Biography of Patrick White
Former poet laureate of Ottawa. Eight books of poetry: Poems (Soft Press) , God in the Rafters, (Borealis) , Stations (Commoner’s Books) , Homage to Victor Jara, (Steel Rail Press) , Seventeen Odes, (Fiddlehead Books) , Orpheus on Highbeam, (Anthos Books) , Habitable Planets, New and Selected Poems, (Cormorant Books) , and The Benjamin Chee Chee Elegies, (General Store Publishing) . His work has been translated into five languages and appears in hundreds of national and international periodicals and anthologies, including the likes of Poetry (Chicago) , Dalhouse Review, Texas Quarterly, the Fiddlehead, and Georgia Review, etc. Winner of the Archibald Lampman Award, Canadian Literature Award, Benny Nicholas Award for Creative Writing, he was also a runner-up for the Milton Acorn People’s Poet Award. Founding editor and publisher of Anthos, a Journal of the Arts, Anthos Books, and producer-host of Radio Anthos, a popular literary radio show. George Woodcock wrote of his Selected Poems in the Ottawa Citizen: He promises to be one our best and best respected poets. Sharon Drache, in the Kingston Whig Standard: He might well win the Nobel Prize one day in his own inimitable way. And Orbis, (London, England) , has said of his work: His images are strong, lyrical, moving. He dares and achieves.
Patrick White's Works:
Poems (Soft Press)
God in the Rafters (Borealis Books)
Stations (Commoner's Books)
Seventeen Odes (Fiddlehead Books)
Homage to Victor Jara (Steel Rail Publishing)
Orpheus on Highbeam (Anthos Books)
Habitable Planets, New and Selected Poems (Cormorant Books)
The Benjamin Chee Chee Elegies (General Store Publishing)
Patrick White Poems
My Death Was A Quiet Event
My death was a quiet event. I entered the abyss with all the constituents of the first sign of life to give voice to the silence
You Are Crazy
You are crazy and beautiful and wounded and wild and the youngest daughter of a coven of poetic sea-witches,
The Widening Compass Of Pain
ations. At war with the world and yourself like two halves of the same unbroken wishbone,
A Day Of Writing
A day of writing, trying to clarify myself to Alysia, myself, Alysia, to the night rain, trying to hang the universe on the tip of an eyelash without blinking, pulling handfuls of the stagnant dimensions
You Were The Intimacy
You were the intimacy of the things I loved that were so impossibly far away I could never reach out and touch them
Rain At Five In The Morning. Can'T Sleep
Rain at five in the morning. Can't sleep. Too many shards of broken mirrors of the way things are in my mind. Not enough windows to look through
Yes, There Are Pale Gardens
Yes, there are pale gardens, wings ribbed like the eyelashes of butterflies, and roses of flaking blood rooted like something that was said between the lines of lovers
Taking An Upbeat Flambuoyant Approach To...
Taking an upbeat flambuoyant approach toward catastrophe. A good attitude to go on perishing by. Adept at it. Like Atlantis happy enough
I Don'T Know What I'M Here For
I don’t know what I’m here for. I just write. I just paint. Like breathing in and out. Inspired expiration. I watch the rain, blankly, sometimes for hours, washing off the dust
Counting Orphic Skulls On The Abacus Of ...
Counting Orphic skulls on the abacus of a spider web. Listening to them click like pool balls, crabs and castanets. I'm beading new solar systems out of the nebular air. I'm seeding clouds of unknowing with genetically unmodified meteors.
Alcohol, Sex, And This Cold Spring Night...
Alcohol, sex, and this cold spring night in their blood, the rowdies outside the Crown and Thistle have taken their chilly elations home. Past midnight, the town quiescent, the moon, Venus and Jupiter set, the silence of the stars
Mad People Trying To Impress Me
Mad people trying to impress me with the quality of their souls. Ego-slurry alienated radioactively from the rest of the world trying to compensate for the meltdown of their lives by glowing bioluminescently in the dark like the tiny zodiacs
Flowers Are The Clocks Of The Light
Flowers are the clocks of the light. Spring grey. Clouds. Half smoke, half crocus. The rivulets are carrying last November's leaves away like long lines of ants bearing the gnostic gospels
On A Barren Hilltop In The Moonlight
On a barren hilltop in the moonlight, as if the soul of the rock it’s rooted in had been torn out of it by the nape of the neck the broken pine bears its agony alone
The beast of a thousand unconsummated yesterdays
born without names in the gutter
roars in the rags of its own blood
for the poxy apricot of the rising moon. My voice
is a guitar without strings, the dark well
of an eclipse that eats the dragon
that has lingered too long in the depths without stars.
The crazy windows in this burning room
plead for a reason, a purpose, a sign