I'm Paddy, a young man with wild hair and a passion for words. I'm currently studying English at the University of Exeter, part of which is creative writing, led by the poet Andy Brown, who has become a huge influence on my work. Some of my other influences are Rufus Wainwright, Ted Hughes, Philip Larkin, Leonard Cohen, Philip Larkin, Simon Armitage, Alec Guinness, Bill Hicks, Frank Turner and Billy Bragg. With influences like these I find my poems often have a distinct melancholic edge to them, but my themes are accessible and honest. Some of my poems are soon to be featured in The Journal, Exeter's quarterly writing review, and The Cadaverine, a Leeds-based magazine which focuses on promoting young writers, and can be read at www.thecadaverine.com. I am also a solo musician and a member of Exeter-based folk collective Horses and Mountains, along with the very talented Rob Sherman, whose poetry is also featured on this site. You can read some more of my poems on my myspace page, and listen to my songs. I hope you enjoy them and find them pleasurable, and feel free to add me on myspace or e-mail me if you have any queries, comments, insults, anything at all. Thanks very much for visiting :D
The Ant Rocks A long-awaited exchange Of mutual existence Recalls a name, long-forgotten But instantly familiar. As children, thrown unceremoniously Into holidays and grandparents, The rocks of Westward Ho! Were a cornucopia of caves In which to hide and seek, To laugh and dream. So we called them ‘The Ant Rocks’ Because we were tiny as insects In our pale skins we would soon outgrow, Tiny as ants, In a world we wrongly believed Was run by the ‘grown-ups’. On the Fire of Camden Lock Market As I watch you go up in flames To the din of police sirens, I am fourteen again, Treading your battered boards As a new world opens before me. The smells Which pierced my teenage nostrils Remain. The fragrance Of herbs, leather and Chinese food Are there, yet they are masked By acrid, fuming smoke And a violent rain of cinders. As we stand in the smoky street And later adjourn to the silent pub Under the watchful eye of the news report, There is little to do but stare, Soundlessly gazing at our teenage years As they burn away to dust.
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