Jim William Jones was a Black Country poet who contributed numerous poems to the first 25 years of the Blackcountryman from 1967 to 1992. He is perhaps best known for his dialect poems, some of which can be found in two small publications by the Society – “From under the smoke” from 1972 and “Factory and Fireside” from 1974, both sadly long out of print. His contributions to the Blackcountryman were however largely in standard English. Jim Jones was born in 1923 and died in 1993, and to mark the 100th anniversary of his birth and the 30th anniversary of his death, I will post a number of his Blackcountryman poems over the next few weeks. Whilst his dialect poems displayed a gentle humour, those in standard English are generally darker and more serious in tone, and this will be reflected in my choice of those I include in the posts. I readily admit I am not a poet, but I find much of his work gracious and moving. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Chris Baker
Despite what is said above, one or two of Jim Jones' dialect poems did appear in the Blackcountryman. The first of today's poems is one such - a gentle romantic tale, ending with the imagery of sunlight that can be found in many of his poems. - "Now 'er comes" from the Blackcountryman Number 12.3 1979
Now ‘er comes
Between foundry stacks
An’ the humped shoulders
O’ blast furnaces,
A jet plane
Small as a gnat
Cuts a slice out of the sky
An’ drags cloud from it.
A scarf o’ smoke
Winds round in the wind:
The ‘bulls’ am blartin’;
A bundle o’ loud voices
Goz rollin’ by.
It’s time ter goo.
But ah’m a’ waitin’ - a bit,
Hesitatin’
By the big gairtes,
‘Onds in pockets,
Kickin’ the foundry dust
Off me bewts
Tired an’ sick—
Me throat thick
Wi’ smoke an’ grit,
Me yed split
Wi’ the noise
O’ wheels and clatterin’ steel.
Now ‘er comes
Across the grimy yard
As though ‘e wuz in Himley Woods
Trippin through bluebells;
Sweet—clean -
Fresh as dawn
On a mountain.
‘Er sees me—’er’s a-smiling’.
Quickening ‘er step.
An’ then—an’ then
- A miracle -
The foundry - the yard -
The roarin’ road -
All thoughts o’ the day’s wairk load
Am gone -
An we’me one,
Me an ‘er
Walkin’ in liquid gold
An’ the light all about we.
The second of today's poems is from the Blackcountryman Number 15.3 1982 "Man on the bridge" - a picture of human despair and hopelessness. The final words "The grimace of cheated death, Lingering there, on the bridge" sticks in my mind.
Man on a bridge
His soul,
Sheathed in steel,
Glints through his eyes,
Watching
The timeless freckling
Of sun-sequined water,
Pall-black shadows,
Light-carved,
Crinkling out from factory walls.
A moist impress
Of summer heat
Clings about him:
Solar flame
Teasing his weary flesh
With tropic fire.
Voice of water
Rustling, inviting
To cool, painless vaults of green.
His mind recalls
The many summers
Of his youth -
Hazy beyond the edge
Of a flayed wasteland.
Wistful memories
Turning up
To feed on his despair,
Like nibbling rats.
Calling, pleading
The water rolls
Beneath the bridge.
Slowly he turns,
Slowly walks away
His soul shrieking:
And as he walks he is aware
Of the grimace of cheated death
Lingering there, on the bridge.