Five Poems by Patrick Williamson

 

No fixed abode 

 

I imagine that care, patience & desperation,  

left for posterity in these photographs  

brought to life by my father's voice, his memory;  

stacked in your posthumous attic room. 

 

This life carted over borders, across Irish lands 

& the Apennines; we glimpse your days 

in black & white, that summer before the war 

my father smoking, sipping tea on the terrace. 

  

This suitcase life, that elusive house sought  

but never found, days circled, solitude  

dragged along, then this crumbled earth damp 

to touch, your voice forever still. 

 

 

Looking back 

 

Suddenly I was left searching for the future, 

I kept this bottle, green pot, packet of spice 

a souvenir of those days, leaving behind obsession  

for the tongue of hope. Suddenly there is quiet,  

after panic stations, the rush to catch 

that last train, trunks, taxis, please no more. 

I retained the beauty of your simple movements, 

I knelt among the fluted columns, hiding thoughts in shadow. 

Smoke wafted over the pages as shoulders hunched 

late at night, the spread of ink scrolled on, in the library 

at work, we shared evening time, passing time, love.

  

 

To the Mountain! To the Mountain! 

 

And he went up the mountain 

to where the water crosses the river 

and there saw a void, a chamber,  

perfectly silent, the water unmoved.  

 

Massive glaciers ruptured the rock,  

calcite lined the walls, the arched roof  

popped icicle-shaped spines, here  

he crawled, waded, while the water sat. 

 

Perfectly smooth walls, perfectly 

vertical, the vault a matching slab, 

the route runs far, before at least 

his travels are foiled by high tide.  

 

Parallel the way but sloping, further, 

further in, more water, less air, 

define exact depth and extent, the hope  

of an opening when the levels recede. 

 

Many aspects still unknown, thrilling,  

it’s a great discovery, he’s very happy 

about that, as this doesn’t happen  

very often in a lifetime, if ever at all.

 

 

Spring beauties 

 

The fine faces of your riotous fellows,  

their thick brogue, remind me – 

 

coffee dear Alan in the cloister café  

both wildly exclaiming Italian – 

 

sparrows, perched on railings, peckingF 

for crumbs from scones, the wind strong – 

 

I’m taking pictures of the cathedral cross, 

blue-black in the civil twilight – 

 

bronze-throated cream beauties enfold us,  

shields, sun raying from the centre 

 

and outer rings of life, to chase the enemy 

make rain in periods of drought. 

 

 

Snowfall 

 

There’s a bloke spreads grit in early morning, 

a train passing in a haze of blown snow, 

an unknown outline that appears, trembling glass 

 

a girl who films herself, the leap to tarmac; 

this whispered whine of wind among leaves 

the lament of a body tumbling in dim light,  

 

dark strands swaying in a pool of blindness 

brush flakes that touch a cheek, on the verge, 

to be human and understand is not enough. 

Patrick Williamson is an English poet and translator from French and Italian. He has published over a dozen books. Recent poetry collections: Presence/Presenza (Samuele Editore, 2023). Here and Now and Take a deep look (Cyberwit.net, 2023 & 2022). Editor and translator of two anthologies of poets from French-speaking Africa and the Arab World: Turn your back on the night (Moving Words The Antonym, 2023) and The Parley Tree (Arc Publications, 2012). Member of transnational literary agency Linguafranca and the European editorial board of The Antonym.