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Sean Patrick

@seanpatrickphd.bsky.social

422 followers 689 following 319 posts

Data scientist, poet, SF/F writer Dr./they/them

Posts Replies Media

Sean Patrick @seanpatrickphd.bsky.social · 04/05/2026

Thanks for putting that contest on my radar, Malachy! Reposting one from the other day, if that's alright.

Text.

The day will come when we no longer live,
and consciousness abandons earthly bonds;
when molecules have no more left to give
and we must be undone or carry on.
We’ll see if atoms constitute the soul,
or if the self remains a single piece:
the mind, if it should somehow linger whole,
deprived of its oblivious release.
What then? A thousand theories all compete:
eternal rest, or else an endless dance —
these speculations all seem incomplete.
Whatever waits, we won’t know in advance.
If you are there, I may endure it well;
if not, then even heaven will be hell.

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Sean Patrick @seanpatrickphd.bsky.social · 19/08/2025

a cloud of mayflies dancing in the setting sun the lake, a mirror

Photograph. Streaky white clouds and blue sky are reflected on the mirror-still surface of a lake. To the center right of the image, the sun is beginning to set, illuminating the horizon in yellow. A rocky shore fills the lower right quadrant of the image.

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Sean Patrick @seanpatrickphd.bsky.social · 15/07/2025

Text.

"coffin nail"

the remnants of a cigarette
rest where you left them –
ashes spent on lacquered clay –
the acrid scent of you has gone,
but its residue remains.

a craving, simple, unadorned –
ignited in a flash of lust –
released in just a few short drags,
but never good enough to last;
and over far too fast.

cigarettes and cigarettes
lay stifled on the bedside tray,
intoxicating fuel all spent –
action, passion, tension, burned –
and none of it could stay.

they come in twenties,
lined up by the pack –
a slide of the thumb,
and one’s been pulled –
the taste of going numb.

another pressed against my lips,
a muffled thrill felt second-hand
and for a second, simple bliss –
then yellowed grief and thick regret,
a coffin nail – a kiss.

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Sean Patrick @seanpatrickphd.bsky.social · 13/07/2025

I had to make up a word for this one - "innominy" - from the Latin "innominata" - forgive the self-indulgence :)

Text.

"now let me leave behind the world"

now let me leave behind the world
and find some peace in hermitage;
for all the world has found my sin
and pushed its own way in.

now let me leave behind the world
and see what waits upon its edge;
and all the world may wait for me
in my newfound innominy.

now let me leave behind the world
and let it stay upon its course;
for all the world will still careen
without it being seen.

now let me leave behind the world,
though I know I will soon return;
in all the world, there is no place
that lies outside its face.

now let me leave behind the world,
someday, when I have had my fill;
and all the world will fade away –
until then, I will stay.

142

Sean Patrick @seanpatrickphd.bsky.social · 11/07/2025

As a big Klimt fan, I agree with your assessment of The Kiss. Death and Life is another one that begs the viewer to make up their own mind about what's going on.

Painting by Gustav Klimt. "Death and Life"

On the left, Death personified as a skeletal figure, with a body composed of black crosses. On the right, a clump of figures in various states: prominently, a mother and child at the top and two figures on the bottom bent over as if in grief.

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Sean Patrick @seanpatrickphd.bsky.social · 03/07/2025

seanpatrick.phd/2025/07/03/t...

Text block.

"Two pieces of advice for a beginning poet"

If you want to end with something timeless
it’s best to start with something rhymeless:
it’s assonance that wins the hearts
of audiences far and wide,
and poems, broken to their parts,
must stand on merits un-defied;
since rhymes have been by poets bent
and come off overused and trite,
this ancient token won’t be spent
or be redeemed, try as you might.
And if you want a poem that lasts,
don’t elevate the shade it casts:
the deepest darkness once was plumbed
by Poe and Byron, bless their souls,
and poetry has thus succumbed
to millions who reprise their roles;
for every ten immersed in pathos
nine and a half write heartfelt dramas
that dunk their readers in their bathos,
whose words would fail to move their mamas.
But if you want a poem that’s great,
there’s little to ensure that fate;
and if you can’t write something small,
it’s better not to write at all.

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Sean Patrick @seanpatrickphd.bsky.social · 01/02/2025

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