Not only is this the cover of my new book but I have now held it in my hands. It will soon be available in Australia (I'm told three weeks) and I will be launching it at the Sydney Writers Festival in late May.
And it is available through Salt's on-line shop as well amazon.com, amazon.co.uk and other on-line bookshops.
I've been re-reading it, partly to check for any boo-boos (none so far, cross paws, except for a small omission), and to reacquaint myself with the book as book.
The front cover photo was taken by Annette down at La Perouse. She was down at the same place again last week, this time with her medium format camera when she took a pic of the same place, but it's quite a different shot. I like this one still.
Here are some kind comments some people have made about the book:
"Jill Jones' poems are trusting, human and exact. They anticipate possibility, the invisible, sometimes abrupt edges of comprehension, whil…
the night doesn't crumble even with the heavy load you're not a guitar you only have corridors after a meal and only one leaf is lost in the telling
harbour harbour you're no that story either
there are other pains old ones you thought excised they still ride you so that water dark can keep to its story each day something missing speech falls through holes there's iodine, salt but
no, no not the harbour that's a crossing on creaky wheels
sky spins ever so slowly paths pick out all the between-ness that sings too holding the cracks it doesn't crumble city stares itself forever all its fuzzy little points the water's deep forget the sharks are tomorrow's gamble
you're not a drum you're alive edged alive, called alive
underground gets the circle vinyl blue, silvered steel the wolves and cats ignore you he picks a nose on the night line can get bored flesh can be entertaining
somehow you emerge with the rail song not crumpled not particularly safe but underway
So everything sounds like rain or the palm wind off Timor or Arafura. You stop the triune blades white step into the air-con's tune. Everything falls from the ceiling even fluoro runs down the wall. It's as far from heaven as you can get amongst the humid hip-hop air up hauling concrete steps. There's smoke and gasp somewhere.
You've seen this movie what infernos! you're on the run! But there's nothing to chase you down no bulldust, no crocs, leaping lizards only the phones and the voices you've made back home. Like the fortune cookie said: 'you dial it up', now deal the circle that rain washes away. You can dust up again tomorrow.
Night's hums are mechanical, electric while brother rain wets the seconds and sister storm sings, not little tune a bigger pattern, atmosphere deep past beige blue curtains and the sweat. It's animate, breath and thunder. Let sleep decide! At least the walls are white and the wrapper says 'clean glass'.
The Chatelaine herself, Eileen Tabios, recently asked after one of my ha(na)ku poems, many of which appear regular-like on this site. So this paticular one now has another life over at the April edition of Babaylan Speaks.
I'm sharing the poetry space with poets such as Ernesto Priego, Chad Parenteau, Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor, Glynda Tejada Velasco. Go and see if looks different to when it was hanging round Ruby Street.