My name is Barry Patterson, I'm a writer & performer living in Coventry, in the United Kingdom. I work in places like schools & museums a lot but also in the great outdoors & on the net.

Why Red Sandstone Hill? One of the themes which runs through much of my work is that of our relationship with the Land through the special places in which we find ourselves: the places where we live, work & celebrate, so my URL honours the nature of the place where I live.

 

 

Poetry Book Launch

AN EVENING OF WEST MIDLANDS POETRY

Wednesday 7th May 2008, 7:00pm.

The Herbert Cafe, Jordan Well, Coventry

The launch of a booklet from Heaven Tree Press containing over twenty of my poems from the past five years. Please come!
 

 

The Guru's Head 

Oh lama hear me, lama hear me, lama hear me,
They didn't have planning permission,
So the Government took you down.

Oh lama know me, lama know me, lama know me,
Petty tyrants broke you apart,
Knocked you into pieces, for an example.

Oh lama remember me, lama remember me, lama remember me,
Soldier lorrries carried away the pieces,
They left your head in Tsethang.

Oh lama hear me, lama hear me, lama hear me,
They left the head by the side of a dusty road,
Big enough for a family of nomads to live in.

Oh lama know me, lama know me, lama know me,
Your head was big enough for a group of pilgrims
To have done a puja offering inside it.

Oh lama remember me, lama remember me, lama remember me,
But it lay on its side in the road while the lorries rolled by
Staring into space, covered in dust.

Oh lama hear me, lama hear me, lama hear me,
We came by in our bus, too fast to stop or slow down
We were stunned, someone shouted, no-one even took a shot.

Oh lama know me, lama know me, lama know me,
I tried to draw the scene, but I didn't have the skill,
So I wrote this down instead, a picture in words.

Oh lama remember me, lama remember me, lama remember me,
You can never lose your dignity or power,
Your sideways wise & loving gaze, a warning to us all:

“Look on my works you mighty & despair!”
“You are just dust, but I am timeless gold.”

Barry Patterson, April 2008
A true story from Tibet, June 2007

 

El Torcal, February 2008

I'm in the sun bleached
Vulture wind washed
Rill drain tessellations
Of limestone chaos; El Torcal.

Early in the year, but
Still overflowing with songs
Bright late-day sun rays
Warm & pink the layers.

Green shadow drain flues
Between the pillars
Of mountain might, all
Riddled by emormous simulacra.

Standing guard over them
In giant stillness, watching
The turning day, year
Turning into spring-light.

Ibex click  their
Rock climber finger-hooves
Gently make their way
To the next sunlit grazing spot.

The old fox leads us out,
Over the edge, toward the sun
Where there isn't any maze path
For us to follow.

I touch a stone polished smooth
By thousands of fingers
Of untold years of human
Presence in the labyrinth.

Ribbed, veined
Post-mortem pink, like
Something in a butcher's shop
Rock cut where we all must pass.

It's rough & crazy down below
Smells green & good,
Like home, a dene in Durham,
But above, it is a desert.

Above that, on warm air swirls,
The vulture party passes over
In a dark finger-wing swoop
Out toward the Wilderness.

Barry Patterson, April 2008. 

Spirits of the Motorway

Oh you spirits of the motorway
I see you line the roadside standing there
You watch us as we all rush by
On our flights of fancy from the here & now
We rage, we roar, we fly so swiftly by
The weightless gazes of our ancestors all unseen
Deep in the dreaming of the land.

Oh you spirits of the motorway
You come from henge age, singing on the hill
You hid among the oaks of wind whispered lore
You toiled in sweaty summer fields
You hunted, fought & founded dynasties
& now you watch us from your timeless home
Deep in the dreaming of the land.

Oh you spirits of the motorway
You saw the cities throw wild towers to the wind
Rise & shout their cares into the sky
The gentle minds of working country folk
Sent all their lives to tend the looms & the mills of hell
& search through the rubbish for their roots
Deep in the dreaming of the land.

Oh you spirits of the motorway
You saw us come with iron machines
To tear the guts out of the heath
To show the sun a hundred million years
Means only money to our idiot lords
While you weep for us who seem so stupid & yet so proud
Deep in the dreaming of the land.

Oh you spirits of the motorway
It must be love & pity holds you here
Watching us in our sad high speed parade
& calling to us gently, “Heed the sun
The moon & stars are counting out your time
Leaves of seasons, life on earth
Deep in the dreaming of the land.”

Oh you spirits of the motorway
I sing to you as I make my road
From story to story of the ancient track
Rutted by your wooden barrow wheels
For I see you have not left us here to die alone
Your blessing fountains from the dim unseen
Deep in the dreaming of the land.

Oh you spirits of the motorway
You are a memory of sunshine still
On the flick'ring wings of the roadside hawk
The quiet pool where no-one goes
The gulls, crows & lapwings in the field
& I for one can thank you for your gifts
Deep in the dreaming of the land.

Oh you spirits of the motorway
I honour & acknowledge your presence here
For my part I can sing the songs of life
Though walls of doubt are thrown up all around
So keep us tired travellers safe from harm
& bless us with your wisdom & your strength
Deep in the dreaming of the land.

Barry Patterson July 07 - Jan '08