by Jill Jones
Hazard Press, Christchurch, 1992
What critics said about The
Mask and the Jagged Star:
"urban evocations both heartfelt and gritty ... " Alan Wearne, The
Age
"... an acutely observing eye and attention to form ... a formidable new voice." Catherine Bateson, Australian Womens' Book Review
"This is a rewarding book
by a poet who knows it is a poet's job to define 'a language
for each morning, like this one'." John Davies, Southerly
"There is something peculiarily Australian about [the] elevation
of 'ordinariness' and Jones, at her best, does it well. At times,
however, she also subverts the tradition, embracing new features
into [the] familiar Australian tradition." Mark Roberts, Scarp
"... a singular voice, able to transform and give significance to the minute details of daily life." James Norcliffe, Christchurch Star
"...a lively and engaging
poet" Frank
Harper, Bay of Plenty Times
The Mask
and the Jagged Star won the Mary Gilmore Award in 1993 and
also was commended in the Ann Elder Award for that year.
The Mask and the Jagged Star is available through Hazard Press: www.hazard.co.nz
Some poems from The Mask and the Jagged Star.
in the distance on the verandah
having said yes too many times
and become loaded,
i believe you, "all doors lead to busy rooms",
the darkness can roll in while you're not looking
so that afternoon sprouts night outside your window
when you were turned away by talk and didn't notice,
they say you can't predict the tide accurately,
or turn back the future, but the telephone is continuous,
suddenly it occurs to me
that i have moved from being just a prisoner
to a more debatable shadowland
within which i am circling but not holding
or closing,
at lunch she talks about the void, she's seen it,
i know what she means, over wine and smorgasbord i try
to remember to say my name,
overhearing the man next me: "we know where we're going
now",
and i lift my quiet glass to him, wondering who we are, later,
walking down my path, i expect to meet myself
hanging around the front door,
a refugee on the verandah, pale face and misleading eyes,
or sometimes i look up and see someone just like me
poring over the distance at the edge of the balcony
tracing where i've been: in streets, in rows, on the way
to another trial, another room, another meeting,
having said yes once again, and misplaced something ...
Gathering of tribes
hard to determine the centre
here at first
in the middle of the road? up in the building?
what building? they all lean on each other buildings
slowly slowly you pan across the crowd
there high heels grey suits soft laughter
and there louder jokes some giggles stripes short skirts
what could they have to do with each other?
wait! across the street another gathering in the shadow
and the great white shark police car sitting quietly
another clue ticking you keep looking back to this
your eye your fear (you remember the drills
the police worked in your
building you spent
a lot of time in the park being counted off
the coffee shop nearby if no-one cared
it was a small freedom in those days the park
was green and moist and nothing ever happened)
you pan quicker now the crowds
still laugh
speculate joke still look toward something then
above the police car away back under the awning
of a slim grey building with initials for a name
in the tiniest group of all three middle-aged men in dark
suits and gesturing and so this is the centre
in this case in some dark lobby posturing
and waiting some dim outcome
the centre target even
and you turn away
and nobody
ever really knows what's going on.
You are so correct now
Big trucks roll through to
the centre,
block the crossing outside.
I am lying under the hammer
knocked out by the weather in here,
transmitting from the storm bubble, your eyes,
and the hands, blunt and chilly.
You are so correct now, like steel.
I am clear blown glass.
You're looking through venetian blinds
flapping somewhere between your left
and right brain.
You are looking over me.
I am dreaming I am a space station.
Down the hallway the shredding has begun
to the sound of piano accordion classics;
and the other weather, the grey rain,
parts for a strange light burnishing
the fake wood panelling and the
tiny leftover asbestos fibres, floating
breathable asteriods. My lungs collide
with day-old nicotine, the air-conditioner
takes off again and I am awake. The numbers
crunch in the corner, they almost hurt,
and you are scraping them off desks
into that filing cabinet behind your left ear.
Newsprint dribbles from waste-paper bins,
English as another language.
Short soap opera paragraphs,
and the video clip news.
You are so straight forward and sorry for me.
I am dreaming I live in the Milky Way
but outside the trucks are breathing,
they're still rolling down to the centre.
Copyright Jill Jones
Updated 15 August 2005