Inviting The Light

I will be releasing a new hybrid collection on January 8th 2024 called Inviting the Light which will comprise of a physical poetry booklet and a digital 9 track bandcamp released album- this will form part 1 of a trilogy released this year - all diy all independent all paid for by myself- it is what i need to do- go back to the basics- i have no care for reviews or awards or three stars by some failed writer- i want to connect with real people about real things- these are poems of love loss grief healing awe hope and transformation and i reached out to a few trusted friends, artists and activists prior to the release and they have offered a few words in response- this means more to me than any review - it can be ordered here - i purposely have kept costs down as want the words and music to reach people not stay in the incestuous sewer of literary magazines and arts pages- we need poetry more than ever - i worked with two young Welsh musicians Ethan Jones and James Jones who have created a beautiful soundtrack to the words- i hope you may find some light in these dark days - thank you for your support heddwch. Gobaith. Cariad xxx

https://patrickjones3.bandcamp.com/album/inviting-the-light

‘Patrick harbours both love and rage in these/his words but also manifest within is a beautiful hope and reminder of our shared humanity’

Martyn Joseph 

‘Reading it was like being wrapped in a comfort blanket and the words connecting immediately, like an old friend giving you guidance and making you feel you are not alone with your struggles’

Liz Sullivan 

Themes personal and political mingle, clutch and capture each other, the one being stronger for the other. Patrick is no elevated ivory tower artist but an activist poet, involved in the anti racist and pro Palestinian struggles (amongst others); alive to the miseries of the world, he will not let them rest. His pieces about personal loss, including two which happen to be amongst my favourites of his recent work “You (For My Father)” and “Marcescence in Spring (For my Mother)”, gain added impetus by their juxtaposition with political themes, underlining the profound truth that “a way out is also a way in”. Richard Rose

‘Inviting the light’ is an uplifting booklet of poetry and its accompanying musical version displays a fascinating range of music from solo cello, to acoustic guitars and electronica. It is intensely personal , but a world view often informs these poems.’  Unwaith eto, da iawn Patrick Jones! 

Mike Jenkins 

 "Read this essential message" Caffy st Luce

 ‘These are poems for our times - a reminder to be human, to rage against injustice and to feel and love deeply.’ Rhiannon White

‘Inviting the Light is a journey through the immortal soil crossing the infinite sea where swimming brings fear as the door to new dawns and pain transforms in strength and human scars into shields with Palestinian lost eyes far in the sky watched by a traveler soul glued to his mother’s skirt and his penknife without letting them go.’

Jose Cifuentes

Fuse/Fracture release

Fuse/Fracture

(Selected poems 2001-2021)

 Published by Parthian Books October 2021

poetry as witness

to soul, to society

 

Llyfrau.           Gwybodaeth.            Rhyfeddod 

 

Over 25 years of words bearing witness to the world we live in and the soul we inhabit. Love. Loss. Grief. Healing. Gaslighting. Deceit. Austerity. Borders. Peace. Hope. Rage. Resilience. Protest. Survival. Community. Care. The Personal. The Political.

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

Peter Tatchell, human rights campaigner

 “Very strong stuff” Harold Pinter

 “‘Residual’ and ‘Mornings Teach Us Shadows’ are probably my favourite that he has ever written. Personal experience distilled, raw, visceral that aims to connect not confuse. I hope you feel the same way.”

James Dean Bradfield

“He reminds us of the importance of feeling seen, celebrated and listened to and that our voices matter. He inspires us  to fight for our space to be heard”

Rhiannon White

https://www.parthianbooks.com/collections/pre-order/products/fuse-new-and-selected-work

James Dean Bradfield's new album Even In Exile

Two years in the making and how wonderful to see it fly out unto the world to add to the material that already exists to tell the story of Victor Jara’s brave and tragic story. I wrote the lyrics for the tracks inspired by Victor Jara’s life and legacy and resonance to 2020. Beautiful to work with my dear friend and guitar hero James Dean Bradfield.

‘To see myself among so much
and so many moments of infinity
in which silence and screams
are the end of my song.
What I see, I have never seen
What I have felt and what I feel
Will give birth to the moment …’

 Victor Jara

James Dean Bradfield’s new album ‘Even In Exile’ is out now. You can Purchase/Stream/Download it here.

Here’s just a small selection of the great reviews the album has received in the press:

“Intriguing, emotive… all the stagey anthemic qualities you get from classic Manic Street Preachers” – 8/10 – Uncut

“Lyrical, memorable and exciting” – 4/5 – Record Collector

“Some of Bradfield’s finest songwriting in recent years” – 4/5 – NME

“In Bradfield’s capable hands, such enormous sounds echo the scale of Jara’s injustice.” 4/5 – The Independent

“Even without his bandmates, Bradfield manages to do what Manics have always done better than everybody else; explore the politics, history and legacy of art through an accessible rock and roll lens.” – 7.5/10 – The Line Of Best Fit

“One of our greatest living guitarists has conjured up something truly special.” – 9/10 – Clash

Reading Tour Autumn 2019

Small Revolutions/Chwyldroadau Bach  Reading Tour

  Dedicated  to my father, John Allen Jones, who first planted the seed of The Chartists into my soul

  From “A song For May” 

 ‘People, rise! and arm thee well!
Hope, that care cannot dispel,
Self-reliance, firmly wrought,
Wisdom by Experience taught,
Thrift and order, courage true,
These are arms to lead us through!
Wield them now—as you would thrive!—
Onward! 'tis the time to strive!’

 From a recent number of the Court journal we learn that
the Queen, in consideration of the sufferings of her
starving subjects, has been "graciously pleased" that the
crumbs of bread from the Royal tables should be given to
the Poor, instead of being thrown into the dust-bin.

 Ernest Jones, chartist  poet 1842

  As part of The Newport Rising  Festival 2019 , commemorating 180 years since the Chartist Uprising of 1839 whilst bearing witness to 2019  with the release of a new poetry album ‘Renegade Psalms’ with Membranes’ frontman John Robb , I am setting out on a journey to find out what people will stand up for today.
 An evening of spoken word. Ideas. Debate. Protest.
Hope.
Special guest performers at each reading plus open mic. 
Come and have your say in creating a People’s Charter for today.
 
Pay what you can afford
 

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

Peter Tatchell

 “Very strong stuff” Harold Pinter

 www.patrick-jones.info

 https://youtu.be/b7Xq_i1DMUw

 

twitter ; heretic101

 

http://www.gwentarchives.gov.uk/learning-resources/chartist-resources-at-gwent-archives.aspx

  Special guests include  performances/talks by Eric Ngalle Charles, Lucy Purrington, Jamie Bevan, Extinction Rebellion, Yes Cymru,  Memet Ali Alabora and Julie Pritchard.

  Workers Gallery Ynyshir  October 3rd  7 pm 

Swansea Fringe Festival  The Bunkhouse October 5th   5.45 pm 

Chapter  Arts Centre, Cardiff – ( The New Chartists)  October 15th  730 pm (£5) with Memet Ali Alabora/Jamie Bevan 

Gwent Archives  Ebbw Vale October 23rd 5pm  with Memet Ali Alabora and Julie Pritchard 

Big Pit October  Blaenavon Workingmen’s Hall   30th October  7 pm with Lucy Purrington 

Newport Rising Festival  The Westgate Hotel 

Newport  1stNovember  7 pm with Eric Ngalle Charles

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RENEGADE PSALMS - new album with John Robb

I am excited to announce that my new spoken word album Renegade Psalms will be released on September 13th 2019 through Louder Than War Records. It is my third album and features all music by The Membranes frontman John Robb. It is a document of our time and aims to bear witness to the issues that affect us as well as finding some hope and light in our common humanity. It also features a spoken word sample by my late great beautiful mother too. I will be doing a number of readings around it and linking in with The Newport Rising Festival . More to come……

https://louderthanwar.com/shop/vinyl/patrick-jones/

photo by Lucy Purrington

photo by Lucy Purrington

the unaloning

I believe the creative arts, with particular emphasis on writing, can take us to a place of healing away from our pain. For example when we dance or paint or sing or play an instrument we travel to a different part of our mind, our heart our spirit. We forget where we have been and where we are going and simply be.  As artists and/or practitioners we need to revisit our core beliefs of why we embarked upon our own creative journey. I often go back to why I started writing.  Out of loneliness, heartbreak, despair , sadness and rage I found words or they found me. I also think back to those incendiary moments and how I felt. That is the key. Feeling. That first flush of pride of self discipline of creation when you have written a poem, painted a picture played a few chords can resonate forever and we need to be able to offer our participants that same excitement because it is the same for everyone. And from that flood of positivity arises a plethora of ripples- self confidence, warmth, solidarity with our fellow group members, satisfaction to actual  chemical changes in the body as endorphins are released and lift the mood alongside neurotransmitters serotonin and dopamine that play vital roles in balancing the body’s emotional functioning. These feelings can take us somewhere else and in the blizzard of mental pain these ‘other places’ can be vital in providing respite from the anxiety, fear and loneliness that our mental health struggles can cause.

I believe the arts can anchor our souls in a drifting world. Even when things are dislocated poetry, music, dance, painting can gently piece the fractures back together, if only for a moment.But  that moment is all we have sometimes. Thus, we need to articulate these feelings - for ourselves and for others who may feel alone on their own journey. I am adding below a poem someone sent to me yesterday. I think it is beautiful and check out Sophie’s instagram and twitter pages as she documents her story. Below that I add a poem by Rumi which I often use in my workshops, The Guest House. So read these two poems and see what feelings they evoke. Thank you Sophie and Rumi.

  This poem from the 12 century Persian poet can be a comfort to those experiencing distress. Its message is one of inclusivity. Of  allowing all emotions/ moments  into the mind no matter how tragic or difficult they may seem. We can cope with them he says.  This can open up discussion about our worries and anxieties and by sharing we feel a burden lifted perhaps. Try to capture these maybe in a group poem with all contributing a worry and a coping strategy.

As we get older our defences are weakened we worry more end up fearing change or alteration which in turn affects our mental and physical well being. This poem, even though written over 800 years ago, comforts us in its message that whatever comes our way we should welcome . Particularly evocative for mental health struggles as Rumi openly invites depression, anxiety, fear, despair into his house. 

We can survive. We can tolerate hurt and pain. Do not be afraid. It will be alright. A glorious message to offer to the reader.  I use this poem as a trigger for the group to possibly explore their own ‘house’ and what we welcome into , what we have kept out and how we may furnish it. Perfect way into looking at metaphor and exploring, in very accessible terms, how we can take realistic life statements into a more poetic realm. 

Also,  you may want to explore it as a group piece whereby you have different rooms with different visions but all linked by the concept of the house or castle or hotel?

Run

by Sophie Mullins

instagram ; RunsWritesCodes

Twitter @RunsWritesCodes

I have run, gleefully, away
from my old body
whittled it down to muscle and sinew and, yes, bone.

I have tapped out a new rhythm, found a better way to live
with myself:

powerful (still thin!). So much finer
than waif-like,

choking on bread,

crying over calories -

so much better!

I have run, gleefully,

into the wild alone
touching fear in high hills
when the fog rolls in

and marvelling

at how fast my salvaged body can carry me

onwards
for hours
over anything

I run

because the whole world is huge,

not shrivelled, dry.

No longer a bird in a cage

waiting to die.

I run at the sun with a dragonfly

Tap, tapping out a rhythm

meditative,

calm.

this body amazes me

after all i have done

it forgives
and carries me

onward, forever

into the sun

THE GUEST HOUSE

Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

‘ You were born with wings. Why crawl through life”’ Rumi

‘ You were born with wings. Why crawl through life”’ Rumi

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To follow on from the previous post. That must not be the end. Those who use names, fists, gang mentality and  silence to chip away at the souls of those they are ultimately threatened of would like it to be,  but it is not. 

It should not have to be that way but sadly it sometimes is and it is imperative we empower and listen to those in need of support, those affected by another’s perception of them. It is not the reality we must remember. It can, for a time, become the reality and the face teeth flesh hair  we see in the mirror is distorted beyond what we can bear. We stare at ourselves but do not see our true selves. Our bodies, by way of our neural pathways, appear bloated, ugly, discoloured, too thin, too fat, too black, too white, too feminine, too male.

 We become coated in another’s words, swallow another’s fiction, paint ourselves with another’s colours and it tarnishes our beautiful reality. Partners, peers, parents, so called friends, alongside society itself dig their claws into our very being and we  lose sight of who and what we truly are.

But, but we must reclaim our bodies from those who would amputate our souls. Stare through the fog to truly see who we are. Not easy, especially during those fragile teen years and today’s digitised age adds another level of hell to fight against.

We need to talk to others, reach out to those who love and care for us. We need to find ourselves in books, songs, paintings, dances, instruments, clay and nature. When we are lonely and cut adrift reach for the musical medicine of our favourite song or poem. They will speak to us and help us find our voice again. 

Then in turn we shall articulate our pain and struggle for others to read and digest and feel as Arthur Miller said of his wanting to write plays …’unalone’ . We must continue building the cycle of care, love, empathy and unaloneness. Reach out , reach in. Be. 

We must not let the haters win. Remember , you, we, are not alone. 

 

A House Called Tomorrow

Alberto Ríos, 1952

You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen—
You are a hundred wild centuries

And fifteen, bringing with you
In every breath and in every step

Everyone who has come before you,
All the yous that you have been,

The mothers of your mother,
The fathers of your father.

If someone in your family tree was trouble,
A hundred were not:

The bad do not win—not finally,
No matter how loud they are.

We simply would not be here
If that were so.

You are made, fundamentally, from the good.
With this knowledge, you never march alone.

You are the breaking news of the century.
You are the good who has come forward

Through it all, even if so many days
Feel otherwise.  But think:

When you as a child learned to speak,
It’s not that you didn’t know words—

It’s that, from the centuries, you knew so many,
And it’s hard to choose the words that will be your own.

From those centuries we human beings bring with us
The simple solutions and songs,

The river bridges and star charts and song harmonies
All in service to a simple idea:

That we can make a house called tomorrow.
What we bring, finally, into the new day, every day,

Is ourselves.  And that’s all we need
To start.  That’s everything we require to keep going. 

Look back only for as long as you must,
Then go forward into the history you will make.

Be good, then better.  Write books.  Cure disease.
Make us proud.  Make yourself proud.

And those who came before you?  When you hear thunder,
Hear it as their applause.

 

https://youngminds.org.uk

the image of self, the self's image

I remember the day well. It was hot. Bright sun Children’s voices. Pontllanfraith outdoor swimming baths. Wet cubicles. Warm grass.I was 10. Fumbling to get changed. Excited at the prospect of cool water on skin. I remember leaving the safety of the changing room clutching my towel around me. Into the white sunlight.Already body conscious, though we didn’t name it as such in the 70’s I knew I had to get into that azure pool as quickly as possible. unnoticed.slip in. breath. Too late. Towel ripped off. Vultures circling. “Fat Pat, Fat Pat. Look look” I remember feeling as if every single eye turn to stare at me. Blubber. Pale. Teetering.In hindsight probably a few bored teens. But, but. Those few words used mostly as they rhymed easily ,stayed with me, branded into my forehead, followed me around like a lost dog. It wasn’t just the words, it was the power they gave to those who wanted to appear stronger, tougher, harder. More names followed like football chants bleating in my head announcing my arrival at every PE lesson every football changing room, every…every. Unbeknown to those few boys they had unleashed a would be poet for i began to invent revenge speeches in my head. Huge swathes of glorious eloquent put downs ending with a punch and I would walk off into the sunset . Neither materialised but I had begun to feel the latent brutal power of words.

It took me 12 years before I felt confident enough to take my top off in public again. And even now, as a 54 year old father of three, I relive those hot minutes slightly out of breath. As Wordsworth said, “Vertigo recollected in tranquility”. Maybe, maybe.

So in this week of Mental Health Awareness it is important we share our stories, our sadnesses, those scars that haunt but also those strategies of our overcoming those words of hope. More later……

TRACING THE BODY

 

the map of life lived

touch the skin

shelterer of souls

savaged and ravaged

ripped and wracked

opened and weaved

a casket, a cave 

embroidered with blood and tears

I finger the scars

roads back to hope

paths to understanding

tissue torn 

marks that warn

the soft shiny skin of then

grown over , wrapped up

healed and sealed

snapped yet somehow still intact

dislocation

abrasions

elbow frozen since 1979

nervenumbed ankle

spine slashed open

plastic disc cushions the blows

the surgeon's slice

above L4 L5

the cut

that saved your life;

 

trace those lines creaking 

the angle of your neck

stitches

knitted together

wear them  with honour

to say

 I           have                  lived

veneers and crowns 

panic attacks

black eyes

fear instilled

darkness distilled

stitches in time

bandages, balms and cracks

mindfields of 

breakdowns, 

break ups

and 

breakthroughs

read the poems

etched across your body

the sentence of sentences

the doingness of verbs

the thingness of your body parts

spoke and shall speak

the eloquence of screaming

startles the old

and inspires the young

tell it as it is

and

that, that shall be enough

an archived survival manual

resilient routes etched into existence

I place my pulse

over this persistent patchwork

pause. Feel. 

it throbs like a sun adrift in a galaxy

shining

 

shining

Mental Health Awareness Week 2019

In my role as Writer in Residence with The Royal College of Psychiatrists in Wales I will be blogging this week for MHAW and hope to share some poems, articles, videos, writing exercises and my own mental health journey . The theme for MHAW is body image- an issue more important than ever. So, to start off here is a fantastic poem by Lucille Clifton . A glorious body and life affirming poem.

homage to my hips

BY LUCILLE CLIFTON

these hips are big hips

they need space to

move around in.

they don't fit into little

petty places. these hips

are free hips.

they don't like to be held back.

these hips have never been enslaved,   

they go where they want to go

they do what they want to do.

these hips are mighty hips.

these hips are magic hips.

i have known them

to put a spell on a man and

spin him like a top!

 

Poem for Record Store Day 2019

DAD’S RECORDS

 ( for all the beautiful record shops now then an forever )

Flip, flip, pause, wait, flip, hold

With each flick of plastic

I transcend time

Find myself

Transported to Martin Luther’s

Blackwood high Street circa 1981

 

He was the king of vinyl

Where,

Just to walk through town

With a plastic bag  with the shop’s logo

Was a badge of coolness

An insignia of hipdom

Even

 If it did contain

Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry like the wolf’!

 

Flip, flip, pause, wait, flip, hold

 

My arthritic fingers

Suddenly nimble as I

Flip through the albums

As Sepia memories flicker 

Time travelling in close grooves

I taste the titles

Finger the little squares of heaven

Like a naïve archaeologist I carefully dig

Discard the surrounding soil

To unearth the turntabled treasure

Black Sabbath ‘Live at Last’

In   the    bargain         bin!

who needs the  Dead Sea Scrolls

 when you find this?

I like the order of the records

A-F Heavy Metal

Prog, Punk, Indie Ska

Layered lives

The neatness of band names

Half man half biscuit

The Slits

The The

Even splodgenessabounds ( though they should be stored in comedy not punk)

The immediacy of then

Comforting the now

Compartmentalized moments

 Held to the light

Smiles  in amber

 

Flip, flip, pause, wait, flip, hold

 

A road map to solace

When all else fails

It is that one song

We remember

Sending echoes through neural pathways

Lighting lost roads

With that soaring chord sequence

Framing that tragic love story

As Spandau  listened to Marvin

The weeping

The being

Anthems of a blue,marooned ( not 5)

Generation

Suddenly finding their way home

In the museum of the  misplaced

As

Tiny black grooves

Spark

Epic rainbowed veins

Arteries to resonance

Paths to glory

Highways to hell

Like a

Ragged 10 commandments

You create yours

To walk the line

Begin your day with the friendly voice

See kidney machines replaced by rockets and guns

Fallen leaves in the night

 I had no way of knowing

fallen leaves in the night

Isolation desolation incantation

I will  still follow

it’s just a spring clean of the may queen

Even if there’s no future in england’s dreaming

So stuff your fucking army

Killing  isn’t my idea of fun

We shall overcome

In the tunnel of love

With our bullshit detectors

and stay in our garage all night

 

Flip, flip, pause, wait, flip, hold

Hold

 

 

Hold, 

poetry reading

it has been a while since i have performed live due to various practical and emotional issues. I feel i am ready once again to get out there and share words. the time is right. x

Poetry Reading

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Monday 25th March

7.30 pm

live poets society

Cinema and Co

17 Castle St, near Castle Square, Swansea SA1 1J

Swansea

an exciting evening of radical poetry organised by Tim Evans