Patrick Meadows and Stephanie Shepard Memorial Site
This is the transcript of a 12-minute conversation with Patrick, recorded on 8 Oct 2014. Man, I love hearing his voice. The recording is way too long to post here, unfortunately, so you’ll just have to imagine the sounds of our laughter over the clinking of frequently refilled scotch glasses, the zoom-zoom noises he used […]
Now Seagulls flatter us upon the dock, each image bellied upon the cluttered waves; their parted, hectic beaks comma names, and as they carve the air (ellipses, ovals) clouds unfold their frescoes, flocks of feathered gods wrestling; sunlight twisting into shadows: caves, or marble fingers clenched. The river raves and flaps its dirty wings. Injured […]
Pigeons flutter in the park at dusk and shiver feathers in the mauve half-light: policemen meet under the lams to ask what the special is tonight. The air is crisp. Hunched in black, the hacks clutch a wreath of woven hide, staring at their knuckles or kneecaps; damp horses snort in fogs that stain the […]
Even in mundane correspondence, Patrick and his friends remained true to their artistic, poetic roots. Their imagery and storytelling lushly fills the pages. This is one reason I share these letters: to share his love of words and his practice and appreciation of the wordsmith craft. Patrick saved this exchange in a separate file, clearly […]
In 1960 there were still plenty of us who wanted to live in Greenwich Village. The heydays were long gone, but the aura still hung around. The Café Bizarre was just catching on. The Figaro still had wind quintets or string quartets live on Sunday morning, men with heavy sweaters and horn rims reading the […]
we won’t let you go! tackling me at the knees. gretchen is laughing at this new game with daddy. jennifer is older and cries her mother’s panicked eyes telling her it’s no joke with my books bundled in twenties i lash myself down the stairs, toss them into the vw bug and drive mari to […]
Here are three pages from Patrick’s 1962 diary. I recently found that he’d typed it up, so the transcription is below the pictures. (Click on the images to enlarge them.) Diary (page 1) PatrickPatrick Meadows 1934 – 2017. patrick-meadows.com
My love, I know that I have been a clown, And, bending with a rose in hand, no claim To formal loving should I have again; I know, who never knew before, the sound That rain makes kissing the dark before It tumbles to the earth and breaks in crowns, That you are painting beauty […]