Poems by Graham Patten

Poems by Graham Patten


an itch on the side of your left calf distracts you.
moist sticky air that you breath in,
and when you breath in half-fills unsatisfyingly and dead drab.
your breath pushes down in your diaphragm
onto your small, tense gut.
An unsettling draft rushes by your ankles and crawls up.

as the stale air passes and returns,
brushing your arm with spine-chill,
your head is cocked and turned suddenly,
without your permission,
to the direction where the returning chill air comes from.
the gust has been lightened and rounded out to roughly cut your breath.
you’re hungry.

All nothing.
All and whole nothing
that persists and moves as a thing.
Sullen though unsaid.
Stomache aglow with swarm of high cloudy
to singing in the ears.
Unthinkable no sounding
No trouble.
No moving.
Not sounding
as to hint to anything at all.
Persisting to move as a thing.

Unanounced flounderiing
not glowing outside
Outside is a thrashing, filling of
no sound
swallowed as the wholeness of
the mind.
But amiss,
this one, not to show, not to allow,
caught in a presence.
An unallowed presence.
The pushing of a mind to another,
moving as a persisting thing.

Swarmed with an open,
an unopened
poses still, to froth through and slice.
Into the disturbing undisturbed.
The silent yelling of
dance thoughts,
desperation of the one unpierceable shadow of
an other’s thoughts
cut by a quick, glancing assumtion of attention.
The risen flame of their traveling mind,
bumped by a
continually persistant pushing

Only a slight of
stealth to which no means defies.
Pushes through.
Not to mean a damage.
To forward the driven wild of love,
share a portion of undermining hate.
Sling of unpermisable gratifying,
sorting out of no problems,
moving in a persisting, given fleeing.
The persistance of a thing,
only at once,
now dropping to a savage falling.
Already, though slight, fast and swallowing enourmous.
Oversaid in no words.
All thoughts given.
Now all nothing.

Catching light, though not troubled.
Not sounding.
Madden fear.
Course attraction, pulled, pushed.
Unshown living.
Hide in a cloud of stillness.
No moving silence.

Covering all,
bright loud, unnoticed,
persisting as a moving, thick shadowing.
Missed but definite.
Quiet not disturbed,
thobbing silently.
Not sounding.
Not hinting as to a quiet,
All and nothing.
Wholy, all, now, nothing.

This next one has a little explanation with it, but I’ll just tell you. In
reading The Tempest, I was assigned to pick a character and then find a
similar, or parallel, character from another book. I chose Ferdinand from
Tempest and Jacob, from Thunder Cave, (which you gave me). We then had to
compose a monologue for our second character, parallel to one of our Tempest
character. I chose to write mine in iambic pentameter. I’ll stick in
Ferdinand’s as well:

Ferdinand’s monologue

Fer. Where should this music be? I’ the air, or the earth?
It sounds no more; and sure it waits upon
Some god o’ the island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the King my father’s wrack,
THis music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air. Thence I have followed it,
Or it hath drawn me rather; but ‘tis gone.
No, it begins again.

My monologue for Jacob

Jacob. Where this here native came from I know not.
He’s dropped down from the heavens or come up
Right from the earth, but just to disappear.
He must be serving some most artful god
Of Africa. I stand here bound in ropes
Most pris’ner of this dreadful lonesome tree
And thinking sadly thoughts of my lost father.
But in some hope I watch the graceful art,
Of this mysterious tribesman as he comes,
Defeat my gloomy captors. Or ‘tis they
Who by their own fear do be defeated now.
But now this dainty native is but gone.
No, yet again he suddenly appears.