Poems by Patrick Pritchett

Beginning with a Line from Peter Riley

This is where love fastens us to the earth, undoing us as dust, long fade to anonymity, of a thousand evenings in which the one thing that matters most is not the end of day, but the abolition of beginnings.

Because living is impure light, stolen from a darkness that commands it, & what is lost haunts us with the promise of another, truer disaster.

The mute globe of breath in the heart trembles – lallation & echo, subsidence on a gray shore.

Out of the pulp of matter sublimity, then senescence. Late fall to planet, the grinding hour of prayer. Ardent or faltering, a star wipes a face in a grainy photo. The yellow ivories, the smoothed woods. Listless.

The Death of the Author

for Jane Gallop

If I were a writer, and dead, then how bright the sky at evening when evening is a word for making other words.

And how I would love to be dispersed across the sky, ashes thrown to the wind and someone’s beautiful eyes reducing me to a few precious details. Travelling outside whatever my life had been, joining me to a future that cannot know me, except as a toy that resurrects the destroyed.

If I were a writer and no longer a part of my story, but given over unseen to the birds at evensong, returning to the same life, the very same and yet different. Speaking warmly with strangers at the gate, skirting the paths through the park, spying on the couples who are kissing in their sleep, a part of the larger night where everything has already happened without me.

If I were a writer, and dead, I would enter the room of sudden desires. The one with salty foods and glasses of whiskey. The book there where I had left it. Your eyes, your voice.

Whatever pierces me. Speeches me. Even now, dead, writes me.

The history of helplessness is the wish for lyric.

Song X

If the soul could —
If the soul were butter
or if the soul were dirt
it could see you better

and then where on earth
to take the spoon from sorrow?

If the drift were bigger
the weight of it, hefted —
If the slow ink of its death
dropped clear the way

then bells, after.

If the ride to the station
in winter, at night —
if the night blazed carillons
then how we’d want to

want to be bitter —
Glory of stars saying under stars.
The saying of stars is litter.

Then the soul dives —
Then the soul all under
its coat of shivers shivers —

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