Jill Jones



Chloe Wilson Reviews Tracy Ryan and Jill Jones

These two slender and handsomely designed volumes of poetry are the result of the closely con-tested 2014 Whitmore Press Manuscript Prize, of which Tracy Ryan and Jill Jones were joint winners.

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In Flight Entertainment

‘no more blues’, that’s not a promise there’s no traction or policy in the blues all those bars are too long a cycle to make for twittering views no more plaints or graces no thanks, ‘watch and listen carefully’ enhanced …

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Interior Spaces: Reading Landscape through Jill Jones

There is a photograph I have returned to several times. It was taken during the drive from Melbourne to Perth, at the petrol station which marks the town of Nullarbor, while Lucas was filling our tank. In it, a storm front is approaching, the sky a deep violet-blue which emphasises the red scrub of the plain and the bright yellow of a limestone road skirting round behind the buildings and out of sight, blocked by a makeshift white fence and hand-painted red ‘no entry’ sign.
It fascinates me, this image, in the same way the experience of the place did in the moment I took it.

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Bearing False Witness

Stories of the heat rise above the boards and the walls bounce them, like lies. Walls are made of stuff that hides from me, those measurements, the mason’s spans. Dust is the choke, and across vision there’s a bar. I …

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In My Shifts

I come in with language I come out of. Its weed, its shrill bugs. A harvest, a rot, a dervish. Cooked into night. Swum from beginnings. Patterns at the bottom of a pool. Something that doesn’t fit. That shifts and …

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Asks

What’s it like to be refurbished tackled or finger-printed? It’s not something you can ask but I’m asking. What is it like to be watched waited, frisked? Whenever I worry about my suit my transparency, I don’t think of brightness …

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‘All truth is crooked, time itself is a circle.’

You’re diagnosed with an incurable illness. You meet someone at a support group. They teach you how to tango. You both undergo a miracle cure. They become a vampire. Your tests come back clear. You delete their photograph. You change …

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Review Short: Jill Jones’s The Beautiful Anxiety

The Beautiful AnxietyFrank O’Hara has a poem unambiguously and humorously titled ‘You Are Gorgeous and I’m Coming’. As pastiche or homage – even incidentally – the first two poems from the six-part sequence that opens Jill Jones’s stunning new collection The Beautiful Anxiety are titled: ‘1. Hold On’, and ‘2. I’m Coming’ (‘My Ruined Lyrics’). The present continuous tense of the verb ‘to come’ is thematically apt everywhere in this collection. Not only are poems throughout The Beautiful Anxiety sensual and frequented by moments of desire or quiet ecstasy, they are constantly ‘coming’ in the sense that they are arriving.

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Compositions

Some days are white staring deep into surfaces where tides push shores, sand climbs mountains. The new border is sometimes vague though flamboyant and ever mercantile. There’s boredom in the banlieue, middle management cadres deal in non-core activities. It’s all …

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A. Frances Johnson Reviews Jill Jones

Ash is Here, So are Stars ‘Why wish for the moon when we have the stars’, Bette Davis famously aspirates to Paul Henreid at the end of the film Now Voyager (1942, dir. Irving Rapper). That, of course, was an iconic, melodramatic story of unrequited love given an optimistic gloss by two lovers sharing last cigarettes. Jill Jones’ ambiguously rendered celestial bodies serve up different ideas of love and loss in this new collection. Jones’ stars, moons, candles, clouds and smoky skies are part of an identifiable romantic lexicon.

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Audio of ‘Nonfiction Poetry: Performing the Real’

This panel from the NonfictioNow Conference 2012 – at RMIT University and in partnership with Iowa University and Barbara Bedell, the Copyright Agency Limited, the Wheeler Centre and ABC Radio National – explores and discusses the potential of ‘nonfiction poetry’ …

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Becoming Crystal

at Te Moeka o Tuawe (Fox Glacier) I take my stone heart to the river, it moves with all the other stones. I slip and shear, ribs crack like ice that makes of the river gravel and gold schist and …

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