'Our Stones' by Chris Jackson

Our Stones

Our stones are never at rest.
They’ve no permission to bask in light,
to gather heat, and nurture photons.
They are displaced by the commuters’ feet.
Stillness is alien, an impossibility.

The streets are never peaceful, but hum
with all that is exacted by busyness.
Competition raises dust, moves stones.
And even thought is loud static, like a
surreptitious interest rate. We love money.
Our still-looking stones are not still,
but vibrate with recent rush and pass.
Shudder with meetings. Echo bids.
Quiet is a lunacy refused our stones.
Quiet is bad for economic growth.

All our stones are on their way to elsewhere –
restless for some consummation.
They are obstacles for businessmen to kick away,
Mr Rockwell, financier, collects them in his pocket.
For what’s a stone but a unit for accounting?

*Chris Jackson: I'm 31 and live in Hackney. My poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and sites including Ambit, Equinox, The Interpreter's House and The Journal. Poems and translations are forthcoming in Chimera, Poetry Salzburg Review, The French Literary Review, Assent and others. I read my work regularly in London and my poetry has been illustrated by the artist Russi Dordi.

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