Biography of Richard Jones
Richard Jones is an American poet. He was born in London, England, received his B.A. and M.A. from the University of Virginia and an M.F.A. from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He is the author of seven books of poetry, most recently The Correct Spelling & Exact Meaning (Copper Canyon Press, 2010), as well as a number of limited edition volumes. The Blessing: New and Selected Poems, a selection of poems from six of his books, received the Midland Authors Award for Poetry for 2000. He is also the editor of the critical anthology Poetry and Politics (William Morrow and Company, 1985). In 2000, he published a compact disc, Body and Soul, in which he discusses the art of poetry. In 2011, he published Thunder on the Mountain (East of Eden Press), a nonfiction book that explores the relationship between poetry and painting. He is editor of the literary journal Poetry East and its many anthologies, including The Last Believer in Words and Bliss. He is currently professor of English at DePaul University in Chicago, where he has taught since 1987. He lives north of Chicago with his wife and three children.
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Richard Jones Poems
How Did You Meet Your Wife?
Swimming the English Channel, struggling to make it to Calais, I swam into Laura halfway across. My body oiled for warmth,
Letter Of Recommendation From My Father ...
During the war, I was in China. Every night we blew the world to hell. The sky was purple and yellow like his favorite shirt.
When the sun goes down I have my first drink standing in the yard, talking to my neighbor
I, too, would ease my old car to a stop on the side of some country road and count the stars or admire a sunset or sit quietly through an afternoon....
All winter the fire devoured everything -- tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers. When April finally arrived, I opened the woodstove one last time
What Do You Do About Dry Periods In Your...
When the writing is going well, I am a prince in a desert palace, fountains flowing in the garden. I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow
All winter the fire devoured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,