David Paton


David Paton has suffered from mental health difficulties for about twenty years. He has written poems and lyrics during this period as a way of gathering his thoughts and, hopefully, making some sense of his experiences. 'The Little-Bang' is his first prize winning poem and his second to be published.


DeathBe not blackBe brim with huesOf lime, plumGrey and raspberry Be dotsAnd glintsBe stripes of russetFaded-goldAquamarine Be flame- red featheredTurquoiseYellowCrazy(Like a tapestry) Be what you areAbsolvedAwareIn trustAtonedSerene.


It wears me outThis faint-musicThis trickledownOf missing you.


Time is a wrinkleThat, extends a little when you smileIt’s finite and empiricalI hope it wends for many miles.

Woman (in A Puce Shell-Suit)

She sat downSuckingOn a canister of lighter- fuelHaving rummaged ’round the carriageFor a sympathetic-ear The hoity-toity ladiesMade a bee-line for the knitting- woolAnd, glanced above their spectaclesAs soon as it was clearThat she didn’t have a ticketThat she didn’t have a destinationDidn’t have the moneyAnd, she probably had rabies!’cause she looked a little manicThough she told me not to panicThen she said, “I couldn’t help it,They took away my babies.”

The Little-Bang

A trace of bloodshed on my handsI share my father’s dopey-eyesI’m certified politely- madBut, sadly, I just can’t quite cry A twinkle in my mother’s wombI hope that when I die I’ll knowUntil then I’ll nurse my woundsA spark begat ex nihilo The alpha and the omegaA walnut, being openedIn the manner of a MobiusThe calling of another zone.

Pin It on Pinterest