Biography of James Fitzpatrick
James Firzpatrick is an Irish writer, film producer, and owner of a music label, who is the creator of three forms of poetry, Paragraphical, Triplicism and Lyrical Triplicism.
He has been writing poetry since the late 1990's and developed an understanding of poetic structure through Nessa O' Mahoney's Dublin Writer's Centre.
Titanic and other poems, is published through Apex a UK Publisher. The paperback version will be out in 2015
James Fitzpatrick's Works:
James Fitzpatrick Poems
The blackbirds swooped in their customary jealous way, the Robin Chirped before leaving for another year, and I patted The well fed brown clay with my muddy boats. I remember planting her in the spring hush just after the flakes stopped,
He sits on the edge of the world Watching us come Jotting, then scribbling, then painting, then down To lie back in his hive and marvel at us
Nothing. Just a clear sky on a dulling day. A deserted street with waving flags on painted posts. The regimentation of complete uniformity. The lack of empathy in silent sorrow. I march to where they are buried in a dark graveyard of black nodding heads, painted with wide staring eyes, and grimacing teeth. I have taken a backward step to move me forward on a sinking bog, squelching, climbing to who knows where.
Massacre Of The Innocents
Entombed, by a chronic Phidias, Chained, by a weakening Kratos, Plagued, by a ‘Pandorian' Evil, Comforted, by a Reddening Hermit,
The Train Journey
It was a dreamy evening, one which brought the romantic sparse mist which covers wide wrought iron platforms, like Victorian melodramas. I was being 'Pollocked' by the puddle making, clothes dappling stuff, which soaks socks, stockings, boots and shoes, sticking the aul drowned ticket collector to their chevron Sunday best. I spied a damp flaking bench and climbed wearily aboard.
The Terracotta Girls
Butchered, in the modern Kiln of the obsequious, Infected, by the septic words Of a feral Baachus, Laying, tongue tied by the Ghosts
Queenstown Cobh, Southern Ireland 1: 30p.m.Thursday April 11th 1912 In salubrious Olympus attire,
The Bulls Of The Yellow House
In a dining roomed Mausoleum, above a worn shop On a slight but steady incline, I stared at crass Orange frames, corralling Strange botanical Homilies.
The Millionaire's Island
Where a stray breeze shakes the shimmer on the sands, you stand alone leg high on a custard coloured Doon. Below you, a gapping greenish mouth chews away another sand bar, gobbling it's gold desert with seaweed dappled teeth. As the east sun meets a constable sky, you bask in the admiration of nature, as the twisting surf washes away the day before. It's a grand life, you suppose. here you can walk for miles, days, without meeting a single person. You are surrounded in a vast expanse of Sun, lawn and hilltop, all emptied, at your request. As you climb the craggy mounds, seagulls swoop and shrill, swirling around their tiny homes, then sit and watch you stroll on by. To them, you're just another tourist on their island, stranded, lost without your bottle.
The Fourth Man
In front of me, haar like February breathes bellowed from the tightened portholes of three men, sat on a withered bench. They each flicked hardened crumbs from rip ridden bags, on to pigeon dappled stonework. Neither talked to another. They spoke in complete silence. To my left, a dapper young man with a bulging bag of fresh bread took a seat. He sat silhouetted by the fountain's spray glowing in morning light, where it seemed a mini rainbow encompassed his very being. Shrouded in a prism of fabulous colours, he broke bread with his soft hands.
Christmas At Switzers
Heavy, is heart of youth that ticks the clock, Beneath the light, that guards the line, Which craves the end of dread about.
where a tawdry sun would rise, we would amble to wash our backs in front of the brown orange swirls on the crumbling grey earth. Here, we'd dig our toes in to the slurping, sogging, sucking, wet, stretch to cadge the flickers of colour,
A Full Life Of Narrow Streets
Along a steep hill, at the edge of a great town, A freezing blanket creeps as a soft sparse mist Hovering lightly above the body a of man. For a few cool moments it envelopes him,
Savour the last of the species, vigorously jotting Painting, scribbling on hidden rocks, In caves amid the jaggedness. Fattened are the other blackened hearts,
The Terracotta Girls
Butchered, in the modern Kiln of the obsequious,
Infected, by the septic words
Of a feral Baachus,
Laying, tongue tied by the Ghosts
Of the All quietened,
Damned, by brotherly Disputation.
Their sadness shimmers in ‘Ciceric' ripples,
Slain by the hair of horse,