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Silent comrade of the distances, Know that space dilates with your own breath; ring out, as a bell into the Earth from the dark rafters of its own high place -…
Don Paterson is a Scottish poet, writer and musician. on Paterson was born in Dundee. He won an Eric Gregory Award in 1990 and his poem A Private Bottling won the Arvon Foundation International Poetry Competition in 1993. He was included on the list of 20 poets chosen for the Poetry Society's 'New Generation Poets' promotion in 1994. In 2002 he was awarded a Scottish Arts Council Creative Scotland Award. His first collection of poetry, Nil Nil (1993), won the Forward Poetry Prize for Best First Collection. God's Gift to Women (1997) won the T. S. Eliot Prize and the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize. The Eyes, adaptations of the work of Spanish poet Antonio Machado (1875-1939), was published in 1999. He is also editor of 101 Sonnets: From Shakespeare to Heaney (1999) and of Last Words: New Poetry for the New Century (1999) with Jo Shapcott. His latest collection of poems, Landing Light (2003), won both the 2003 T. S. Eliot Prize and the 2003 Whitbread Poetry Award. He has also published three collections of aphorisms, The Book of Shadows (2004), The Blind Eye (2007) and Best Thought, Worst Thought (2008). Don Paterson teaches in the school of English at the University of St. Andrews and is poetry editor for the London publishers Picador. An accomplished jazz guitarist, he works solo and for ten years ran the jazz-folk ensemble, Lammas, with Tim Garland. He lives in St. Andrews, Scotland. Orpheus, his version of Rilke's Die Sonette an Orpheus, was published in 2006. He was appointed Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in the 2008 Birthday Honours.)
Don Paterson şiirleri
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It’s not the lover that we love, but love itself, love as in nothing, as in O; love is the lover’s coin, a coin of no country, hence: the ring; hence: the moon—…
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In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps one spark of the planet's early fires trapped forever in its net of ice, it's not love's later heat that poetry holds,…
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I love all films that start with rain: rain, braiding a windowpane or darkening a hung-out dress or streaming down her upturned face;…
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Our business is with fruit and leaf and bloom; though they speak with more than just the season's tongue— the colours that they blaze from the dark loam all have something of the j…
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As was my custom, I'd risen a full hour before the house had woken to make sure that everything was in order with The Lie, his drip changed and his shackles all secure.…
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A young man wrote a poem about a rat. It was the best poem ever written about a rat. To read it was to ask the rat to perch on the arm of your chair until you turned the page.…
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Jamie made his landing in the world so hard he ploughed straight back into the earth. They caught him by the thread of his one breath and pulled him up. They don't know how it held…
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But what lovers we were, what lovers, even when it was all over— the bull-black, deadweight wines that we swung…
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For Russ I'll tell you, if you really want to know: remember that day you lost two years ago at the rockpool where you sat and played the jeweler…