All words and images on this website Copyright © Jemma de Vere Cole
A sudden spotlight of sun
Amplifying colour
It brings a flower into focus
Defines the shadows’ edges
Just for a second
Everything is clarified
A burst of illumination
A positive anchor
In the memory
​As it disappears.
DEAD MOTH  (c.1990)
Moth is in its shroud
A miniature Tutankhamen
He has no argument
With death
Quietly puts on death’s repose
Servile to its coming.
Thin legs crossed
For death’s release
Something touching about this
The parchment wings
That eye-lash brushed
​The lampshade’s tatters
Battered for the light
As if it were a God.
Now origami-folded
Like a paper husk.
​Gorged on silk
And velvet seams
Left a hole or two
For air’s absent dreams.

Poetry II


 Growing whiteness

Shrinking and nibbling

The edges of the figure

Out of the corner of my eye


Eye fixed

Surfaces giving texture

To sound

Marking the body

To paper and canvas

Charcoal whispers across

Like gossiping bats

Sometimes excited

Scratches and rubs and spreads

Leaving a soot-like trail behind

Rationalising flesh and bone

​Out of Space

Form in room

Five minutes of this lets up

​Analyses now

Into ten minutes

Of light colour and shape

Twenty minutes

Numbs into stone

I cannot feel

My hands and feet anymore


Eye recording description

Of room:

Slice of light

Acid lemon

Branches grasping

At the sun outside


The floorboard's pattern

The smell of turps

And radiators


It is like waiting

For fruit to ripen

This business of art

I feel old already

I am pinned to patience

So the black hole

In the floor

Pulls me in and sucks

Like a plug

Meaning to dominate

And be profound

As if it were

The only black hole in the world

And I its only gaze.

I am glad to change

Fixing my stare

On an island of paint

In a sea of dust

A fizz of fluoresence

Begins around it

While all else dissolves to a stop.