tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63224115959142180042024-03-13T11:16:49.008-05:00RP PoetryA place for me to showcase my poetry.
Interested in publishing or reprinting any? Email me at <A HREF="mailto:rgp243@nyu.edu" >rgp243@nyu.edu</A>.
Remember that all are free to comment, but be constructive if possible -- I still have much to learn.Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-346723402461102362008-12-04T03:02:00.003-05:002008-12-04T03:03:47.827-05:00OutsideFirework gun-pocks<div>We lay inside on your</div><div>Mattress touching</div><div>In silence entwined</div><div>Entropic entangled</div><div>I wanted to hold those</div><div>Distant bursts of light in</div><div>The palm of my hand</div><div>Press them together so here</div><div>We could explode</div><div>Green and gold</div><div>No watchers</div>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-72407726557625337342008-12-04T02:56:00.002-05:002008-12-04T02:58:54.533-05:00Pulp and CircumstanceSummer arrived. What<div>I wanted more</div><div>than anything was</div><div>lemonade. Hands grinding</div><div>halved fruit onto</div><div>that vaulted star,</div><div>I wrung a </div><div>cup for you</div><div>before your flight.</div><div>Left behind was</div><div>sticky pulp, stink</div><div>on my fingers,</div><div>and rind beneath</div><div>my nails. Mixing</div><div>unequal parts simple</div><div>syrup and citrus,</div><div>I added sugar</div><div>to taste, desperate</div><div>not to erase</div><div>your bitter tang.</div>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-41331873677423887412008-08-16T18:21:00.004-05:002008-12-04T03:01:33.136-05:00"September Night, Hackney"What happened that night<div>we met Simon at the hookah bar?</div><div>Brick Lane wound like a haze</div><div>through to Hackney -</div><div>bottles of beer out back,</div><div>cool air and the dangling</div><div>Distant sound of voices</div><div>floating into cricket skies</div><div><br /></div><div>Waking up to your glare,</div><div>to dry smooth skin,</div><div>London was a new fruit</div><div>I bit into with relish</div><div>reduced to a memory</div><div>now of the sweet taste</div><div>of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Dr. Strangelove</span> at 5 A.M.</div><div>and the dull ache of wanting it to end</div>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-25851649127058744052008-01-13T18:46:00.000-05:002008-01-13T18:52:38.230-05:00"Alone Together"<div><br /></div>The night we were alone together<div>We asked the moon to break the bread;</div><div>The two of us yapped, as black as dogs.</div><div>I couldn't find the words to tell you:</div><div>Talking is feeling for the emotionally inept.</div><div><br /></div><div>I never liked your damned moon,</div><div>Its error driving men to howling</div><div>And shining through window blind slats.</div><div>You lay there painted like a zebra poised </div><div>For prison, its very crime its ostentation.</div><div><br /></div><div>We crossed the bridge we burnt behind us;</div><div>Look back and even songs won't save us.</div><div>Take my hand; don't speak.</div><div>Listen for the scraping of tinder:</div><div>The sound we make burning together.</div>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-15868947743511944512007-08-07T23:27:00.001-05:002007-08-07T23:27:58.449-05:00"Geographic Tongue"My geographic tongue,<br />Migratory glossitis, they call it,<br />Provides me a map<br />To search for you.<br />You were predestined,<br />A recurring X<br />Marking the spot<br />Of a continent lost<br />Every seven to ten days<br />And replaced anew<br />By fresh formations.<br /><p><br />What a strange tongue.<br />Even my oceans are impermanent.<br />You could sail over the edge<br />As Columbus feared,<br />Disproving manifest destiny<br />All the while.<br />Still, you'd reappear<br />Like a ship out of fog,<br />Horns blaring,<br />And I would cast your anchor<br />Until the week is out.Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-32247181986657857402007-08-07T23:25:00.000-05:002007-08-07T23:26:47.951-05:00“Eclipse”I hold up a mirror,<br />But only shallow breathing comes.<br />A cross country trip<br />Could only have widened the distance<br />Between you<br />And your shadow, no?<br />What would he have done<br />You in California,<br />He ever wider in your wake?<br />Though time was caught,<br />He's closer to your feet,<br />Closer to his black intent.<br /><P><br />Aren't we always chasing selves<br />In rental cars?<br />Maybe you can still catch<br />That racer on the hill,<br />Those boys who used to yell<br /><I>Go, Lance, Go</I> on sunnier days.<br />You waved back over a shoulder;<br />Your shadow cannot wave. <br />He knows only the drip drip<br />And the steady hum and beep<br />And days that forget you one by one,<br />Edges glowing, nearing eclipse.Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-4157568995142400212007-08-07T23:24:00.000-05:002007-08-07T23:25:26.920-05:00"Under Attack"Your marriage is under attack.<br />Or maybe you didn’t know<br />Pansies with baby bulbs<br />Are on the move<br />Batten your hatches<br />Even the backyard garden<br />Is a battlefield<br />And even the most potent<br />Poppies have proven ineffective<br />At soothing what ails<br />An overgrown weed,<br />Also known as <br /><i>Homoseximus maximus</i><br />Also known as<br />A Chelsea flytrap.<br /><p><br />Perhaps it's all just a plot,<br />And a careful manicure<br />Will leave your marriage bed<br />Of flowers alone to bloom.<br />Or perhaps I'm being overoptimistic<br />And all you can hope for<br />Is a garden of weeds<br />Growing taller and wilder<br />And more unkempt<br />Until flowers<br />And weeds<br />Entwine to make <br />A perfect garden.<br />More perfect than our garden<br />In the beginning.Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-36601000930049652982007-08-07T23:23:00.000-05:002007-08-07T23:24:16.749-05:00"Decomposition Composition"I hope this letter reaches you.<br />I gave it to a worm,<br />Whispered instructions<br />Only it, the smallest worm, could understand:<br />Tunnel 90 miles west, I told it.<br />Burrow deep into the soil<br />So this letter picks up wisdom <br />From the earth and bones <br />And sticks and stones.<br />When finally you crawl back<br />To green grass and purple skies,<br />Find the boy with blue eyes<br />Who will sing even you,<br />The smallest worm, a song.<br /><p><br />If indeed this note has reached you,<br />I hope your eyes are still blue,<br />That you still sing to worms,<br />That you remember the song<br />Our hands played together<br />Like harps nimbly plucked <br />Or toe shoes dancing on marimbas.<br />I hope you remember it all<br />Like the dirt remembers<br />Our bodies when we’re gone,<br />Remembers our song,<br />And breathes it into new life<br />Like an aria sweet and urgent.<br />Time is a diva. <br /><p><br />If you find this letter in error,<br />Please return it to my worm.<br />Bend down to whisper instructions<br />Only it, the smallest worm, can understand:<br />Tell it to tunnel 90 miles east,<br />Burrow deep into the soil<br />So this letter picks up wisdom <br />From the humus and root <br />And gravel and soot.<br />When finally it crawls back<br />To green grass and purple skies,<br />It will find me listening underground<br />For a song from you<br />And preparing to be sung myself.Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-51770799978540516082007-07-16T23:29:00.000-05:002007-07-16T23:31:23.639-05:00"Underfoot Over Time"One Tuesday I set out to walk<br />From Greenwich Village<br />To Morningside:<br />100 blocks, like friends I’ve known<br />For years without touching,<br />Containing lives in cubic rooms<br />Piled high with clippings<br />And gabardine suits,<br />Empty bottles and full china plates.<br />Every step here carries its own heartbeat,<br />Every neighborhood a manner of speech.<br />I want to tell it all, but how.<br /><br />The Village wears its hipster T-shirts,<br />Shopping in Starbucks and Baby Gap<br />And yearning for a smoke.<br />It’s restless down here,<br />Where money meets crumbling brick,<br />And it’s easy to lose sleep<br />With Burp Castle across the street,<br />NYU kids hopped up<br />On hops and cigarettes,<br />And bums howling skyward like cats in heat.<br />Stir crazy comes easy, even here,<br />Where freedom paints the blues on like punk rock jeans.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Hitting the pavement</span> is how I get out –<br />An expression I hold dear –<br />Stepping out to crack the world<br />Underfoot,<br />Feet prickling concrete, fingers<br />Rapping on sewer grates<br />Firmly battened.<br />The sidewalk leads me<br />Where I feel,<br />Senses showing where to tread<br />With the funnel-cake foresight<br />Of my geographic tongue.<br /><br />On the West Side, there’s a park I know,<br />Green and narrow Riverside,<br />A sliver of trees and a path is all,<br />Green carpet, trim like Astroturf,<br />And green taste in the air<br />To set my tongue at ease,<br />Ripe fruit in the eaves of green locks,<br />Raw sprigs thick like giants’ hair,<br />To be braided in hindsight<br />Into jump ropes soft with dew<br />For the Harlem girls to twirl –<br />One my baby two my baby three my baby jump<br /><br />Into dusk and its calm,<br />Wedged between wake and sleep<br />In the cracks between tall buildings,<br />Where darkness creeps,<br />Keeping secrets mum till morning,<br />When hot dog stands<br />And newspapermen are the rule.<br />Until then, there is the hush and rumble.<br />The city that never sleeps<br />Tucks itself in, and the restless ones<br />Scrounge in empty night stands,<br />Straighten their neckties, and swarm.<br /><br />That evening, I set out for Chinatown,<br />Teeming with life: fish and man.<br />Pungent odor, shoulder-high boxes,<br />Not Uptown’s Chanel<br />And Chantilly lace.<br />Wizened Grandmother Moon,<br />Swaddled in stars,<br />Whispers thanks from her perch<br />Through box-slat teeth<br />The color of cheese,<br />Reminding us all<br />To watch her in prayer.<br /><br />These are the things I remember –<br />Moments from a walk I took –<br />Now as I sit by my bedroom window<br />Looking out at the dog<br />And its frumpy-pants owner,<br />Now as I watch my father<br />Gag and struggle with his food<br />In the dim light of a house,<br />Evening walks from which are sacrosanct <br />In the crosshatch crosswalk moonlight<br />Of my mind’s small city,<br />Not quite New York, but still.Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-66937017562026569262007-02-12T23:56:00.000-05:002007-02-12T23:53:29.163-05:00Subway PoemNavigating homeward<br />Carrying your tuba<br />Newspaper<br />Like you could blow<br />Pushing your stroller<br />Suitcase<br />As if you could know<br />The man sitting across<br />Diagonal<br />Eyes down<br />Hands in lap<br /><br />On the street a man blowing balloons<br />And twisting balloons to shape the world<br />And blowing smoke<br />A twisted grin and something<br />Unintended to his audience<br /><br />Below a man<br />Beady eyes<br />A girl across<br />Fiery and young<br />Eight<br />He leers<br />Peekaboo<br />Speaks to her<br />“You got a boyfriend?”<br />Spits on the floor<br />Again<br />Again<br />She turns and hugs her mother<br />Smile on her face<br />Warm<br />Not thinking as I doRichard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-58602235921622936192007-02-12T23:53:00.001-05:002007-02-12T23:53:00.216-05:00"Consideration"Taking this into –<br />I made it even more difficult for you to –<br />I hope you make it through –<br />Without –Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-7523191376483705352007-02-12T23:51:00.000-05:002007-02-10T17:19:52.571-05:00“Fast and Slow”<p>If I were slow<br />As light<br />If I were fast<br />As a day with snow on its feet<br />I would run slow<br />And sleep fast<br />With you</p>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-63965705121714345032007-02-10T17:07:00.000-05:002006-12-19T19:55:55.453-05:00"Secret"In biology,<br />Love is an affliction, complete with side effects<br /><br />In the movies,<br />Curt exchanges and a glimpse of a lady’s glove<br /><br />Plato believed we were pulling our halves together<br /><br />In the Bible, God is love<br /><br />I do not know what love is<br /><br />But I would like to think it’s a secret shared<br />Whispered little by little over time<br /><br /><em>Do you want the long version or the short?</em>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-87394815841566026012006-11-14T00:36:00.000-05:002006-11-14T02:07:57.776-05:00"Bones Man"I grieve for the losses yet to come,<br />The coroner carving in blunt white bone<br />The names of the dead like a permanent plaque;<br />This man is my friend, dressed in fresh-pressed black.<br />He sits at the table with the rest of us.<br />“Pass the salt” – or is that dust?<br />Folding paper napkins into cheap grotesques,<br />An everyday hero’s quaint bequest.<br />And shooting the breeze like a friendly chum:<br />One day their hour (and yours) will come.<br /><br />__________<br /><br /><em>Inspired by thoughts on death at KGB Bar.</em>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-83934468067708347252006-11-13T21:23:00.000-05:002006-11-14T01:08:55.750-05:00"Kaleidoscope"When you and I are lying in bed, you don’t seem so tall.<br />These days you’ve stretched to reach me.<br />I’m low for you tonight.<br />You look for God in a kid’s kaleidoscope<br />And the meaning of life to fit in all those shifting shapes,<br />Yet to learn that Life is given the name Death at birth,<br />And God is his schoolyard friend,<br />Whispering in his ear dirty, lucky jokes.<br /><br />__________<br /><br /><em>This poem takes its first line from something I read on some scaffolding that caught my eye on my way to work one day.</em>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322411595914218004.post-2431035876122224522006-11-13T21:07:00.000-05:002006-11-14T01:10:19.188-05:00"I'm A Tiny Man In Your Swimming Pool"I'm a tiny man in your swimming pool<br />Mouthward ho! in your crazy straw<br />Thrashing upstream like a slippery fool<br /><br />Bashful and powder white, you chalk up the rule<br />I pee in the water; you lithely withdraw<br />I'm a tiny man in your swimming pool<br /><br />I try to fight it as in Catholic school<br />The awkward curve of your hardest jaw<br />Thrashing upstream like a slippery fool<br /><br />Sometimes I felt the wet eyes, so cool<br />Peering from corners with primmest paw<br />I'm a tiny man in your swimming pool<br /><br />Attending your fin-bellied Oedipal school<br />In the best of your mates lies my tragic flaw<br />Thrashing upstream like a slippery fool<br /><br />Before me your face, so raw and so cruel<br />Eyes behind chalky white mask, and you saw<br />I'm a tiny man in your swimming pool<br />Thrashing upstream like a slippery fool<br /><br />__________<br /><br /><em>A poem I wrote at the request of a classmate of mine, Shayne Terry, from David Lehman's class last year. She's publishing a follow-up to last year's </em>Jam Today <em>publication, which was the culmination of our efforts as a class. Shayne challenged me to write a poem with the phrase "tiny man" at a reading David Lehman did at KGB Bar.</em>Richard Pattersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09211515742574100499noreply@blogger.com0