The Tall Lighthouse
Poets: Abdul Jamal | Abi Curtis |  Adam O'Riordan | Andy BrownAoife Mannix |  Baden Prince |  Brendan Cleary  |  Camellia StaffordCathy Ryan |  EbeleGareth Jones  |  Graham Buchan |  Heather Taylor |  Helen Mort | James Bell | Janice Fixter |  Jay BernardJohn Clarke | John McCullough | Keith PleaseKen Champion |  Kim Lasky |  Lisa DartMaggie Sullivan  |  Marc Swan | Miriam Gamble | Nii Parkes |  Pierre Ringwald | Retta BowenRhian Edwards | Ronnie McGrath |  Wendy French

Gareth Jones

Gareth was born in London in 1978, growing up there and in Wigan, Lancashire. His work has been published in numerous small press magazines and broadcast on radio, and has received prizes in the 2005 Academi Cardiff Poetry International and 2006 National Poetry Competitions. He lives in London.

publications:

weekend millionaires

Observed with unflinching clarity and dark humour, Gareth Jones offers us a world of morning-afters, streakers at rugby matches and stubborn phantoms.

                                                                                                                    Catherine Smith

 

Unreel from weekend millionaires

 

Strung along the street one morning             

                  like low-level bunting; a mystery

to passing dogs who nose along it:

                  a length of cassette tape looped and wound

 

across a maze of roads to the park –

                  a contour, an isobar, brought to life –

 

straight for a huddle of trees where it rides

                  wire-taut around the branches:

 

something unwelcome, something wrong –

                  a crime-scene cordon in a country field,

 

a deep, dark string of gut gone dry;

                  it rasps like an army of plastic bags

 

but cannot disclose the secrets it holds:

                  the dead notes of a discarded LP,

 

or a long-gone listened-to radio programme,

                  a declaration of love, a confession,

 

someone’s last words, the half-deranged sermon

                  that could have saved us all, or simply

  

the pure grey noise of tape-head static –

                  the silence of something about to be said