Patrick Meadows and Stephanie Shepard Memorial Site
Poems inspired by, or written by Patrick Meadows and Stephanie Shepard.
Patrick loved the poetry of W. S. Merwin, so when my friend Terry sent me a link to this poem, I knew that it needed to be shared here, on the anniversary of Patrick’s passing. The following link is an authorized reprint, found on the Poetry Foundation web site. For your convenience, I’ve also included […]
_by nowI have learnedthat all things portendbut thenwhen we fought each other downby day and made it upby night i did not know the sloop sailedhard by the ochre cliffsthe waves slapping like wet sheetson the stony shorea gull shriekedriding our spill from the falcon’s nesta feathered missile hurtledair to airspur and talon demolishedthe gliding […]
I have just stoked up the wood burning Jotul, and just in case we are inspired to song, put on the heater in the music room. By my wing-back is the copy of Great Jones Street cover curling from the damp bookmark in place. I have just cooked turkey in mustard with old-fashioned mashed potatoes, […]
This is a bookmark. The front had a love poem in Spanish by Argentinian poet Mechi Alvarellos, followed by Patrick’s translation. On the back was a note that read: “JP — I thought you should be the one to throw these away. I have many letters from 1960’s on — you want them?” As you […]
The sky behind the bluff catches fire and burns Down the clouds, spreads to the peaks Above the bay; the wind changes and turns The waves into dolphins racing to break The headland toward the open sea. The squall breaks over us, not from sky or hill, But out of black crashing ocean spilled Over […]
My father is referenced in the very first line, and Lois is mentioned later. I think this is one of Fred’s poems, but I’m not sure. The penmanship in the note matches a 1971 letter of his to a reasonable degree (the L and W in particular) and he references Bob, so I think my […]
Here are a pair of rejection notices from The Carolina Quarterly, offering analysis while encouraging further submissions. These are undated. I have no clue as to which poems were being considered.
I’m an imperfect copy of an imperfect father Adopting his failures Mimicking his weaknesses Poorly duplicating his better qualities His virtuosity in music His confidence with women His tenacity in publication We shared the joy of teaching A love of words and music A sharp wit and curmudgeonly air A familial void The absence of […]
These memories Unfairly risen from distant, awkward past Shimmer on horizon Distort the view Reflections From murky mirror in rusty frame Hint at what once was Mar the recollections With clouded silvered glass And cobwebs draped in ornate corners Eyes focused forward We march toward the future But our boot laces Like these memories Remain […]
the moonshattered in the fountainswings west while we sleep and dream:the moon is shattered in the fountain.let’s wake the poetwith so many dreamshe will have things to say. I have no idea when this was written, or if this is even Patrick’s. It was at the top of the file called poems.odt, which contained a […]
How many springs is it nowthat Tomeu pretends he has heard the first song?And I dispute his word? The trouble isTomeu is nativeand I a stranger with no such birdin the land I knew. But so strong is my wishI cannot shake my faith: There must be a wind to bring themup from Africa – such small creaturesneed […]
She is happiestfacing the morning sunamong her snapdragons. Or with the pregnant caton her lapwhile she reads. Or trimming the bramble on our path. Or playing the flutelistening to the owl Or when we are alone. Whatever she is doingshe is happiestwhen she is doing it. Deya, 1980s PatrickPatrick Meadows 1934 – 2017. patrick-meadows.com
De Ivonne: Aqui te envio mi escrito para publicarlo si quieresen la web, junto con la foto de Deia. Un beso y cuidado en las carreras. — From JP, to those who don’t speak Spanish: use the Google Translate feature, located above the search bar on the right. — . A dos dedos frente a […]
My father spoke to me today He, whose ashes we buried JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
Stephanie’s brother Tate sent this poem to me to share on the site. You can see the handwritten version more clearly by clicking on the images, but the copies are faded so it’s typed here as well. Nobody, nobody at all is going to care when I die. My brother and I were our mother’s […]