Welcome

Welcome to the official webpages of writer Patrick Jones. Here you will find details of current projects, past works and contact information.

"Thoughtful, provocative and challenging, these poems engage and
enrage"
Peter Tatchell, human rights campaigner

“Very strong stuff”
Harold Pinter
NEWS

Patrick will be performing at this year's Laugharne Festival. He will be at The Rugby Club, Laugharne on May 2nd 7pm. See festival website for more info

http://thedylanweekends.com/this-timeless-beautiful-barmy-town/


"all truth passes through three stages.first, it is
ridiculed. second, it is violently opposed.third, it
is accepted as being self -evident"
Arthur Schopenhauer

A NEW POEM

Our silence makes us guilty

(In memory of
Stephanie Bottrill)

a poem can never do justice what happened to
Mrs Bottrill,
but I have just read about how she took her life
how the fear of having to pay an extra £20 a week
and all the red tape and hidden persecutions
got too much for her ,
in the same week as the queen took the hotseat
in parliament to outline
the coalitions plan for the future year
to pursue those most vulnerable, fragile, in need

what is £20 to ALL To all of those people sat upon their
soft bullingdonned arses?
A tip to a cab driver, a bottle of red, a tax deductible donation to a charity online?A cheap ticket to one of those West End farces?

£20 think about it
a matter of life and death
the line between today and tomorrow
if only if only
the lonely mantra of contemporary britain
bathed in silent sorrow

laissez faire only means non interference
if you're rich enough to avoid it
for everyone else it is worse than the gulag
to everyone else it is the brown envelope
the 0870 debt collection line
the late payment letter
the Social Services Manager
The Mis sold PPI announcer
the Credit rating downgrader
bank trader
bailiff self operator
pay day loan adviser
call centre supervisor
see,
we are not really in this together

the bedroom tax
code
for
thou shalt not live freely
has killed someone

Mrs Stephanie Bottrill

take note those
who will avoid responsibility
take note of her name
those who passed such laws
then run and hide behind your gated community
take note
those enforcers of silent servitude
her name
should be emblazoned upon your foreheads
should be talked about in cabinet meetings
should remind you
of the human cost
of your inhuman policies
remember her name
for it should not be lost
in the insipid pronouncements of ministers
and spokesmen
amongst the doublespeak of press conferences
and electioneered henchmen
and
maybe
by telling her story
someone somewhere
shall listen
be unafraid to mention
to
acknowledge our frail mortality
and alter this elitist deception
and make sure it never happens
again
for
we are all one payday away from eviction
we are all
Stephanie Bottrill,
mother, grandmother, human being

Dear Mr Cameron, Mr Clegg and Mr Lansley,.................

THE HEALING HOUSE


"the public interest is taken care of by the private
interest of wanting to make money"
John Redwood 1994

"we have been the dreamers, we have been the
sufferers, now we are the builders"
Aneurin Bevan, 1945

bring your children to the nursery
with their disease and sickness,
this is the place where I hope to cure all illness
at the point of need, this is an emergency

come now, our tomorrow
rest yourself
as i halt fear and heal bone marrow,
and, from an early death
i promise emancipation,
with my doctors, nurses
and vaccinations

let in the mothers
the pool is ready for another,
carer of the next generation,
sleep, prepare for this new birth,
I offer you protection,
as you grow the roots of our new earth

welcome, people from other nations,
with troubled faces from distant places,
i have room for you, my new patients,
i have no borders to caring,
pain has no dialect, this language is for sharing
let love be found in translation

sit, eat from my pantry,
become healthy
as you, you are my ultimate test,
bring me your tortured tongues
so you may speak again
from far off battlefields show your scarred flesh
so i can stem the blood and heal your pain.

to you, the wiser, the elderly, the old,
do not be afraid, do not huddle in the cold,
my door is open,
come in, come in,
it is warm, trust us,
and i shall lance the boils of poverty's injustice,
and drain the infection,
as in my house these rooms
offer cure by prevention,

and so to the sick, to the dying, those crippled with
disease
stay, in my garden,
breath,
lay, beneath the trees
i shall provide peace and serenity
to strengthen the health of vulnerablity
no matter what age, sex, class, race or country,


my windows pour penicillin
my library, the words of the masters,
Simpson, Pasteur and Fleming
not market forces or ignorant capitalists

so be careful how you treat your house, our home
never neglect or leave alone
keep clean, add extensions
but never damage the bricks or remove my foundations

from the wasteland of squalor, disease and
dereliction,
I am the safe place
the healing home
injecting cells with reconstruction,
the everlasting bandage
to deliver all from illnessed bondage
I am the suture
to stitch the wounds of the past
but i am the scalpel
to carve the future
to make this dream last
to make this dream last.



"the verb is more important than the noun"
Aneurin Bevan



"Thoughtful, provocative and challenging, these poems engage and
enrage"

Peter Tatchell, human rights campaigner

“Very strong stuff”
Harold Pinter

A NEW POEM


THE LIE

I found the lie again this morning
I shouldn't have looked
but i'm sorry, I did
went searching under beds
and amongst names,
it lay so still, I wasn't sure if it was still alive
so I poked it,
held it, almost cradled it
took it outside
into the bright sunlight
gave it the kiss of life
it grew and grew
stood up once more
stretched and looked at me
then walked away, shouting names,dates,times,clues and crimes,

I ran after it,
clawing, stumbling through thicket,
tried to stop it going
knocked it to the floor kicked and punched it
til it lay lifeless once more,
I picked it up,
carried it inside,
as before,
I hide it in a secret place
closed the door
swallowed the key
and sat in the sun
i know where the lie is now,
but I can't tell anyone
what I have done-