tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17043282208972774182024-03-13T21:58:19.130+00:00Red Sandstone HillBarry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-1970896749412894142023-11-13T14:25:00.001+00:002023-11-13T14:44:09.252+00:00 Wroth Silver 2023: In the Picture, Making HistoryThere they are, over a hundred years agoIn their flat caps, bowler hats, bonnets & a stovepipeStanding round the stone in unusual daylightMaking history.Schoolboys in striped caps, a lady with a feather stoleA constable, a father, a grandad & a farmerCame to pay Wroth Silver on Martinmas EveCame to make history.Men outside The Dun Cow, in their big boots & waistcoatsIn alpha male Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-38854266980983931342023-11-08T17:05:00.001+00:002023-11-08T17:05:07.175+00:00The Winds of FethalandFethaland is far from here:We took the long roadFrom the sea-free net savvy middle-landsThe the furthest pointOf what there they call the Main Land.Spelling each other on the weird waysOf the modern road systemTo a welcome from friend-strangers:A homely house in grey-green Glasgow.& on, on to The Flower of ScotlandThe granite grey ford-townWhere big boats with cranesWaited in the harbour for Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-46801147629584844772023-06-20T18:00:00.001+01:002023-11-13T14:05:41.264+00:00Night Jar Nightjar! Oh night jar!We drank from the shadowy bottle of your lightGlass chink the last alarm callOf some small bird by the path,As Nightjar, oh night jar,Your mothy cloak of Of wing-clap wander-gloomSpread over the deeping wood.Three old friends & a younger person;From the Queen, whomThey call The Major these days;Past Medusa’s broken crown& the Central Oak,Taking care not Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-26720147006977545022022-11-11T12:00:00.001+00:002022-11-16T11:54:49.485+00:00Wroth Silver 2022: The End of an Era The End of An EraWas that the last swallow of summer?First frost on the car this morning?Crisp peppery leaves line the track to the wood,The robin wakes up to song again,Young starlings gather & chatter,The nights draw in.The year is like a waveThat builds & crests & breaks & falls;We all feel it & this is historyHer story, our story, the end of an era:The Elizabethan Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-9730007564533731782022-03-21T15:06:00.003+00:002022-03-21T15:06:48.519+00:00The Murmur A celebration of the starling swirl, read by my friend Steve King, who was there when we filmed this murmuration at Warwickshire Wildlife Trust's Brandon Marsh Nature Reserve, March 2022. The poem appeared in my 2016 collection Freed From Distance.Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-26663274211650887282021-11-26T15:27:00.000+00:002021-11-26T15:27:03.855+00:00The Island Boat has Crossed the WatersThe Island Boat Has Crossed the WatersWhere are our kin?What deep is that?Who is that boy at the oar?Where are the great old ones?Who dreamed of this?Where can she be found?Whose voice called out?What journey was undertaken?We had launched ourselves onto the shearwater’s roadOf winds’ lives, the kittiwakes’ wayThe towering fortress of the ever shouting birdsWe mariners had left behind us,Our Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-66380246097613085252021-11-26T14:57:00.004+00:002021-11-26T15:11:06.708+00:00Dear Ancestors: Wroth Silver Poem 2021Dear AncestorsWhen I think of you, I do not think of crumbling bonesSlowly returning to the native earth,Nor the plague pit, nor the cemetery, nor forgotten mound,I see you dancing & singing on your hills & in your halls.I do not see the smoke of the funeral pyreNor the lost village hidden beneath the fields,I greet your learning & your wisdom every day:In the garden, the kitchen, Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-57178298032629145462021-10-14T15:13:00.007+01:002021-10-14T15:13:50.622+01:00The Bardo of Babylon A place between the worlds or somewhere more day-to-day? A poem I have often enjoyed performing with music by my friend Graham Phillips.Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-15173275813764362192021-06-16T19:17:00.003+01:002021-06-16T19:17:33.082+01:00The Angel of Coventry Maybe the spirit of a place isn't necessarily defined or limited by the ideas of human people who inhabit it. Maybe my home city has a deeper identity than it's known history? Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-16519310974386422372021-05-17T14:46:00.005+01:002021-05-17T14:49:32.732+01:00Enormous Gravity
A poem partly inspired by this article:
Black-hole Computing
Might nature’s bottomless pits actually be ultra-efficient quantum computers? That could explain why data never dies.Words & images by Barry; Music by Graham Phillips
https://grahamphillipssound.blogspot.com; Saxophone: Gilles Ben Istri.
Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-90218213078900545252021-04-27T16:21:00.001+01:002021-04-27T16:21:16.338+01:00We Dare not Confront the Mystery that We AreAnother poem, this time whispered. This is about how many complex systems, of which we are for the most part unaware, are responsible for what we call our consciousness, which is rather limited in its bandwidth. Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-53468806003819343882021-04-08T15:47:00.004+01:002021-04-08T15:47:31.389+01:00Mass MaterialThis new poem, Mass Material is about how mad we are, in various ways. I play bodhran, metal microscope case & Heat Synth. If you enjoy it let me know!Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-67855072177336960102021-03-17T19:46:00.007+00:002021-04-14T10:23:52.109+01:00All Gone UpAnother poem set to music; quite a recent one this. I'm playing a bamboo flute & a synthesiser app called Heat Synth. The painting is by Caspar David Friedrich, one of my favourite landscape painters.If you visit my Youtube channel via this post you will also find that I have recently posted an archive recording of my guest poet slot at Fire & Dust Poetry in Coventry in October 2016. It'sBarry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-76475962953227603572021-03-12T11:42:00.001+00:002021-03-12T11:42:15.397+00:00The Love Songs of StonesThis poem is an edited version of a previous piece, Time's Grandma which you can find if you dig deeply into this blog. I edited & remixed it as part of my project to post a piece on Youtube every week & added the music. Look at the photo & you may glimpse the other-than-human beauty of My Lady of the Gorge.Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-40966003207185340132021-03-04T16:00:00.006+00:002021-03-04T16:13:12.024+00:00Words Come OutHere I read my poem Words Come Out; the backing track contains recordings of a beaten old guitar-zither & a rather tuneful casserole pot from the Wildways kitchen.I suppose I could have used a picture, quite literally, of words coming out of my mouth; I have plenty of them; but instead I chose this rather wonderful painting by Francisco Goya called Entierro de la Sardina: The Burial of the Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-62104628521641095522021-02-10T16:57:00.000+00:002021-02-10T16:57:16.052+00:00The Voice of the LandThis is a short song which was spontaneously recorded on my phone, I don't know when. It seems pertinent to our times. The song thrush has been singing behind our house recently; what a delight! The animation was made using images from my Instagram, @4mandalous using The Gimp, Fffmpeg & Flowblade Movie Editor.Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-81134359251537570802021-02-02T16:17:00.007+00:002021-02-02T16:17:53.728+00:00The Brave Go Willingly by Antony R. OwenVideo & music by Barry Patterson.Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-789286981265149982020-12-16T14:14:00.001+00:002020-12-16T14:42:41.283+00:00Vanishing Point Yes, there is a vanishing pointLike that glimpse distant where the sky meets the seaIn a photograph of a long lost dayThat we can barely seeFor haze or curvature of space,Held by the earth’s almost impossible sizeNeither dark nor light &All the more obscure for thatBut fear not. Fear not such questionsOn the basis of sizeUngraspability or our inabilityTo see through clearly;The world & Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-16422734775390159772020-12-06T12:23:00.000+00:002020-12-06T12:23:29.333+00:00The Golden Wood Listen to the sounds of the Golden Wood in winterAs the sun is setting beyond the tree line:The calls & minor key songs of birds,Small movements of water,The rush of the breathing, seething roads.Beyond the ice, dead leaves;Beneath the leaves, the Bronze Age of your departing year& all its stories, spoken or unspoken.Journeys: arrivals & departuresOn little wings to & from Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-74626091210500499722020-11-14T17:03:00.002+00:002020-11-14T17:08:07.308+00:00My Dad: Trevor Patterson 1934-2020
A hard working manA funny storytellerA real Jarrow lad.How can you thank or say goodbye toSomeone who gave so much to you& was always there, for all your life& now has passed?Ah Dad, Ah Trev! You were a fine, praiseworthy manWho bent your hand faithfullyTo the many tasks of life;Family & wife;Much more to that than all those weekends of overtime& all those many dutiesBarry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-69022881528049803682020-07-16T17:02:00.000+01:002020-07-16T17:03:59.350+01:00For Andrew: Dark Star: Beat Sysiphus
Me & Andrew on chalumeau & shruti box in the woods.
In memory of my good friend Andrew Fox I present:
A poem dedicated to his memory
A piece of music by the Grateful Dead which we both liked & which inspired the poem
A recording of my poem Beat Sisyphus featuring Andrew playing shruti box in the backing track & myself on chalumeau as in the photo
For Andrew
After Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-70507302008215293712020-06-09T09:35:00.000+01:002020-06-09T09:35:04.027+01:00The Island Boat has Crossed the Waters
Where are our kin?
What
deep is that?
Who
is that boy at the oar?
Where are the great old ones?
Who
dreamed of this?
Where
can she be found?
Whose
voice called out?
What
journey was undertaken?
We
had launched ourselves onto the shearwater’s road
Of
winds’ lives, the kittiwakes’ way
The
towering fortress of the ever shouting birds
We
mariners had leftBarry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-56222495779686533152020-04-15T16:03:00.000+01:002020-04-15T16:15:24.835+01:00Newton’s Rock
Newton, your rock, alive with living forms, is much more interesting than you are
Your baroque pornography of power; biceps, triceps, trapezius & your brass dividers upstaged
By bright, wild polyps that sway upon the stone like the gorgon’s futile magic in reverse
Not a Midas’ touch this; the engineer inspired by agnostic equations cannot measure the unseen
Nor hear Elisha in his cube; Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-35731194153981599092019-11-11T13:12:00.000+00:002019-11-11T13:14:46.826+00:00Throw a Penny in the Hollow of the Stone
for Wroth Silver 2019 by Barry Patterson
We don’t really know where it all began
Throw a penny in the hollow of the stone
Some protection racket in Saxon times
Throw a penny in the hollow of the stone
But we honour all those who came before
Throw a penny in the hollow of the stone
When life was hard for the people of the land
Throw a penny in the hollow of the stone
Now Knightlow Cross is Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704328220897277418.post-61023480719240150962019-10-19T19:11:00.002+01:002020-07-16T16:02:12.566+01:00Rebellion Haibun for Ecological Justice
In St. Jameses Park there are pelicans & parakeets, geese & dragonflies, pigeons & squirrels, crows & Crew, we are all Crew: The Warriors of the Love Rebellion; inspired & beautiful, doing all the best things that humans ever did, can do, might aspire to
.on horseguards parade
we guarded the horse of our
highest intentions
.
Day & night we sang & played, we Barry Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12246736466541301350noreply@blogger.com0