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New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

Poetry by Patrick Williamson

Patrick Williamson, a British poet and translator, who lives in France. I also work with music and filmpoems (Afterwords, set to music by Mauro Coceano). My work is increasingly focused on Italy, where I have published two collections Beneficato(English-Italian, Samuele Editore, Pordenone, 2015), and Nel Santuario (Samuele Editore, 2013; Menzione Speciale della Giuria in the XV Concorso Guido Gozzano in 2014). Editor and translator of The Parley Tree, An Anthology of Poets from French-speaking Africa and the Arab World (Arc Publications, 2012). Recent and ongoing translations of poetry by Italian writers Guido Cupani and Erri de Luca.

 

 

 

 

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Sculpture

 

I search for the silence of stone

the edge between light and the dark side

a man hunched up

stars glistening along crevasses –

just making the same old decisions I said

working my way down to the centre.

I want to see what is there

 

muffled, sitting

on a street corner, it is raining.

the lights form stars,

the guiding star lost among them

a gaping hole

no-one notices what regret, or what hope

lives on in my eyes

so much unsaid.

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Mother

 

there’ll never be
another
you and I

 

we were joined
until the threshold
suddenly

 

unusually free

a sense of life
love

 

patience sanity
far beyond this

 

simple warmth
you wanted me

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Field

 

Whirl, leaves, see

the old trunk,

 

a bowl & small

packet of herbs,

 

winds blow,

swirl away dust, see

 

life pockets inner

fruit, all else is less

 

important, small deaths,

dusk of winter –

 

the shining field

this untouchable light.

,.

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How comes it then

 

Such is power, so great

so hot I senseless may

alter all the course

dissolved ice to fire

boiling much more

feel my miraculous

device allayed exceeding

that all things melt

how can the day, gentle mind,

reasonably begin

 

 

(after a Petrarch translation)

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May you bury me

 

Morning unveils

rubble they pinpoint

 

faint cries

the restless

 

I spit

I am not a reed

 

I do not crumple

rooted in this soil

 

no small storm

this dusk Alad

 

we tremble, we age,

we hold tight

 

these eyes see

may you bury me

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