Biography of Patrick Dennis
'No man can create as did Shakespeare, Homer, Sophocles who did not believe with all his blood and nerve that man's soul is immortal.'
Patrick Dennis Poems
Joy is a way of looking at you & me & this & that, and all things that may oh - heaven knows - cause us grief
An Argument With A British Poet
Poetry is memorable speech, you say? Yes, I heard a young man in Dublin when I was there cursing and swearing on a street corner. I shall never forget it.
Down from the trees, a Kookaburra, tempted by the throwdown of meat, descends, hops, chuckles and gobbles; and bounces back.
My memories are yesterday in the fern place under the great convent house at Clermont, going out for the last time from the lash and curse of nuns. Unrehearsed, you come to me
'And there were in the same country shepherds watching and keeping the night watch over their flock.' (Luke 2: 8 On the icy dark, the ghostly shape of shepherds: and the sheep like clumps of rock on the sea's shore
I have seen snowcapped mountains and pristine fields adorned with the blush and hues of Heaven; but I live here on this arid plain stretched four ways to infinity.
Here & Now
I feel but cannot hear the downward beat of the owl's wings which seem to move like a poem on feathered air.
Synchrony Of Bells
Poems should clang and pull against like the tongues of church bells out of synch with their housing.
Four States Of The Soul
Fire purges in His fierce ecstasy all things of sap and clay and takes to Himself - oh! - the refined and raptured brides of Fire. Charcoal, well dried, longs for the Fire
Outside The Library
This morning at five to ten nineteen souls and I sit for the ten o'clock opening impatient and hungry eyed: there's soul food inside.
Jubilee Prayer 2000 (Australian Version)
O, Great Nothing in the sky incline your ear as we sigh. the trinity of zeroes now here with us is stirring up a bit of fuss
Rows of boys turn up their eyes on the good new rector who plans to regroup the shattered morale of the huddled parade of the young church militant upcoming brigade.
We Are Here
We are pilgrims, you and I. Hand in hand, baggage burdened we tread a dusty track which though south twisting here and there
My memories are yesterday in the fern place
under the great convent house at Clermont,
going out for the last time from the lash
and curse of nuns. Unrehearsed, you come to me
hand outheld with my maroon Onoto pen.
'You forgot this' you said. 'Thanks' I said
and was gone.
A boy has tidings of manhood at twelve