Richard Jones

Palestine lost a great friend this week. Richard Jones passed away two days ago. Richard was a close friend of mine. He was one of my favourite poets and a devoted advocate of Palestinian rights and Justice. Richard AKA RedRej was one of the very few intellectuals who struggled to maintain socialist thinking as a dynamic discourse and subject to constant changes.

His latest poetry book, Fistful of Poetry was dedicated to the Palestinian plight.

Richard will be missed by many of us.

Rest in peace dear friend.



Bunker Mentality

It came to me in the queue,

Outside the school canteen,

The day the skies turned black

And we knew the Russians would attack.

That afternoon,

During Double Maths,

I made my plans,

Complete with detailed diagrams

And comprehensive lists.

Next morning,

I watched my mother disappear

Round the corner onto Richmond Road

Then started my work.

Supplies from the kitchen/diner –

Into sturdy cardboard box went:

1 bottle Tizer,

½ a loaf of white, sliced bread,

1 tub Stork Margarine,

1 tin Nestles Condensed Milk,

1 tin Tate & Lyle Golden Syrup,

1 can Heinz Baked Beans,

½ a chocolate Swiss Roll,

1 can opener,

1 set cutlery,

1 plate,

1 ½ pint glass.

Two armchairs face to face

At the end of the bed.

Supplies box slides under one.

Library box ( stock of Wizards,

Captain W.E Johns, New Testament,

Revised Standard Version ) under other.

Bed stripped. Mattress arched between

Layer two –

Eiderdown spread over the top,

Layer three –

Candlewick bedspread,

Gaps sealed with pillows,

Wireless and torches placed inside,

Lastly the big tin box

After which I crawl,

Sealing up the entrance behind.

Wireless on in time

To catch the latest bulletin,

No news.

Time to review forces.

Out of the tin emerge,

1 Centurion tank,


1 armoured car,

1 ten ton truck,

1 captured Tiger,

2 twenty-five pounder field guns,

Followed by the troops,

In precise rows,

Followed by motley POWS,

After all, no could blame the Germans

For this one.

Stand easy men – no new developments.

Time for paperwork.

I wonder what the Great Wilson

Would make of my cosy cave?

Would he be ready for a doze

So soon? Better set all the alarms.

Before I snuggle down.

Westclox danced around

To sound the all clear.

All present and correct.

All still here.

Back to work,

Timed out at 31 minutes,

After which everything

Is in it’s place,

Well before my Mother’s

‘Have you had a nice day dear?’


V. Good. No chance of being spotted from the air.

What chance have the Russians got of finding this

When my own Mother doesn’t know it was there?

And in retrospect, ecologically speaking,

Well ahead of my time, for even after

The first strike, you could return in thirty years

And find no urine drenched cellars, no

Flaking graffiti covered walls, no

Twisted, tangled rusting metal.

No, not a single trace of my defences

Could have been found anywhere!

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