#patrick chapman

Happy National Poetry Day

I couldn’t possibly pick just one, so here are a few to salivate over. There’s something for everyone.

The Mower

by Philip Larkin

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found A hedgehog jammed up against the blades, Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once. Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it…

Viva! Roxy Music #232/365

I bought Viva! Roxy Music in 1976, when I was 12.

I had a few singles from the past, but this was my first full album – and it was live!

A bit like Bowie, Roxy Music helped me through my formative years. (Or hindered them. It’s hard to tell which.) And yes, I did have a stupid floppy fringe.

True, they probably don’t have the creative gravitas that Bowie still holds today. But when Brian Eno was…

I have a poem in the new issue of The Pickled Body 1.2: Amuse-bouche, and I'll be reading at the launch - Ranelagh Arts Centre, April 12!

I’ve been Pickled!

*dances around kitchen*

One of my poems has been selected for inclusion in the gorgeous poetry publication, The Pickled Body, and its forthcoming edition with the tantalising theme: ‘Amuse-Bouche.’

For those of you who haven’t discovered this online international poetry journal yet, you are in for a treat. Created by poets, Dimitra Xidous and Patrick Chapman, The Pickled Body…

Pledge now for original Patrick Chapman artwork. 18 hours left to Kickstart "ToY": http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/166612916/toy

Just a quickie today. I wanted to share this stunning musical version of W.B. Yeats’ poem, The Lake Isle of Innishfree.

Sung by Angel Harrigan, it’s hauntingly seductive. Music by Roger Gregg, from the album, Serpent In The Bee-Loud Glade.

Brought to my…

You did not see mine, on the first night we met. You were occupied, putting your hand Through my window, not feeling the pain, Bleeding your wrist on invisible shards As you opened the frame just a crack for some air, Letting autumn leaves in from the fingers of trees. At some point, we made love, or a bungled attempt. By the morning, your blood had congealed. Wounded and practical, no broken bird, You tried often to show me how two falling leaves Might collide in the rain, on a current, and sail As one leaf. In the end, winter rattled us loose. Now and then, subtle scars raise a sign on my skin That you left more in me than I ever let on.