Patrick Grace
Alt text: Patrick Grace is posing in a white shirt, sitting on a couch with his head resting on his hand, looking at the camera.
Biography
Patrick Grace is an author and teacher from Vancouver, BC. His poems have been published widely in Canadian literary magazines, including Best Canadian Poetry, EVENT, The Fiddlehead, The Malahat Review, and Prairie Fire. He is the author of two chapbooks: a blurred wind swirls back for you (Turret House Press, 2023), and Dastardly (Anstruther Press, 2021). His debut poetry collection, Deviant (University of Alberta Press, 2024), explores intimacy and fear within gay relationships. He moonlights as the managing editor of Plenitude Magazine. Follow him @thepoetpatrick.
Poetics Statement
“Poetry is a witness statement of my life—memories, longing, grief, fear. Through poetry, I can document my experiences and hold a space for them on the page, a space for readers. My debut collection, Deviant, sheds light on the often-untold stories of gay male relationships, the disturbing side of queer intimacy that I lived through. Gaslighting, intimidation, stalking—it’s all there, it’s real, it happened, and telling my story with poetry is a vital part of breaking the silence.
Poetry is also a concrete form of the recurring dreams from my childhood, the house I grew up in, experiences shared with my siblings. We lived in a strange, old house in Vancouver. I will always write about that house, its sounds, its hiding places, its broken doors. My mind is a house when I dream and my poems guide me through it.
And love. I love to be in love. Poetry lets me rediscover feelings I had, to reimagine ways I connected with others when I was young. As a poet I love men the most through writing, remembering, reflecting. My favourite poems are the dreamlike pieces about someone from my past. The older I get, the less I want to forget. So I put it all down in verse, a dream, a dance, and I make it my own.”
Sample of Poet's Work
Meanwhile
What about the time I shattered
a row of basement windows, cruising
my two-wheeler coaster downhill
after busting out his bedroom door,
my underwear nowhere and my head
a deadstare pumpkin brimming in night air.
He was home alone. I was twelve. I came
to unfurl the leaves hardening inside me.
I kissed like they do on TV, feigning aplomb,
thinking this is what a teenage boy desires.
The tunnel began to form and I crawled
into the sky. How wide the ambit.
In the parking lot the older kids killed it
with their stories, their names, their viridity.
Miles away, a boy dove into a river of gold,
his body flexuous, extant under the sun.\
The Calling
At first the world was body.
I didn’t question the gold
hardening its rivers inside me.
Boy on the phone for you, my sister cooed.
He asked to meet behind the pool
and I heard my name ripple in the wind.
I had no map for this part of town,
only my known, strange derivatives stirring.
Streetlights converged to a single pin
as stars crept from my eyes.
Sheer ribbon of night,
I tripped on its edge.
We weren’t convinced of the danger
after so much hugger-mugger at school,
admonition lingering low as a cloud.
Blond wind susurrus I watched him
lean his bike under a motion light.
My insides chimed their separate lakes.
A tinge of chlorine stung my nose.
He caught me in the handlebar’s mirror
concentric with the moon, a silver shim,
and we stood for a time, trembling.
I saw into his world and he saw mine,
both of us woozy in our reverie.
A Violence
in the dream he’d forgotten
the winded violence
the night the first
change the crumbling ceiling
all I saw was up
I forgave him for forgetting
the heady violence
the rowel, clumsy dance
around me still I go
and look what I find:
the cliché or the truth
the water or the truth
the bell clap or the dog bark
the hard fist or the harder word
can you describe a violence?
works a hotel desk does he
wears a smile for strangers does he
winds up drunk weekdays does he
around me still I hear
all it takes
a moment of courage
can you hold courage
wield courage
drink up courage
bite down courage
or is courage another one
of those things you say
when was the first
violence
man to man
did violence start slow
did violence build up
did violence lean down
or do the bending
who admitted it
first
was photography invented
was DNA a thing
fingerprinting swabbing uhlenhuth testing
did they believe you
did the man in blue believe
another man
committed the violence
because it’s always a man
you have to talk to
on the other end
you have to convince
on the other end
who finds it
inconclusive
domestic
misunderstanding
I still find
glass in the bedroom
the yelling light
the breath over and over
