Three Poems by Thom G. Jordan

These three poems by Thom G. Jordan take you home; take you on a journey away from home, and then further still — hand in hand with hope — into an uncertain future…

Poems and Painting by: Thom G. Jordan


Driving through a place there’s a distance
no odometer measures. It passes through air like bread left out
to glass and metal and then beyond. The world is speaking to you
but you’re too busy looking at something off to the right — a hare maybe 
   — you say you’ll get back to it tomorrow.

The trees are indolent, pedestrians make maquettes 
of themselves. Neither take any notice of the sun out there
faking her death. 
Until you step out, you’re not there.

When you do, into a lay-by and
into the sensory,
you lick the buttered sky —
ask the pissing construction worker for a little privacy.

Without distraction soundless night plays differently. 
You find yourself asking the road for company, or music,
and it responds with operatic roadkill.
Which is not the conversation you had in mind, but the red 
hare in the boot makes for a good story tomorrow

In the place that is home the apples pick themselves.
Sublimities are put to flood in perpetual dusk
of sun pillars
suspended with the deer’s decision to cross.
Sometimes you have to die first —
but not here.
Here you can still walk in the middle of the road
with the plate you’re handed
as it overflows with filigreed acanthus greens. 
Here children receive all the teaching they’ll need
from the holy women of lengthening afternoon;
their incense burning
in its footrace through your limbic system.
Here parochialism has a feast day
where you sit fringed in anthropocene
with the same families from domesday 
to doomsday.
Here in your geocentrism you are oblivious to the world’s
blue circuitry beyond: still functioning, 
irrespective of observance
or liking.
Here you aren’t your biggest detractor —
there are magpies for that.
Here the empty passenger seat placeholder
of oxeye daisy and sweet pea
will never wilt.
Here the beehive songs being written are still on the wind
as the sycamore coughs into its elbow.
Here it won’t be long before curtains are done away with
and once more everyone takes to watching windows
from windows. 
And whilst roads do go unrepaired and neighbours still fight 
over the earth into which they’ll plant the clematis
too shallow; you don’t need to deny sight
for sanity’s sake

Tonight spring will be overheard
arranging its rushlights in the wood. We will watch through
fingers for their movements, attentive to the purples and whites
of their jaws. 

Only by understanding these perennial beginnings
will we divest the marriage of memory and 
renewal of its lethality. In this work our good name
precedes us. 

Around us Clare’s pastoral — that is to say
the one he feared.
In our XXI century it must be enough to know the fields
were once populated and that walking on knees
we might find again their keyholes,
and see some God. 
But the prospect is aspirin expired:
we are unmoved by moments — only insight wins us now. 

The issue is here a lifetime’s change passes with night
beneath the gull’s white
eye. Winter was a conversation without questions
with us ears at the cold glass doing all the listening.
You were skeptical as ladders
raised into blue newness
and asked about harm having lived
half your years. For that reason I couldn’t respond. 

In time our eyes which are just the starting point
shall disclose their secrets; their hoarded frenzies. 
And into their vacated place will be thrown new naked
flames: purply and blanketing.

We have chosen our rootstock. Now commences the undefined wait

Thom G. Jordan was born in Bradford, West Yorkshire, United Kingdom, in 1992. He has a first class honours degree in Humanities from the Open University. Jordan is both a poet and a painter, with the entirety of his work considering themes of place, art, nature and human experience. He has only recently returned to poetry after many years away from the medium.

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