Patricia Williams

CONTACT:
E1910 County Road C
Iola, WI 54945
ninegables.studio@gmail.com

BIO:
Patricia Williams, originally from the Chicago area, taught Art and Design, most recently spending 27 years as a professor at the University of Wisconsin – Stevens Point. Art, design, music and poetry, she feels, are natural partners, all creatively examining life and living. Williams first began writing poetry in 2013 after retirement, learning by reading, attending workshops and rewriting, rewriting and more rewriting. Her work appears or is forthcoming online and in print journals and anthologies, including Fox Cry, Liquid Imagination, Midwest Prairie Review, Negative Capability, Plum Tree Tavern, Poetry Quarterly, Silver Blade, Stoneboat Literary Review, Third Wednesday, among others. Her first chapbook, The Port Side of Shadows: Poems of Travel – Inner, Outer and Uncharted Places, will be released in Spring 2017, from Finishing Line Press.  A Best-of- the-Net nominee, she lives in the Iola countryside with her husband and is working on two new chapbooks. 

PUBLICATIONS:
The Port Side of Shadows: Poems of Travel -- Inner, Outer and Uncharted Places (Spring 2017). Order here
 

Poetry

Expatriate
“Serenely let us move to distant places
and let no sentiments of home detain us…
prepare for parting and leave-taking
or else remain the slave of permanence” – Hermann Hess

Rows of brick bungalows and two-flats,
an occasional white cottage, the corner store,
all in city-block order –

narrow back-alleys and
streets lined with spring-flowered catalpa trees,
their blossom clusters, like cymbidium orchids,
their leaves, heart-shaped –

mothers in tidy houses with dirt-free windows
sweep front walkways,
yet falling red mulberries still stain the bottom
of children’s shoes – 

Visions of what we have left and
those who have left us,
images of long-past selves,
years of plenty, years of drought – 

we carry them all, scattered through life
like last year’s snow.


Dancing Flamenco in Ronda

I went to Andalusia to breathe the spirit,             

to feel the aura of Spanish hill towns.

 

In Ronda, a sky island perched on sheer cliffs,

spanning a rugged canyon,         

I found flamenco in a smoky taverna

– the scorched voice of the singer,

the passion of a guitar

thick with soul-wrenching sorrow – 

danced by one whose prime had passed.

 

Unaware of anything around her, she

danced the rhythm of her beating heart, 

 

danced as if life depended on dancing –

as if death might come any moment.