above what is thrown away.'

I was not particularly fond of ...'Doubt has it's fifteen minutes'...but it
seems cliché is a needed element and resolve.


Deborah Russell





  No regrets

  Windows confuse the wind into a place that is thirsty.
  Clouds are drinking beyond white glass.

  How a hand is fixed above what is thrown way.
  As if the imprint was exact as the shadow.

  We are game in the spaces, when the world looks equal.
  But we've forgotten what chorus is coming.

  Beyond the quarter's green dark, old machines watch us down.
  And we wish we were up and light.

  Disorder inside the landscape eats away.
  A tide sucks at the pale blue edges.

  It's a bit like the end of the game, or the season of plenty.
  There's a mark up, or were the goods shoddy?

  Now, conversations are throughout and the losses are reached.
  As if there is hope in the known world.

  Doubt has its fifteen minutes, when desire goes over the place.
  Someone whistles in the space around the outside.

  Work abolishes the moment.
  Idle now as god.

  The district scene notices when the miles are drawn up.
  There's a link to an orange horizon.

  Shout inside quiet, lines and clay tones.
  Wheel out the shape of these words again.

  My nerves are as well as water.
  My skin shakes it off.

  Some electrons come on guard for the area in us.
  There is an agitation within the walls.

  Those old machines still in a row, friendly, strange, lubricated heads.
  Welcome aboard all that rust!

  Write words over pits, on body, in world, into someone.
  Have no regrets about the dark.


  Jill Jones


  _______________________________________________________
  Jill Jones
  http://homepages.ihug.com.au/~jpjones



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