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Foreword
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Foreword Writing the Foreword to this delightful collection of his poems has no obvious link to Rod’s generous tribute to me in the Preface of his book, "The Glory of Friendship". While friendship, like love, needs reciprocation, it is not based on an interchange of compliments, however sincere, but on shared values and experiences, on genuine concern for the other’s well being and undisguised mutual affection. I would gladly write a Foreword to any book called “The Glory of Friendship”. That this particular collection reflects the thoughts of someone I have known for three decades as confidant, companion and, at various times, co-worker, merely sweetens the privilege. One of the sad effects of the evolution of electronic communication is the demise of the carefully crafted letter, of the courteous note of thanks penned on paper painstakingly chosen for the purpose and of the splendid art of writing words which rhyme or sing or inspire the senses. This collection of verses is remarkable. It brims with words of endearment and tenderness for Nature, for unnamed friends, for faceless loves and for a mother who could belong to anyone. They dance with grace, flitting from gentle urgings to enjoy the sun to poignant musings on the treasure of being. There is no trace of the maudlin, not a hint of the contrived phrase or silly verbal device. The images mirror Rod’s personality. He unashamedly loves the subjects he has chosen as he does the infinity of the internet and the boundless joy of fly fishing. It is remarkable because the author is remarkable in his way, too. Rod is not the archetypal poet, if such a being exists. His normal manner, as colleague, as host, as international guest speaker, as DIY carpenter, as party animal and family man, reveals little of the talent reflected by his prose. His fondness for people, and the fairer sex, in particular, is very evident, however, to all who know him. This fondness is reciprocated not by coincidence or good fortune but by the fact that the real Rod Jones, my friend of thirty years, is to be found in what he writes when, in the early hours or in a peaceful moment, his soul is set free.
Francois Marais
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