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Anni-Wilton Jones – Curtain

Profile Anni-Wilton Jones LE Mag October 2018

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Curtain, poems by Anni-Wilton Jones

Anni Wilton-Jones, a resident of Co Mayo, has also lived in Wales, England and Saudi Arabia. Having experienced a varied range of careers she is now semi-retired, working part-time in supporting voluntary dyslexia groups. A writer of poetry and, occasionally, prose, she has read in Wales, England, the USA and Ireland. Her collections include Bridges, Winter Whitingand, written under the pen-name Victoria Tims, a chapbook of poems about abuse, entitled Moth.


Magister

Power is your core; yet even more intense, more
brilliant, is the face you show to the world. I
cannot comprehend a force so great and cannot

hide in your shade since you illuminate all in
your orbit. Though you give life and meaning to my
existence, when exposed too long to your heat I

sear. In time, you will grow too great for your own good,
then burn out, collapse, fade away; too late for me
to be free. Your growth will have been my extinction.

I will not see you decay.

Sunset

He will remember her here
where he brings all his joys and
his sorrows – exam results
and the scholarship offer
the keys of his first car and
the wing mirror from the crash
his first pay cheque      and his last
for the years have speeded by

this is a time for farewells
so he is back at his place
alone as he always comes
but bringing her as she was
not as now in the hospice
here he will remember her.


Inversion

His life had always been
upside down

he had seen things
from a unique perspective
and no-one had ever
understood him

so now he sees trees
below him
their tops pointing
down, down

and knows the time has come
on this bright day
to make his greatest move
one glorious leap

and the branches ripple
and disappear
but return
as the surface settles

and all is serene again
as if he had never existed.

Negation

Closer
come closer

the wind is harsh
snow-laden
and I
am so alone

though you
are beside me

I touch you
feel your warmth
yet shiver

ice
colder than the storm
falls
silently
from your lips

bites at my brain
frosts my fingers

your rejection
eating away
their questing tips.


Pause

We do not move
your empty chair
nor clear the cupboard
of favoured food

not whilst
we see you
still
in all your haunts

turn
as always
to that soft tap-touch
that we will never again feel

adjustment takes time
and the will power
not to forget
but to remember – without pain.

Twisted

(Brian Tolle’s sculpture, Twisted Chimney, at Rhymney, S Wales)

Your domination
of raddled beauty
sets you apart

but your magnificence
cannot mask
your monumental folly

heated by no fires
since those that formed you
there is no warmth
beneath that ruddy
hard façade

inflexibly warped
your twisted logic
circles back
to where you started
no progression
no change.


© Anni-Wilton Jones

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