Tags
Advaitam Art Movement, advaitam poetry movement, Advaitam Speaks Literary, hengul haitaal advaitam, Hengul-Haitaal, Indian Literary Journal, Indian Literature Today, Spanish Poetry in Advaitam, Welsh Poetry in Advaitam, World Literarture, world poetry, world poetry today
Geraldine Mac Burney Jones was born in Gaiman, Chubut, in 1984. She is a poet and a lawyer graduated from the Catholic University of Córdoba. She published Vestal de luna (2012), Cancion para un alma en vilo( 2018) and Garmon o esa vieja musica de nieve (2019). Her poems were selected for the anthologies: Patagonia Literaria VI. Poetry anthology of southern Argentina (San Juan Bosco University of Patagonia and Friedrich Schiller University, Jena, Germany) and R. S. Thomas Poetry Festival, Wales (2019). Her work has been presented in numerous literature magazines of Latin America and Wales. She resides in Llanrwst, North Wales from where she collaborates with La Ninfa Eco, an online cultural magazine.
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Stay green.
Never mind the machine,
Whose fuel is human souls.
Live large, man, and dream small.
‘Lore’, R. S. Thomas
Believe me.
The colour of desire is like a blood shell
and its beat is a necklace
where men write their days
with mercury wings.
Go, messenger, to the cities
where the flocks awake weary
and the stars chew oil smoke.
Can you see the sky blacked out?
But you are unable
to look into what
you have been lent
and destiny
seems a melted dream
spouting from a looking glass.
Come to the shadows,
look at the flowers betraying the machines,
laud the trees leaking leaves
and embroider your scars with dew.
Listen.
Listen to God speaking silently
while he makes us of night and dreams and terror.
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I lean far out from the bone’s bough
knowing the hand I extend
can save nothing of you but your love.
‘Seventieth Birthday’, R. S. Thomas
Home
I think of you
going through blue woods,
surprised to find you
silent,
wearing your legs out
while the sun leans its head
on the grey green mountains.
Now the dusk
is a mongrel dust
of fact and fiction.
It does not matter.
By now you will be watching
the insects,
hovering like a freak
under a new skin.
Your mauve wings
may be sailing into the night
like bird needles.
Do they call these things stars,
glazed pebbles suspended from the sky
but I prefer to think that it is you,
the steep sunlight of the mountains,
a steamed song breathing through the chestnuts,
a crumbled space to rest and cease.
