My good friend, Patrick Chapman, has just published his seventh – yes, 7th! – collection of poetry. And it’s utterly brilliant.
Personally, I think Slow Clocks of Decay is a bit more experimental than his earlier works. Though, no less exceptional.
He writes of love and loss with a thoroughly modern voice.
You won’t find images of Ireland’s rolling green pastures here, but a dystopian 21st century society.
He’s one of the best poets Ireland has ever produced and, mark my words, he’ll win the Nobel Prize for Literature one day.
So, just click on the links to order your copy. And, to whet your palate, I’ve included a taster under the pic., with the kind permission of the author.
By Patrick Chapman.
Eighteen winters on, I find your jet-black
hold-up in my box of old remarkables,
the rubber garter still with spring in it.
I drape the stocking long on the bed
and try to imagine your pale slender leg
filling it toe to knee to thigh and beyond
in a matter transmitter reconstitution
of you with a physical copy that holds
your consciousness, your memories,
your tenderness, your wit still dry –
while out in the real, the original you
has surely diverged in directions I can’t
follow: some of your people passed on;
you a mother, an aunt or alone; and every
cell in your body, twice overwritten.
If that you can bear think of me
it may be with disdain for who I was
at the end but listen, my old love,
he has been replaced so many times –
no longer that young cripple who,
out of repression and pain, cracked
your heart and in its fracture fatally
punctured his own. So far undone is he
that even teleport could never bring us home.