The Pumpkin Lantern

The Pumpkin Lantern John Hudson

Markings Publications The Bakehouse 42-44 High Street Gatehouse of Fleet Dumfries and Galloway Scotland DG7 2HP www.markings.org.uk

ISBN 9781901913 03 3

Copyright © John Hudson 2007 Cover photographs © Anne Darling

Markings Publications

The Pumpkin Lantern John Hudson is a poet and director of The Bakehouse poetry performance space in Scotland. He has read and run workshops in places as far afield as Beijing and Washington DC and held Residencies in France, Eire and Scotland. He is a member of the poetry performance group, The Solway Poets. His previous collections include Medusa Muse, starWoodSTONE, To The Sea and A Rose by Your Heart. He edited the anthology, Round About Burns and The Collected Poems of William Nicholson. He is editor of Markings and also writes for film and theatre. He is the recipient of numerous awards, including a Scottish Arts Council wr i t e r s ’bursary and two DGAA travel bursaries. Born in Walthamstow, London, John now lives in Galloway, south-west Scotland.

Acknowledgements The poet acknowledges the following publications, commissions, people and projects as instrumental in the creation and prior publication of the poems contained in this book: Anthologies Atoms of Delight, Edinburgh: An Intimate City, Present Poets, Present Poets II, The Seasons, The Sound Of Our Voices, The Watergaw, With Both Feet Off The Ground.

Magazines Acumen, Agenda, Envoi, Gairfish, Lines Review, Markings, Network, New Shetlander, New Writing Scotland, Nomad, NorthWords, Outposts Poetry Quarterly, Poetry Durham, Poetry Scotland, Rialto, Southfields, The Echo Room, The Gardener (USA), The London Magazine, Verse.

Commissions Castle Douglas Food Town, Caroline Barlow, Chrys Salt and Richard Macfarlane, Dumfries and Galloway Arts Association, Dumfries and Galloway Council, Dumfries and Galloway Information and Archives, GaelForce, Leader II, The Bakehouse, The National Gallery of Scotland, The National Museum of Scotland, The Ni t hs dal e Bur ns ’Fe s t i val ,The Sc ot t i s h Ar t s Counc i l , Sur vi vor s ’Poe t r y,TheSol wayPoe t s ,Wi gt ownBookTown.

contents i. Changing places Write a poem on glass Ar sBr evi s ,Vi t a…

Layers of Paint The Key Changing Places Rousay Tomb Kirkmadrine Mac t aggar t ’ sSe c ondEnc yc l opædi a Broken Tongue Once Upon a Time . . .

Ganesha The Sham Man Song of the White Settler Foreigners Exile Bad Manners Going Home The Harbour Medusa Muse A Sense of Place AtWul l ’ sGr ave Bees Expedition Leaving Harbour After the Funeral

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 24

Ii. The Pumpkin Lantern Dead Fly Carcass in a Field Evening at the Window Father One-Eyed Jock Touching Goodbye The Night My Father Died Elegy The Barge Down the Pub Insect Music The Comet Mapping Disabilities Br uc kner ’ sNi nt h Powercut On the Hop Night Music Night in the Hills Luminous The Spark Shooting Stars Solstice Frozen Lake Christmas Night The Roses Baby Monitor Blessing the Well

26 27 28 29 30 31 32 23 34 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

Iii. The offering Affair In Love Again From Across the River From a Bridge at Night Footwear Just Deserts Coming Home Stolen Kisses Another Look at Love Headlong Cine-strip The Frenzied Friar Icon 31.12.99 Insane Alphabet Designer War Magda’ sGr i e f Dad Never Went to War The Witch The Offering Our Lady

59 60 61 62 63 64 66 67 68 73 74 75 76 77 78 80 81 82 84 86 91

Iv. The Race Shopkeepers Mot he r ’ sVi s i t First Bike Swimming the Width Christmas Present Birds in a Cage Bi-Centenary, Dumfries Greek Restaurant Tsatsiki Disaster Improbabilities The Surgeon Edinburgh International The Race The Mammoth Trap Cloudburst Sunday Stroll Meg Impersonal Going Under From a Balcony Kirkyard a last dignity

93 94 95 96 97 98 100 101 102 103 104 106 107 108 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120

Notes

122

i. Changing places

Write a poem on glass like Keats, his name writ in water, a see-through poem, weightless, long-sighted as aMac har s ’landscape, soundless, like a crowd after a bomb; a buoyant poem, like a bubble in the sea, asde ns east heEmpe r or ’ sne wc l ot he s ; a poem that you can read poems through in an anthology of illegibles; lines never to be violated by human eye, unglanced by photons on a ride from the stars; a night poem, in league with empty parsecs, sucked into a singularity; a poem that never wanted read, a free poem by a free poet, adrift on a sea of inkless ink, uncarved on the bark of trees.

The only poem collected that has never been.

1

ArsBrevi s , Vi ta…

After the doctor gives grave news, cheer him up.

Say, t ha t ’ st i mee no ugh .

2

Layers of Paint The shelf sags under the weight Of three dozen tins of paint; Rusted cans that once gave a lick Of freshness stacked, lids stuck.

Shake them, they make no sound; Should I leave the lot or send Them to the dump? Ic an’ t recall What“Se aShi mme r ”gl os s e dandal l Those mucky browns mean nought to me.

I could scratch inquisitively The door, newel, wainscot, step, Unc ove r“Cor nf i e l d”,“Sunr i s e ”,“Ros e hi p” To see the shades of lives That long ago I had to leave.

Throw out these dried up pots?

I ’ mt ooa f r ai dt hatl i f ewi l ls t op.

3

The Key How c omei t ’ sont hi sr us t yhook under the stairs, questioning, grand?

Selling up, I take a longer look.

I never touched it, know no hand t hathas .The r e ’ snol oc kl ar gee nough in which its teeth might c l i c k,t hat ’ s clear – (e vent hedoort hat ’ sboar de dup) .

A secret kept through restless years of owners, countless days of talk.

Could I tumble ghostly barrels, find a hidden room? Instead, I walk into the street, shut the door behind.

4

Changing Places I ’ mf r e e ,c oa tunhooke d.

Should I run away, turn to the open sea heralded by gulls while another me, stuffed in a two-ton, stranger at the wheel, homes in on closed doors?

5

Rousay Tomb Miscarried stanes chockfu o glamorous beads god-empty submarine afore Greenock grew.

A sea-way getaway tae couthier havens.

This yer Scotlan, then?

A poke o banes!

note 1

6

Kirkmadrine Humpit stanes that mark a dawn, be e c henwayt aeamonk’ s -pate brae.

Dream o barks that kirkmen sailed oer rocky waves tae mak wet land an fin a fowk bent on the deil.

Today we pray for sodgers far afiel.

Atgl oami nas he pher ds ’ye w-carved crook still questions a sombre lift.

note 2

7

Mactaggart’ sS econd Encyclopædi a He wha archived whunce, slaggie, clooter crossed Canada tae curl, lay tracks, build ships an scrieve a muckle leed listin each rivet, chookie, brae an airt.

Selkirk, Renfrew, Kirkland, Kincardine, Hami l t on,Ai r dr i e ,Banf f… Theboyf ae Lennox Plunkton, ridin a cuddy, heid fu o wunner, at hame wi himsel an the worl.

note 3

8

Broken Tongue The sign “Welcome to Scotland” greeted with a yipee now retirement’ s here.

That long sentence tholed in suburbia when he used skiddle, skunner, koosh and haud yer wheesht to slants of disapproval from her eyes and the kids grew up speechless, not knowing what could be said.

Now he’ s dead, and among the comforts of home she recalls tales of carpenters and joiners, translates bloodied cuts of beef, says she’ ll no taigle friends, nor fash the neighbours.

But it’ s an alien angle to a Scot whose mother forbade common words under the shadow of the pit bing by the burn, excised the part of a heart that says “Aha m”.

9

Once Upon a Time . . . they farmed mellower terraces then the cold came and Celts, Christians, Northmen - petty kings: seasonal burning ceded to reek of pillage and famine.

When sheep felled forests, lairds profited, gave placenames: Girthon, Anwoth, Borgue.

Then flax from mill-wheels unfurled ships; the ring of cash lorded it ocean-wide.

Until the climate changed again.

Now these homes are heritage lives carved as epitaphs ever after.

10

Ganesha Elephants grin inspecting me.

Is it a curtailed trunk they see and not a stumpy human nose?

Is it because I walk on toes and not four sturdy foot-thick legs?

Perhaps my thirty milk-white pegs make the god-like Dumbo grin; his tusks are massive in comparison.

And as for ears, a fool can guess our tiny lugs cannot impress a beast that boasts such massive lobes.

Ori si tt hatI ’ ms t uf f e di nc l ot he s ?

We laugh when Jumbo plays the fool, climbing clumsily on a stool but elephants like to please the crowd unlike me, they are not proud.

It hi nkt hepac hyder m’ satone with all of Nature barring man.

11

The Sham Man Wher e ’ m If r om?Thel andovs l at e ds l ums n junkfilled yards, zinc bathtubs, drab privet, a cluckin hen n neighbours clockin wiv it.

(My ol man the man who pulled down these drums.)

Then igh-rise flats of sex, drink, graft and porn, work ta rule an all-out lightning strikes; now turf n tides, the sweep of Galloway dykes, a forge of stars frae dusk tae salty dawn.

Or none of these? A tricky kinda bloke, me time spent on the whizz, dispensin fears.

I live in dreams then die, me ome is ears, a con-man priest who stalks in holy smoke.

Met al kt ur nse adsbutnoc unt ’ sgotac l ue boutwhe r eI ’ mf r om orwhatI ’ m comin to.

note 4

12

Song of the White Settler Ahm sneekin up on you, Ahm gonna take yer over; Theres nufin you can do, Yerll never shake my cover.

Ahll scoff yer tongue fer brekky, Translate yer eart by noon, Tonight Ahll trap yer by the balls: Yer end is comin soon.

Ah got aa the big guns, Yerve got nought but pride; Ahm flushin oot yer culcha Jock The r e ’ snopl a c ei tc anhi de .

Ah dinnae come as armies, Ah tried that yince afore; Now i t ’ swimahc he que book Ahm chappin at yer door.

At first Ah filched yer kings, Then bribed yer lairds n nobles; Nah your drinkin frae this hand Sc ot c hwhi s ky’ sonmy table.

Ah am schools, Ah am committees, Ah run yer sports, yer trains Ahr unDune di n’ sf e s t i val , Ahm out ta run yer brains.

Ah ken no why Ah want ya Perraps its cos yer there, But now the Norf’ smyEngland’ st oy Yerve damn all else ta fear!

13

Foreigners Exile Above the tumble rocks of Renaissance Toledo El Greco hires musicians to sweeten his desserts; clergy condemn the cost of foreign art andPhi l i ps c or nsTheGr e ek’ spanac hef ore lEs c or i al .

The genius lovingly paints his enemies among angels in Santa Tomé. No hard feelings – just a soupçon of irony saucy as marzipan.

When age, addiction and poverty be c omeDome ni kosThe ot okopoul os ’ sl ot his house falls silent. The viols and flutes make merry elsewhere. An old man paints The Ascension of the Virgin –blue, gold, blood; a lyrical capolavoro the critics say – and then, he dies.

To love beauty is bitter exile in itself.

Bad Manners ElGr e c o?Hedoe s n’ ts oundpl e as ant : arrogant, extravagant, not the sort of chap you’ di nvi t et odi nne rpar t i e sunl e s syous ought a scrap. Exiles are difficult; artists even worse.

I t ’ ss ur e l yt e s t ame ntt ot he i rdi s t as t e f ul ne s s that one kills their kind early, poor or mad; t he nonec anadmi r et he i rœuvr e , befriend them.

I t ’ snott hatac or ps e ’ swor kc ome sc he ap mor et hatde adar t i s t sdon’ tf ar ta tt abl e .

14

Going Home They say Juvenal was exiled here.

Poor sod. Little to whet his wit upon, less to love, he found fine phrases were not admired. I complain then jet off to Spain, drink crates of Rioja to banish the smirren and haar.

At my age, shaky like a creaking chair, I ask what have I done?

No STDs, knife-fights, flytings or time inside, no public outrage, no coverage in The Sun, just John, Dear John, John who?

I begin to fret. What did Mozart, Carravagio, Burns, Marlowe do right that I do wrong? How come Fr anc i sBac on’ si nt heTat e but I am cured all ills and left to hang myself in the cooler?

15

The Harbour Regular rapping of waves in the harbour, Beating on rocks by the half-light of stars; Rapidly plashing they seem in a hurry, Rippling between the soft music from bars.

Rising like fortresses, old harbour mansions Tremble with light-threads from yachts on the Med. Marking the seaboard with ratcheting purrings, Secret cicadas serenade tourists to bed.

Close by the roadside a young eucalyptus Sways and releases its sweet, oily breath; Candles in sanctuaries light in the darkness Faces of saints that protect against death.

Bl ac kert hanc har c oalt hes e a’ sdi s c ont ent e d Rocking the boats that clank, bounce and pull; Clawing from fathoms it rolls up the shingle, Sucks at the seaweed that clings to the wall.

Sunkeni ns l e e pawi dow’ sr e c al l i ng Sights of her mariner sucking down brine, Dead with the scent of a lover and homeland Drifting like wreckage away from his mind.

16

Medusa Muse Medusa Muse is on the move, she loves ta break the Big Taboo; crossin lingua's no-man's land, she bops n screams mang bairns n booze.

Auforities send sodgers oot ta silence er, the saps, poor sods, ken nicht her spiel but crazy run o stan stock still stone still witness to er raucous gab.

They need an ero, some brass academe, to codify her snakin thochts an cast er in an awesome bust o bronze.

Then I might die alane n spare.

17

A Sense of Place Struck I was by Girvan as an insult, like you might say arsehole or bastard. "You Girvan you" might requite a smack in the teef; "The git's a Girvan" cud be a put-down worse than dick-ead, n simply "Girvan" d deflate grief, or get ya knocked fer six. Ya may fink I dislike the town.

Okay, what about Kilmarnock?

Phrases come to mind: "So, who's the Kilmarnock ere?" - watch fer the red phyz; "Yerra right Irvine, you are!" followed by the coup de grace, "Dirty Sanquhar!"

"What's with you, Patna?" d be overeard atpar t i e sal ongs i de ," I ’ ves e e ns ome Ardrossan in my time, but this takes the Kirkconnel".

What is it wiv place names? They make yer wanna Hawick. Is there no wonder in the balancing?

"We spent the night tagever, it was Troon," " Mybi r d’ sar e alBal l ant r ae "and,c l i mac t i c al l y, " Cumnoc k! "s wi f t l yf ol l owe dby“Gr e t na? ”.

I t ’ l le ndupi nKi l br i de .

Greenocks! Up yer Brodick!

Ave ya ever eard such a loada Gourocks?

18

AtWull ’ sGrave A second search found yer Wull, A yew tree sproutin out ya head And on yer stone a line so dull I bet ya glad yer wiv the dead.

It says yer name will last fer aye, Butt our i s t shaven’ theard o you; A geezer living by the brae Di dn’ ts e e mt oaveac l ue .

You were a loner then as now, You upset all propriety Yer sang but wouldnae scrape n bow Ta satisfy society.

But lowly fowk gey prized yer rhymes, Yer girled the pipes into a heat Andt he r e ’ st hewhyde s pi t et het i me s Blue speedwell blooms aboun ya feet.

note 5

19

Bees Deep in thick hedge-growth that dark, bombus jive, pollen heavy oaf bumbling among its loves, a cinder heart on ash wings, lifts off for the hive.

I met several on a pike, one crossing a glacier.

Find a far-away pasture, lie prone and listen: an infernal drone!

The serving sweet nectar spread like a picnic for the planet's pleasure.

20

Expedition Just two days onto the ice-sheet and the men wore snow-blind expressions.

Some grumbled, others dragged their feet.

It was not like the lessons: boil snow, keep warm, make camp.

It was the whiteness, or the nothing that passes for snow.

And so we had to turn, descend the long ramp off the glacier, leave the land of the Eskimo.

It is strange how quickly the mind feels out on a limb, how panic gnaws through, how the once kind world seems unkind and all that seemed true, untrue.

Our footsteps filled with powder.

We set our hope upon the city, our eyes onto the whitest extremity and each felt ashamed of his failure.

And as we traipsed, not as one but many, there came between us - resolute and loud - a bee.

A bee, headed for a flower.

21

Leaving Harbour i.m. Archie Darling Veteran, blind, confused, that day the fire of life kindled you.

I took your arm by gates that led to fastenings set in concrete beds and watched your sepia eyes grow clear where radio masts rose into the air.

"I climbed up top, I was eighteen, I saw a ship in flames far out at sea".

You shooed the flies from off your ears and hobbled back towards the Escort's purrs.

Next day we walked the empty jetty to see a wind set hackles on the bay, gasp at detonating cascades that splashed our tingling cheeks; a trawler pulled towards the Atlantic, smoking frantically; you mumbled oaths about our holiday, dismissed the derelict station where first you saw the truth of war.

I guess you came to salve a chronic sore.

22

Next week by Oa lighthouse, the living world looked proud.

A pleasure steamer drew a shady sketch of faces in the evening sky while gannets furled to dip then rise.

From you I knew the sea hid mines.

Near here six hundred soldiers drowned on board a troopship bound for Flanders.

Yet you, in service, stayed afloat to find The Peace a bleak reproach.

Today I get into my car and feel your shadow following, it dulls the sun with puffs of smoke.

Uneasily, I burn your corpse.

You never baulked about the funnel that launches us somewhere final; I do. This afternoon in Ayrshire I dig my heels into the ground and stare in bitter dread at the fading, red stained-glass, picturing the rising dead.

23

After the Funeral I march along the windy prom Then stop. My ghost is on the pier.

Afraid to leave it stranded there I call it back. It doesn't come.

24

Ii. The Pumpkin Lantern

Dead Fly Ya fell at one funny angle andyers haddow’ sl ongi naut umns un.

Yer wings bright pearly, legs a pompous chandelier, and yer head, butted gainst the stone ov the windy ledge issa soddin miracle ov partitionin and design.

Yer altagever a confusin sight – only dead, I guess, insofar as yer not buzzin in that noisome way ov ya species, but dead, deep dead, all the same.

Ye rmakes we e tl i f eal os e r ’ sgameCreation knocked on the head.

Butl e t ’ sgive fate its due: I ’ l lneve rs e eme so dead as I, now, see you.

26

Carcass IN A FIELD I rationalised the rotting hide: stone intrusion in a grassy vision.

But here was death, I knew.

The frost bit and wind blew from a savoury sea picking the slow bones free of bovine flesh, disturbing the still-fresh scent of camphor by the coffin of my father.

But my will was bent to a false covenant: it was a stone.

I walked back home to pass a night of screams as corpses rose to stalk my dreams.

27

Evening at the Window Behind a hill that raises villas into view, The sun's gone down, the sky's still blue.

Hot from walks through narrow streets I watch shadows creep Around like ghosts, till twenty deep They huddle in the corners of my room. I reach out for wine, Pull a cork and start to dine.

A fleshy smell from cactus plants that sprout below Mixes with olives, oregano.

The moon is pricked by needles climbing in a tree; It lights lovers, it cannot lighten me.

The bottle's dead, and drunk I chant curses on the dark As flowers close and tree-frogs bark.

Now bats beat circles, beetles fly, mosquitoes thrive; I sleep and dream my father's still alive.

28

Father Old hand alcoholic, ever sober, screwing his arse into pub chairs pint tight in hand for so long now the donkey's dead.

The gab's on handicaps and form: plentiful as also rans and empty glasses.

Or lonely silence occupies him, his own thoughts; eyes blue and beautiful wrapped in stillness staring.

Loud goodnights lead to Scrabble with the wife a chance for a row over rules and bed.

He sleeps well these days, a rare nightmare; rigor mortis of routine forgets death.

For a lifetime he has cut his hands on glass.

I remember him weeping at his mother-in-law's burial. He left our company, alone got blind blind drunk.

29

One-Eyed Jock I mind me ol man in from graft, white-faced as the froth on a jug a Ben. E muttered ta muvver summit about "One-Eyed Jock", then scrubbed, ad is grub n went straight ta kip, mum's eyes clockin is every move.

Years later, when e'd lost that Superman swank sons strap their farvers wiv, e got ta gab over a pint a Guinness.

It came out. Droppin the dome o the Odeon, Camberwell - one of those glitzy affairs wiv tinkly chandelier e'd come an and away from plummetin to the pit. One-Eyed Jock ad cut roofin cable n the twang ov it twisted dad twenty foot aloft any ol way. Someow e managed ta grab an edge, hang on.

Ta me, One-Eyed Jock were a white-faced pirate wiv a black eye-patch oo tried ta stripe me.

I ated im, n I ate im still.

E came again - me dad in Whipps, on the ospital bed, overing over a fousand foot drop.

I saw Jock, is bad eye fixin dad for aye.

Dad's hand flexed, jerked - I stretched ta grab it.

The nurse rushed in but e fell.

30

Touching Goodbye I held your hand the first touch for twenty years.

It just never happened before.

He l l os ,goodbye s ,donet heman’ swaybig irrelevance, sign of weakness, no show of the overwhelming love in us yet I held your hand today and felt stupid for doing so.

Deep in your coma you probably disapproved.

One of us had to make a move, and you were hardly up to breathing let alone touching so I held your hand.

It was cold and weak yet sweet to hold, so good to find you again, nott os ay“goodbye ” but“he l l o. ”

31

The Night My Father Died The sprinkle of semen and cries in the ink of the room, were they meant to seed the stars that creep about us clockwise?

Orwast hi smanhood’ ss pas m of hubris against such loss?

Ort e ar sIc oul dn’ ts hed over a man who never wept?

32

Elegy Cast your clobber onto clay old man Thec i t y’ sr e ekhasr ui ne dt he m; The bargeman bides his time with beer And kids down closes kick tin cans.

No rush, no rhyme nor reason rules you Fr om hi l l t opt ot her i ver ’ sr un, The r e ’ snoac c ount antaddi ngt oyou, Subtraction is your simple sum.

Naked, knotted you must move on Shoveoverf ort hene xtman’ ss on.

Cast your clobber onto clay old man, The bargeman burps and drains his beer; The walk is wild and cold and weeping, Themar ke t ’ sc l os e d,me nmoveaway; The tailor turns to clock your trim And measures up your mannequin.

The pubs are shut to passers by Thedoor sar edar k,i t ’ sde adi ns i de And buses roar round corners, missing stops, And rooks are roosting by the reservoir.

Cast your clobber onto clay old man, The bargeman has a burly hand His breath is heavy, heaped with hops.

A lodestone sinks, the water stinks, You’ veneve rknownas har pernoon.

Cast your clobber onto clay old man.

33

The Barge 1 I fix my gaze on the rusty barge.

At first on dents then tears so large a man might squeeze through; then the paint, peeled, flaked, brown or black, and faint ghosts of words - s ome t hi ng“& SON LTD.” Scrapped before the sycamore sprouted so dad said when I started school.

Now it floats in my memory's pool.

2 My dad would kick her battered hull and smile at the rolling, enormous, dull echo that made my legs feel weak.

The boom hec al l e dabar ge ' s“night-s pe ak” anddr i e dmyt e ar s :“Sheus e dt ohol d c oal ,buts he ' st i r e dnow,andt oool d. ” I felt sick on the haunting elixir of pity stopped with unhinging fear.

34

3 I've watched from this tow-path as long as that sapling sycamore grew strong.

Once its single whip-stem swung with grace and wind-lashed me in the face; bent against its bowing, I tried to rip it up, soft hands slipping against the sap.

My father laughed, then frowned, told me to leave things where they're found.

4 He'd let me clasp his sturdy finger.

I felt the flesh soften one summer: hard, often torn with congealed blood, then smooth, then pale like mine, as if puffed with sweet cream and too much leisure.

Now stiff bones wipe his wet eyes clear.

Dad, I don't, I don't want to mouth bye-bye, I pray each night that death's a lie.

35

5 The sycamore shades the quay in stippled green, drops its fruits into the unseen cavern of the barge while speck by speck molecular bonds disentangle the wreck.

I watch the river waltzing around till the barge's flank is finely ground to a thinness that lets the sun's rays lend a last warmth as the tiller sways.

6 The barge drifts slowly, like a cool shadow cast by the moon's borrowed glow.

Floating down the oily Thames to the open sea, it fades - a requiem borne among the huge fire of stars that once we wished were magical charms.

And there in the hold the laughter of my father, and here in the tree my cries calling after.

36

Down the Pub You’ r edead.

I buried you.

So why do you look at me from the mirror behind the bar?

37

Insect Music Mosquito clouds jitterbug, joggle over jeep tracks like migraine. Surely Bach built a huge and fancy fugue on this subject, found madness in keeping perfect pace?

Bart贸k needs an orchestra strung up, autopsied insideout, hung to discord in order to hint at such droning.

Try fixing your ear upon one fidgeting, monstrous scream; lose it quickly in a swarm of twitching quavers.

This the ground intruding into pauses of breathing like panic. No noise to rival these three-part inventions, probing proboscis tuned to the pitch of pith.

They hear the awful thump of heartbeats beating time, chorus over us, exalt in carefree counterpoint till we drop. Infested we will hum, our instruments beaten and blown to chaos.

38

The Comet The night was cold and so my wife asked why Invite the chill into our home to search For roaming rock and water in the sky While she was sleepless, bored, left in the lurch?

What is it makes us seek extremity?

The house was warm, the night advanced and I Was tired. The thought of lying cosily Beside her human scent in bed is my Idea of bliss. But other heavens called.

I peered outside the icy window, leant Toward that grey celestial smudge, appalled To witness what such spaces meant.

Faced with dead infinity, I needed life And turned inside to hold my sleeping wife.

39

Mapping Disabilities Milton stares and Eden waits, Beethoven fingers silent keys, Mat i s s eatas nai l ’ spac epai nt s : We wonder at genius; deplore disease.

The men that map our DNA Could cure van Gogh of fits and prove Why Thomas drank and Schumann raved And there is no such thing as love.

The faults that serve to breed despair Can be removed; perfection cloned: Adam keeps his shock of hair Eve ’ sdi s c r e t i on’ sf i ne l yhone d.

ButI ’ m noJ ob,andmys um Is lessened by disabling pain Now my code of life is dumb And God rejected by the sane.

40

Bruckner’ sNi nth We broke our trip by a wooded stream.

The stand of oaks, old Anton reckoned, Had leaves that numbered half the sum Of life left him in twice the seconds.

At the castle gate he seemed quite calm; His room gave onto groves and lawns.

But then he asked us in alarm Why stars dissolve within the dawn.

Poor soul. We closed out night, left quill And ink in hope he might complete Hi ss ymphony.Wec ount e donGod’ swi l l , Soon heard the marking of a beat, Watched sheets of paper fall like leaves Then read a score of empty bars.

The notes, he cried, that fill these staves Mus tnumb e rhe a ve n’ sc o unt l e s ss t a r s !

note 6

41

POwercut A storm stomps by.

I pick over spondees and rhymes.

Lightning daggers the page ink-black.

My pen held in a powerless office.

42

On The Hop no poem worth the name gives notice in advance of its arrival

Seeking Admittance, Kathleen Herbert

Like getting caught lunchtime with a fag behind the gym: talk clever on Dante a thrush giggles from hedge to tree or sit out seminars beneath the foreplay of Venus and Mars; lie awake to worry on money wind lullabies down the chimney.

In peripheral vision keep track of a f i r e f l y’ s circulation yet ledger-days pass like rote.

Notice? I t ’ saj oke !

43

Night Music She asks if he can hear The crackling stars and hissing nebulae That to a quiet ear Sound near, to a dull mind burn silently.

Such plain questions perplex, Like asking him to feel the fire of Love; Chatter is his reflex To drown in words that passion played above.

44

Night in the Hills Walking among the clenched fists Of Galloway basalt and schists, I count the stars that spray the sky Then think to play a bird and fly.

(Why does imagination take Funny turns reason wouldn't make?)

Arms flail in space and vertigo Draws its deadly undertow: I crash with that enormous hearse Astronomers call the universe.

45

Luminous Last night the lights flickered off on the back road. I got out of bed and stepped over to the window, expecting blackness yet the bricks of the shed shone, the grass tufts on the alley edge were greener than green of day, and the dog shit glistened.

I remembered autumn storms, the sudden lightning spark that ignited the bedroom mirror to reveal itself on the hills, andt hi nki ng,“t hatmus tbe ne arJ e f f ’ s . ”Ne xtdaywes t r addl ed the fallen spruce that crushed his garden killing three hens.

Today finds other strangenesses: black sand in Brighouse Bay and the cola-coloured sea frothing over a glow from nowhere; the yellow hands of my sick father, their x-ray aura at lights-out; a blackbird brassy at night; the sheen of the starry sky.

46

The Spark We have mightier minds than we like to admit; Spinoza grinding his lens is no exception and the view is spectacular.

Where shall I focus? Whichever way, we soar on currents of luminous air, so let's hear it, let's sing it for us!

All mothers are a miracle - mine for sure, songstress of tears made light, denier of death who, faced with death, made joy like a witch weaving spells for her children to keep them safe through long nights.

The way she cleared my father's tokens with a singular, religious simplicity, utterly new, born of nothing I knew in her soul.

Such beauty in the face of limitless dark: Meister Eckhart intoning God within reach, Newton tethering planets across a void, Bernstein bouncing on the podium, grunting, roaring out Mahler at sixty eight, himself but beats away from a grave.

Darkness is not pain, nor pranks of fools; darkness is not absence of light the frisson of photon with matter but the sudden touch of your hand on cold stone.

47

Donald, his poems radiant in pain, singing a surge of notes despite himself like a bird out of control, praising sunlight.

Pascal, young among imploding space, Klee setting his jaw against illness, my aunt dancing tango with a failing heart.

What is this blinding flash, this magnesium flare, perhaps alone, a minaret chanting ululations of fire across bleak barrenness?

See perfect solids in the Science Museum, dreams of reason, space made articulate, modelled in card, marked with magic names by men: octahedron, icosahedron, cube.

Only we could uncover these unlikelies, prove them in a nugget of ripe reason.

And Harrison constructing clocks that work on waves.

His flesh and bone in springs and cogs, leaping beyond the visionary even, in order to keep order: proof of love, echo of the first cause - watching birth in a coiled spring - only to reap ingratitude and meanness.

The miracle of numbers, Babbage's brass madness the law of second differences realised in clicks, whirrs; the unreal made real through devotion,

48

whose progeny, computers, make nimble dances, launch interlopers to the stars, marry the merry miniscule to the majuscule galaxy.

Who needs supernovae when we've got us?

The woman laughing loudly on the tube as she misses the seat to sit on the arm and her kid waving, smiling like a frog at the office workers passing by and - yes! those serious suits and ties replying in smiles.

Do not let our diffidence fool us. Dad could drop a building on a stamp, lose hundreds on horses, talk Plato nights.

For us there is no such word as can't. From the first voices chanting words to conjure rains, the line that links hand to mind and eye has danced among demigods, enjoying dancing like kids at a Saturday rave or Mozart in a minuet, or Wittgenstein in reason.

Nothing is vain, nothing in vain, not the Jews who were herded to death nor the damned who herded them, nor the lives lost in war, my fathers and my father's fathers and the endless generations before that fought, it seems for nought,

49

nor the mistakes and hurts done each day to lovers, children, innocents, animals, nor the cries of fools, nor age's infirmity, nor the millions of eyes in search of work, the lonely wives and dirty kids, the battering, brawling marriages of hearts to helplessness, nor the squeal of the rabbit run down, nor the lingering pain and pathetic despair of death announced before its hour, nor the suffering of the bystander: witness in tears to the loved-ones leaving or accident of the Sarajevo sniper, nor my childlessness in the face of galaxies, superclusters, the diapason of time, nor my death dancing its square dance before me.

We outreach it all with a spark of the mind, in the child's hand grasping at the sun, the fabulist telling tales, the pianist's neat printing of fingers across an arch of spacious harmony, by the measured murmur of quarks and in every kiss, lip to lip, or blown upon wind to the dead.

50

Shooting Stars The Orkney sky at night-times, ont hehi l l ’ sbr i m abovet hebur l ys e a, feeling only the sole of stone that faces your feet, waiting for stars to spit.

Some fiery ones fall so far they flicker over the Firth. Then your world shakes.

As if balancing on a bowling-ball or hurled like a dreamer, falling, you sense how Earth draws you, a little moon losing orbit, and you burn a lonely line into that sea.

51

SOLSTICE Not night. No, not yet. Gloaming of summer.

Has the tide turned? Salt air moves in.

Golden gorse ghosts with coconut-scented breath.

Distant juggernauts from the Irish ferry hammer Black tarmac; gears scream Up the long hill. Why do I dream of her chill skin?

A blackbird's shrill, alarming stammer Announces dawn, astounds the earth.

The sun climbs out the mountain's mouth But can't erase the crude slut death: The sea rushes in with a din, Choruses on rocks with a cold clamour.

52

Frozen Lake No-man’ sl ands t r e t c he dbe t we e n Christmas and New Year.

Scotland wrapped in frost under a white moon and the heifers moaning, moaning to South, then North, then away, West.

Each herd pauses t ohe art heot he r ’ sghos t l yhol l er i ng.

Are they praising or lamenting or warning?

I step out, right out, onto the open ice among stones lobbed t ot r yt hel ake ’ sunc e r t ai n safety. Nothing gives.

53

Christmas Night The river brims upon the icy field; planets pass on a path all their own; the wanderer in the moon watches sleepless stars.

A seed, somewhere, pushes pine-sweet must; a traveller, fixed in headlights, rushes home; an owl calls from the marshes; a child awakes.

54

The Roses “Iha veawo r l da pa r tt ha ti sno ta mo ngme n” Li Po

Carriages calunked, stray light strobing my den.

Do they remember ac hi l d’ sgaze from among dog-roses?

I still see their prying eyes deflowering my world.

55

Baby Monitor Listening in to this empty room, souciant burble of silence, the odd car, footsteps like a radio off-station, most days not hi ng’ saudi bl eover the cackle of friends, crossed-words, dinner plates scraped.

Then one thundery June, rain nailing roofslates, I heard I swear it - abl ac kbi r d’ s song from in that room. I dared not check. Grey walls and little potted shrubs decorate our square-of-concrete yard yet a garden sang and bloomed among the leafy branches of the air-waves, broadcast The Promised Land.

56

Blessing the Well Source Echo of nymphs and sprites that cackle, curse and grow, will you flow sunk from sight, or might the water-table rise like indignation in the throat and swelling swallow lies in a flood of bitter spite?

Ceremony Dress is suited to the garden party: heads bound by hats, necks wound with ties, starched chests, corseted waists, seamless stockings.

We toast, champagne and chatter, make sounds like rain on puddles, the huge-voiced rock-thrapple appeased with garlands, sprinkled with sacraments.

Blessing A light shower and we disperse, ve s s e l soft hewhal e ’ sf l ut e ds ong, t het ur t l e ’ sAt l ant i cye ar ni ng;waveon wave of nursery years washes over us: amot he r ’ ss l aki ngbe ne di c t i on.

note 7

57

Iii. The Offering

Affair Last night your eyes spoke.

The hesitation in your laughter, the sharpness of a joke, t hewayyouc oul dn’ thel pc over my mouth when, mocking, I went too far, and your smile.

These, more than love-making, more pleasurable: our denial gathers us from cool disdain into doubts, then closer, until we collide and feel the pain of obsession and betrayal.

“I tmus t n’ tge tout ,under s t and? ” I nodded, not believing we wanted our secret hid, and kissed your lips to set you free.

59

In Love Again There is no light left in the sky, no moon, and the stars are forbidden behind rain and wind; the neighbours have curtains drawn, not me.

I like the darkness and bleakness since I met you; they cannot cower nor extinguish the sun that flames inside. I am a beacon of fire.

Your eyes are dark, your lashes darker; the crooked motion of the nose towards those laughing lips, your fine chin and neck like a sycamore's young stem, your arms that will entrap me, your breasts and belly, loose, careless, your tongue oysters and champagne, your hips and moon-round rump - ah! you are a flask of oil poured into my chest and entrails, and the spark that leaps between our so close lips sets my underworld on fire.

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From Across the River Was that you walking by the river under the lamp in the mist?

And did I call to you or was it the curlew crying across the night?

And did your eyes look into the moon, your green eyes questioning who is there?

I am there breathing gently the breath of beasts asleep; I am in the moon andIr i deupont hec ur l e w’ sc al l ; I am lamp and sallow mist rising from the sea, occupying your heartland, the lustre of your lustful gaze.

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From a Bridge at Night There is magic in the motion of this river.

Look into the deep night reflected through your face into the stars as the current swirls on its course to the sea.

Hol dmyhand.Le t ’ sl e anoutf ur t her and linger. A little space for love as the water weaves our hope into the heavenly fires and river-cold.

Listen: pulses pounding everywhere, even in the murky river's entrails.

Andt he r e ’ snotas t ars pe aksofharm; each chants praise fit for Prince Frog.

My princess, in this strange play our changeling lives leap into the waves and bob away, lip on lip to nursery-rhymes lisped by the jester in the mad moon.

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Footwear Until this day I thought that boots were meant To march the streets or cosset feet in fur.

But then a bouclÊ bottine noire quite sent This casual passer-by into a seizure And certified that feet and their attire Cast potent magic, tripping subtle traps: I conjured painted toes beside a fire Andf l ame st hatpl aye dupont hepat e nts t r aps ‌ Your regiment of boots laid in a row Is fantasy unleashed, awaiting soles Of stockinged feet to deftly dip below Their tongues, adopting compromising roles: Fastened laces and unbuckled lust Trample helpless lovers into dust.

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JUST deserts Salt white meringue Vodka’ si c yt ang A pear plucked fresh Off the bent branch Cherries in wine From the Argentine Ladled in bowls Profiteroles Chocolate and cream Spread on your chin Across your cheek And down your neck Rich brie, not chalky But oozing, milky On steam-hot bread Plums on a bed Of honeyed rice Laced with all-spice Oyster mushrooms And lotus blooms Served with apple-mint And port that drips

64

Upon your breasts Roast figs dressed In parsley, thyme And sage with lime That burns the tongue Cold cognac flung Upon hot crĂŞpes And flambĂŠd. The shape Your moistened lips Make as they sip Pungent coffee And your white teeth That I hope will Consume their fill Of my soft flesh My desert wish.

65

Coming Home You remember when we were kids and the astronauts came back from the moon and the man on the telly said “there will be radio blackout as they come down t hr ought heEar t h’ sat mos phe r e ” and quiet possessed the whole world as if nothing could live till, loud and clear, as the parachutes unfurled, word came down and Houston cheered?

Thatwai ti smi nebyt he‘ phone .

And as I listen for your voice I fear this silence may be unending and I, alone.

66

Stolen Kisses Sun shafts the glazing of the roof.

A couple on the platform ki s s .The y’ r eol d– I mean older than me – and their fumbling indecorous.

She ’ sc l i mbsinside his gabardine.

He, sixty at least, sucks blood from her lips.

I meet my wife; we head for the shops.

Last night I breathed the lily scent that charms your breasts and milk-white neck as we traded stolen kisses.

67

Another Look at Love a poem on the occasion of the fiftieth birthday of Richard Macfarlane and his marriage to Chrys Salt Cape l l aandt heni ght ’ sunc he ar f uldamp hang round grass and stump; the world seems dead de s pi t eSt .Br i de ’ sandhe rf e e bl el amp flickering through the stained glass glowing red.

I ’ mt hi nki ng,Ri c har d,yourf i f t i e t hye ar , and clock planets compass the steady sun, then spot the comet by Cassiopeia, andwat c hawhi l easi t ’ sc ol dl ys pun six thousand Springs till gravity brings it back to where these lines for you two had begun.

Ands oyou’ r ege t t i ngwe d- a funny thing amongst these spinning bodies in the sky that loop the Hohmann swing, or step in rounds like waltzing passers-by.

As k,butdon’ te xpe c tapatr e pl y why humans slip lip on lip, hand in hand: mechanics conjures eulogy; inert matter pastures stony land; out of the dark a tiny spark ignites the coals, makes crystal glass from brumous sand.

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All actions dreamt or done in love inspire as sure as night gives way to warmer day, the sceptic leaves his smoky fire and runs outdoors beneath the sun for play; new leaflets lick cold oaks with emerald tongues, plovers squeak and plunder by the foam; the salmon runs, leaps rapid rungs; the squirrel leaves his leafy winter home; Spring grows gold-locks on fields and flocks, dresses earth and sky for Summer ’ s gilded comb.

And cycles, seasons, bud and leaf and fruit make Spenser trip a merry dance with nymphs, and sing a tune so passionate t hatl ove r she ar t si nl ove ’ sr i t e st r i umphs .

And what about Theocritus, the Greek, whose shepherds Corydon and Comatose complain of love and talk of sheep while draped in antique, pastoral pose?

But then again t hepoe t ’ spe n i spr onet owr i t eofs he e pi nans wert ol ove ’ swoe s .

And think upon that bourgeois, Agathon, inviting folk like Phaedrus, Socrates, and other nobs from Athens town, to bid them speak at length on love or sleaze.

Aristophanes, when interrogated, (though probably steeped in too much wine) s ai dever yonewho’ sbor ni sf at e d, to tie the knot with umbilical twine, to find their other sister/ brother, de f yi nggod’ sde c r e e ,r e pai r i nge ar t h’ sde c l i ne.

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Whitsuntide will soon be here, once-time sights of marriage, rattling carriages rolling in to London and honeymoon nights, reminding me that distant Phillip Larkin failed to find much more than vulgar show i nhumani t y’ ss ads pe c t ac l e ; he knew the need of letting go to change ourselves - an inevitable Fall from selfish grace to a secret place where the whispering grave begins its earthward pull.

Since naive days of dreaming by a brook the world has undergone tremendous change, denying songs within a book for cosmologies designed to derange: the stars and dust that fill this midnight ghetto, danc i ngl i kes omeape ’ ss t e psonmyhe ad out-play my old-world allegretto, these corny theatricals long dead, and so I move along the groove traced by a trendy, post-modernist thread.

The river Dee is swelling contra-stream, the sea is climbing to the granite hills; like molasses or carbon seam its surface softly mirrors and distils.

What is this universal force that pulls two bodies from their disparate ways and joins atoms, then molecules till great galaxies blossom and amaze?

A primal law that works to draw oner ounde ye ss t ar i ngi nt oapar t ne r ’ sgaze .

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The r ei snogr e at e rj oyt hans e x;i t ’ sf r e eori fyoupayatl e as ti ti s n’ tt axe d, i nbe dwe ’ r eone ,al t houghwec an’ tagr e e i fi t ’ sbe s tf r e ne t i c ,ore l s e ,r e l axed.

A touch of palm on cheek, on breasts or thighs and scent of bodies coiled in potent lust; the day that through the curtain pries as shafts of sun suspending aimless dust, the ecstasy, its memory, c an’ tbee r as e dwhenl i f epr ove sf al s eandt i meunj us t .

So is the ever-swelling universe, the gases and all that time has henceforth brought, expressible in terms more terse than Heisenberg or Einstein ever thought?

Yes; for love is not effect but cause, and scientists that probe the source of all cutting matter into smaller balls will one day find the fundamental pull of weightless love that makes us move in arcs so simple, lucid; lines that rise and never fall.

Come in, like starships that have searched broad tracts of space and frozen wastes of asteroids, Come in! once out-bound artefacts built to search and chart the endless voids.

Le t ’ sgo!Al ls pe e d,f ootdown,war p-factor daft, don’ ts par et hegas ,f ul l -bung,we ’ r ei nar us h; chocks away, overdrive, crank the shaft, nth gear, the captain wants a final push!

Pull out all stops, heap quantum hops, greased lightning-like, with whistle, twizzle crash-bang - whoosh!

71

And here we are, folk from far-flung parts beneath this tent in great celebration; not to laud ourselves but two joined hearts that now are one on this champagne occasion.

How can one love when sunk in over-think?

Don’ tc e r e br at e ,t hat ’ snotourgoalc ome ,c e l e br at e ,l e t ’ sdownadr i nk, l e t ’ sge tt oge t he r ,noti nhe adbuts oul !

The r e ’ snomor eni ght for loves new light charms our path in absolution, and makes us whole.

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Headlong I keep defining love.

It's not as in youth when everything was done headlong. …A di s c r e t eaf f ai r , outside marriage, the house and the car, yourki ds …

We don't need sex at our age.

Feelings in our heads.

Good conversation, occasional hol dofhands ,pe c kont hec he ek…

We have the means - business trips, meetings.

But you stir my bowels, my loins, my guts.

I ’ m apant i ng,

pounding monster on heat.

Our time among the stars is short.

Headlong,

I must have you.

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Cine-Strip The lights sink low, the music crackles in, He sweats, excited by his secret sin.

Blankly she gazes from a window-seat Then lifts a hand and massages her tit.

Her denim skirt is tugged above her crotch As she slinks to the sideboard for a scotch; Then on a bed her body squirms and cries As fingers stroke between her parted thighs.

She changes, playing a cute schoolgirl game, Thrusting knickers at the camera frame, Then sinks a bed-post in wriggling flesh And rubs her cunt beneath wet mycra-mesh.

Staring through the cinema's silver smoke She watches him tug his stiffening spoke, Then flashes her round, spankable ass To arouse his cock to hardness of brass And he slips from his seat into the rain, Buys the wife chocolates, assuaging his pain.

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The Frenzied Friar Today it would make the tabloids but once-upon-a-time it sank along with a few laughs into folklore.

Wax glued goose feathers and a certitude that no mammal but man can muster, then The Frenzied Friar, perched on top of the tower of Tongland kirk, became the first human to fly.

As he dragged himself upright, he cursed the quality of feathers these days.

His wings, caked by the reeking dung-heap that saved him, left onlookers sniggering like jackdaws.

Or so the locals say.

In truth his initial swoop plummeted the man of God, but he chanted aves and his Maker lifted him like an eagle - or maybe a goose - over the treetops, up and out across the ocean, on among the stars and on, on through the hearts of galaxies till his eyes marvelled and his soul rejoiced.

Upon return, he chose a midden for landing.

A humble friar knows his place.

note 8 75

Icon A face means much like an overcoat against many weathers.

This one promised more than any man's straightjacket can.

The garment seemed to fit a world's broad shoulders but today, when I awoke, the coat was gone, the door open onto Siberian cold.

A toga or trenchcoat or the brass and military grey: again the politics of personality betrays the people.

Diamond grief lodges in my chest and I fear for the blood of Russia, standing naked in a faceless scene bowed against the onset of winter.

note 9

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31.12.99 I t ’ shal fpas tt we l ve ,notl ongt ogot i l ll unc h although I mean to say not long to go – well, no! I hope the clocks roll past the crunch of The Millennium. You see I grow convinced by folk that trust in stars: disaster waits on Western calendars.

77

Insane Alphabet Atf i r s twebui l tan“A”bomb To keep the free world free.

It terrified the Russians Whor i val l e d“A”wi t h“B”.

“B”bombpr ove dunstable, Soons ur pas s e dby“C” Capable of carnage Hal fasgr e atas“D” .

Ene r gywas“E”bomb, Its fire as red as Mars But“F”bombmadet wof i nge r sIt rivalled minor stars.

“G”bombr a i s e dt heant e , One blast would cleave the sky; TheNavyf e ar e dt he“H”bomb That left the oceans dry.

No-onebui l tan“I ”bomb As“I ”bombs e e me dt oovai n But“J ”bombspr ove dpr ol i f i c : The world had gone insane.

“K”,de r i vedofknowl e dge Studying black-holes, Separated mind and flesh, Extinguishing our souls.

78

“L”bombsmadeal lnat i ons Bow before the Lord But“M”e nc our age dMammon To keep the people fooled!

Some nde vel ope d“N”bombsNeutrinos make you glow As passing through all atoms The ygener at e d“O”.

“P”bombs ,bui l tl i kepul s ar s , Simulate the bang That brought about creation And left it out to hang.

“Q”si mi t at e dQuas ar s , Blistering a foe And“R”bombsr e t r o-travelled time To zero zero zero.

“S”bombswe r et he or e t i c al Aswe r e“T”and“U”; We blew them from existence Wi t h“V”and“W”.

“X”,de s i gnedt ox-ray Anywhere you hide, Turned planets into shadow On the negative of pride.

Then man looked all around him, Regretting all the dead But ,s adl y,“Y”e xpl oded Andde t onat e d“Z”.

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Designer War Gentlemen and ladies, So kind of you to come; We ’ r eoutto please the masses, Andt hi s ’ l ls t r i kethem dumb.

A war, of course, is gory, Legs and arms are lost; Buthe r e ’ sadi f f e r ents t or y That makes a cry, a boast!

At first we need to brand it, Find some identity; As l i c kde s i gner ’ smandat e For cold atrocity.

And then we need a strap-line, Or image –take the sun Setting on a land-mine Or spent Iraqi gun.

Next, we make the palette Harmonise with red, Capturing the desert heat To camouflage the dead Then hi-j ac kar e por t e r ’ sblurb With banners flashing “Li ve ” As live becomes commanding verb: The fallen all survive!

80

Magda’ sGri ef The carts or trucks, shielded with awnings – blankets, polythene sacks, old coats even, or exposed to the tumbling, tattered sky – queue like a loose cotton thread or hair from the head of a newlywed laid upon the bareback of the brutal mountain.

The wails, open mouthed, unending, over the lost –husband, brother, mother; over the burnt carcasses of homes, vegetable plots, refrigerators; over the lost names and addresses, the fiddle music, laughter and the hypnotic hips of the dance.

For them such permanence in grief, such shift as only the continents can compare when the earth shakes and swallows its offspring; for us, a slow diminishment of pain as their ghost fades to a point at the dark end of an abysmal TV tube before bed.

81

Dad Never Went to War Dad never went to war, when they called him up he went on the run slipping from Bethnal Green to Hackney then down to Bow, furtive, circling the pubs and clubs like a ghost among the flames of the blackout Blitz.

Dad never went to war but sold petrol coupons to toffs in West End bars went on the whizz and eyed up banks or offered long odds on a dog or the fate of men who grassed.

Dad never went to war but got caught twice and escaped twice using fivers as bribes and drink and a little violence, mocking the Military Police yokels that spoke like cows.

82

Dad never went to war but his mates did and they all got shot and he was alone on VE Day and alone in the years that followed.

Dad did a bank job and got done.

Dad did a payroll job and got done. Dad never told me this I found out from Mum. Dad would have liked to fly a Spitfire said Mum, but Dad was colour blind. Dad was kind and gave me threepences or shillings when his horse came up and went to bed when his horses lost.

Dad never raised a hand never spoke much about himself but spoke ofbookst hathe ’ d read inside.

Dad never went to war and he died from fags and drink without much of a fight in Walthamstow. We buried him without honours or fuss.

Dad never went to war.

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The Witch

Elspeth McEwan d.1698 Climb the hilltops of Screel and Bengairn, Gather gowd chessies like a poor, truant bairn: - The r e ,a nywhe r eI ’ db e .

Fl owe r sI ’ dpi c ki nt heme adowsatThr e ave , Count up my lovers and necklaces weave: - The r e ,a nywhe r eI ’ db e .

Fish the black rockpools and swim the deep lynn, Flirt with young Billy and drive him to sin: - The r e ,a nywhe r eI ’ db e .

I ’ dt r avelt oWi gt ownandhang-out in bars, Drink mesel fou and count up the stars: - The r e ,a nywhe r eI ’ db e .

Ri det her e dmar eoft hel ai r d’ sr i ppi s hl ady, Rifle her linen and poach her howtowdie: - Oha nywhe r eI ’ db e .

I ’ dr at herbef e e i ngatc ol dWar nl oc khe ad Ors t r angl edbywi ve si nmyl over ’ sai nbe d: - Ye s ,a nywhe r eI ’ db e .

A hex on the churchmen who singled me out Though sinners themsel and riddled with doubt: - Oh Lord have mercy on me.

84

Boun light-hearted bairnies gather around Charmed by the kirk-be l l ’ smonot onouss ound: - Do wnt he r ewa t c hi ngI ’ db e .

Oh hear, from the airts, criers chaunt a lie And ken, saving Grace, Elspeth maun die: - God, oh God, it never was me.

Braw worthies that hate me will cheer when I burn; May the bitch that stabbed him get her return: - The Deil seek vengeance for me!

I pity the fools that fear a wyke witch Whose potion was passion to crawl out the ditch: - The y’ l lne ve rb er e a dyf o rme .

“I ’ mc omi ng,s t andbac k,Idon’ tne e dyourgoads , I ’ l lneve rdi ebe ggi ngapar donf r om t oads . ” - Ye s ,no w,I ’ mr e a dyf o rme .

Cartloads of townsfolk are lining the way But a pyre is biding for each on their day.

- Now, heaven get ready for me!

note 10

85

The Offering Over the bridge in Pont-Aven a man, dressed as a Breton sailor, carries, under-arm, a parcel.

He steps into the Church of St Joseph, slips between masons, and looks for Father Madec.

Madec, preoccupied with his new church, senses a presence.

I ’ ds e e nhi ma b o utt o wn.

From his dress he was obviously foreign; only incomers dress as sailors here.

He was the man whom the old women feared, of whom the young girls spoke too much.

Shifty. Sly. Arrogant.

That evening, in the Café des Arts: “So I walks into the Church. You know me, religious, identify with Christ despite my jaundiced soul.

I seen a lot of stained-glass round Paris, and this painting –The Vision –i t ’ ski nda like a window looking in, a thunderclap of pagans and God. Though no self-portrait, this work means much to me.

So Madec clocks my clobber asi fIwass omeki ndas ai l or . ” He started fumbling with a parcel.

He ’ sa na r t i s t ,o neo ft hee i ght yo rs o that plague the town. He starts with mock humility.

86

“’ Iwaswonde r i ng…

Iwaswonde r i ng…’ ” And he peels off the brown paper As if in some fair-ground show. “’ Dada!

Woul dt heChur c hl i ket hi s ? ’ Silence. ‘ I t ’ sapai nt i ng.

The Vision of the Sermon. Jacob wrestling the angel.

That ’ sJ ac ob.

That ’ st heange l .Wi t ht hewi ngs .

And these ladies here, you probably know em well.

Well, not that well.

The r e ’ st heonewhogr as s ed my blaspheming last Easter.

Well?

I t ’ sgood.

Very good.

Though I say so myself.

I t ’ sl i kes t ai ned-glass, those cathedrals –your cathedrals.

Our cathedrals.

I ’ m of f e r i ngi t .

Gr at i sl i ke . ’ ”

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It was evident Jacob had a cloven hoof and as for the lips of the woman, many men in the town knew those lips only too well.

There are times when it is best to admit a mistake, give up but one week later, in the Café des Arts, you would have heard this: “Att i me syouknow you’ vemadeabal l s -up butyouc an’ ts t op,l i keapani c ke dhor s e you keep running.

Mix that with my legendary balls, a dose of indignation and even a yearning, a dark yearning, for salvation and what comes next is no shocker.

See me,I ’ m religious, unlike those prelates.

Pr obl e mi s ,Idon’ tbe l i eve .

But these women, with their rough lips, bustling at market, clogs clunking on cobbles, t he y’ r es opr i mi t i ve ,s ouns ophi s t i c at e d who can argue with them?

That ’ smyVi s i on–i t ’ st he i rvi s i on.

So, I and a few mates walk to Nizon.

Two hours. Hot day. We share t hebur denofmyVi s i onc osi t ’ saf ai r few kilos in the frame.

Nice church. Old. Real Gothic.

Not like that new-build in Pont-Aven.

My painting would look ace over the entrance door.

Entrance, entrance. Get it?

Lanky Laval lifts it up and Bernard brings in Milin, the rector.

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My son? “’ Fat he r . ’ (How low can one bend the knee?)

Silence.

He stares.

Sur el yhe ’ snotj udgi ngi fframe and décor dance the tango?

He reads my inscription lettered blue on white: ‘ Gi f tofTr i s t andeMos c os o’ . ” They stood before me, A pompous band of pranksters.

“Whi c ho neo fyo ui sTr i s t a nde …de …?” “’ Mynobl ePe r uvi ananc e s t or . ’ ( Don’ tl augh;i t ’ st r ue . ) ‘ I ’ m abi tofami x.

Youdon’ tl i kei t ?

Gratis like.

Zilch.

Nada.

Look good above the entrance.

Entrance, entrance. Get it?

Like stained glass.

I t ’ sbi bl i c al ,t hes t or y and local.

Nada.

Zi l c h. ’ ” What is the cow doing there?

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“’ Thec ow?Whe r e ?

O there!

A compositional device linking the foreground with the action i nt het i me l e s ss pac eoft he …

I t ’ sac ow.

The ’ r el ot sof em round here.

The winner of the wrestling match gets the cow as his prize.

Which is dodgy. Granted.

I could paint over it.

Look, this painting needs a home.

Ime ani fyoudon’ tt akei t where will it end up?

The ends of the earth.

Some dark, damp climate in a stuffy musée.

Belgium. Or even worse.

C’ mon.

I t ’ samas t e r pi e c e .

I t ’ l lc hanget hewaywel ookatar t , the way we clock the world.

Idon’ twanti twas t e donat he i s t s .

C’ mon.

Hang it.

I t ’ sc ool .

Le ar nt ol oveyourc he fd’ oeuvr e …

(Sérusier says to me afterwards: ‘ s i l enc ec ans wal l ow aheart unt i li t ’ sl os tf or e ver ’ .)

I try again.

Please.

Pl e as e . ’ ”

note 11

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Our Lady Weight of stone, weight of glass, weight of light, weight of shadow; here men found the black virgin, (no bride but burnt by fire) here men show the virgin's veil that hid her face, her pain and anger; here men chant Ave Maria, pouring discord into the rock, here men ask pity of a woman they must hate, here men praise spirit and push a witch into the flames; here men founded Our Lady, wring blood from stone, cursing life.

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Iv. The Race

Shopkeepers They're proud of their boy, an Air Force high flier but their smiles betray sadness: something's missing, a bird flown.

The shop, crammed with toys: plane kits, bats, balls, gadgets that hover, soar or go bang; balloons, buckets and spades, diaries is their magpie's nest.

The years tot up whirring like a spinning top, squatting like a soft bear.

They tell tales by the till: Callas in Edinburgh, the cycling tour rained-off, losing the pools.

They shine their hope on one that flew away, a greedy eye on retirement.

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Mother's Visit It's as if all my books are blanks, dashed at the floor and the shelves left hollow, bare boards.

Buttressed by an armchair, smile faint as irony and so fragile, depressed like the cushion her buttocks suffocate with sitting, she remembers accusing her husband of turning my head after he handed me the "Odyssey", his only gift, my first book.

I watch her buying sweets as we head for the telly, her dentures machine-gunning: What do you want?

What do you want?

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First Bike She pushed me off onmyc ous i n’ sbi ke down Woodlands Road.

Tick, tick, tick went the wheels then tictictic aunt Bet cheering and a stadium of relatives willing me forward as I tried to stay in the saddle di dn’ tknow how the paving slabs sliding beneath my wobbly knees.

Gravity kept me going, not learning nor skill – still does forty years down the hill.

Today, knuckles white on the handle-bars, feet wheeling after the pedals, telegraph poles whoosh past l i keac l oc k’ shandsi nt hewr ongge ar .

I scream, the stadium cheers taking my cries for victory cries, not the cries of one careering out of control.

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Swimming the Width In the last year of Primary School Stephen Chewpak swam his first width.

I watched from the pool-side fearing the odour of chlorine, a note of permanent exemption ar mouragai ns tt e ac he r ’ sde t e r mi nat i on to make me join in and succeed.

Everybody cheered as Chewy made it.

Certificates were being written, speeches prepared. Pool staff openly congratulated each other.

And I watched from off-side, my note of permanent exemption locking me out of the locker-room.

Ten minutes later, with the fuss subsided, Chewy, inflated by success, discreetly went for the length.

He got half way then ran out of air and sank. I watched from the pool-side my note of permanent exemption clasped like a passport to freedom.

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Christmas Present Lifting the protractor from its bed I prise the still stiff joint apart till unused lead and lethal point mark forty degrees and so many seconds.

I t ’ sf or t yye ar ss i nc eIunwr appe di t ss hi ni ne s s : the black box and red felt inside, the sparkling tools that still tempt me into a world of geometry and number.

Today I bin it, this present.

I ’ veneve rus edi t ,now know Ineve rwi l l .

It has fooled me all these years. My careful uncle thought I might turn out a man of measurement, reckoning tables, plotting the years.

Adios. Your exactitude has always bugged me.

My charting must be done on hearts and sleeves, in the crazy grey arenas of if and but, in fight or flee, and in tears.

The measures I know flow from an optic, my reckoning will be sulphurous and proud andIwon’ tpr ot r ac tt i mea tc os tofl i f e .

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Birds in a Cage Mynamei sGe or ge ,I ’ ms i xt yf i ve My daughter lives in Cheam; I practised medicine all my life, Now myhobby’ ss t e am.

My wife, poor June, her back was sore Butt hat ’ st hewaywi t hage ; She lay for hours on the floor Be s i det hebudgi e ’ sc age .

I hate the smelly budgerigar A present from my daughter.

I ’ dr at herwa s handwaxt hec ar Than give it food and water.

ButJ oe yc an’ tbel e f tt odi e , (Doctors are humane) I hope, therefore, that it might fly Into a window pane And break its little neck, of course: The r e ’ snot hi ngIc oul ddo; Me di c i nedoe s n’ thaver e c our s e To miracles. Do you?

June watched the cricket on TV, Planted acres of lobelia, Butt r ut ht ot e l l( ‘ t we e nyouandme ) I had good cause leave her.

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She mocked aloud my model trains, Denounced them childish trash Then told me to unblock the drains To save our useless cash.

She wore her cool, self-righteous glow (I slipped her warfarin pills) When Mallard - Hornby triple 0 Derailed its bogey wheels!

I pitied her, her spiteful mind, Her life stuck in the house, And duty states I must be kind So I healed my ailing spouse.

Andnow I ’ m of ft oI s t anbul Upon the Orient Express To feel the southern sun grow cool Thr ougheveni ng’ swi l de xc e s s , Then cross the snowy Urals Sipping vodka all the way Wi t haquac kwho’ ss e l l i ngc ur e-alls And makes his medicine pay.

What ’ swr ongwi t hme ?Am Ide pr aved?

A doctor cannot kill!

Thet e l l y’ sof f ,t hegar de n’ spaved, But Joey needs his Trill.

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Bi-centenary, Dumfries What a day! They're gonna air-drop one hundred-thousand tea-towels over our town's glossy precinct, all flapping the head ov the bard!

Kids, press-ganged from classes across ourr e gi on‘ l lbe ats hor t br e adt i ns ta give bard-babes a marvellous mal à la tête.

There'll be T-shirts n badges an a cavalcade - no bladder blowin Borderers but wee Rabbie huggin weans n swiggin Grouse, while Tam rides Meg wi tail surgically cropped nBonni eJ e ans we e pst hes hi ts he ’ sl e f tbe hi nd.

Aye, n all the big-wi gs‘ l lbec l oc ki nc ut t y-sark, n we'll have a fifty-foot motorised furry mouse n a yet bigger coulter chasin it.

Och, that'll be a right larf.

J e nny‘ l lbes haki nherl oc ks ,t hr owi n smarties ta right n left, n Holy Willie roastin in the pit o hell on one ov Currie's artics.

We'll have no skunner kultur poets, but big-breasted dancin dames in pubs, n we'll have bonfires burnin bangers fuelled by models o modern art nyonBur nsFi l m The at r e‘ l lbebanne df oraye from showin Death in Venice only soft porn, Rocky films n Disney fa kids.

It'll be greet and popular, a folk-fest.

There'll be gey muckle speeches on just ow mazin Rabbie was an we'll all get stonkerin, slagged-out pissed an if that don't bring the tourists back, nufin will.

note 12 100

Greek Restaurant Retsina served in copper jugs, Young vines that wriggled up the wall, Globe lampshades thick with moths and bugs These didn't grab my mind at all.

A mantis stuck on stucco played The wary art of being gone While tourists ate, drank and made It clear - too clear - where they were from.

Calm candle flame that holds the key, Some sages say, to free the mind In self-consumed eternity, My restless eyes soon left behind.

Then wine-dark doors across the street Imposed upon my fleeting states And sunk my heart into my feet Beyond that lock, what journey waits?

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Tsatsiki First peel garlic cloves, two large or three small, Pummel each crescent to a shining pulp And scrape this pithy cream into a bowl Make sure the texture's juicy, white yet crisp; Grind peppercorns to powder fine as dust And sprinkle sneezy clouds into rich oil Then add the garlic, stirring to a paste With vinegar till bright as emeralds; Skin cucumber and dice to glistening cubes Then fold in yoghurt strained through muslin sacks; Allow to meld - leave the sauce to cool, Divide and serve on decorated plates: The Queen of Greece that rules all other dishes; As warm as love, as sharp as winter kisses.

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Disaster I tc ame ,asf ol ks ay,“f r om outoft hebl ue ”; clouds fell so dark the street lamps flickered on, but then the lines blew down and light was gone: bitches howled, cats sped for cover, men knew.

The sea walled up the estuary, wind warred with trees that crumpled, wrung their roots in air; wives watched through louvres with an open stare while lightning struck and muckle thunder roared.

Before the town sank in the mud, we asked: “Whatpowe rors i nhasbr oughtt hi send? ” Our vicar rang the bells, then knelt and prayed.

I t ’ ss t r ange ,f ort hi ss mal lpor thads ol ongbas ke d i npe opl e ’ sl ove ;how,who,c oul dweof f e nd?

Wedr ownbe t r aye d,i nwantofhe aven’ sai d.

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Improbabilities What if . . .?

What if poetry became peak-time?

Whati fIdi dn’ tdi e ?

What if politicians were all Zen masters?

And Zen masters got God-struck?

What if artists bought a round of drinks?

What if the Arts Council gave the moolah to do so?

What if businessmen became humane?

And what if sheep refused grass?

What if the night flared up like a catherine wheel? All the watches stopped?

The foot of Kali flattened mountains?

What if schools stopped teaching?

What if the dead came back and told a different tale?

What if the living knew tomorrow?

And if you could sing like Callas?

And I like Caruso?

Whati fIt ur nedr oundandyouwer en’ tt he r e?

What if breasts bled pitch? Babies ate their parents?

Men refused to fight wars? Women refused to back men?

Governments told the truth? Syndicates surrendered guns?

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What if fags were good for you?

What if medicine made us happy?

If religion was Truth?

And philosophers never erred?

What if we saw ourselves as others see us?

What if we enjoyed it?

What if everybody knew a little more?

And wanted a little less?

And what if we all gave up pretending?

Were interested in anything but ourselves?

And if the do-gooders were given truth drugs?

The charity collectors?

The helpers? The royals?

The managers? The workers?

The claimants? The saints?

The Brahmins? The rabbis?

The social workers? The scientists?

The sportsmen? The poets?

What if God exists?

Whati fIc r i e d,“Upyour sdaddy,I ’ m doi ngwhatIwant ! ”?

And I did?

What if we grew to know love?

What if we grew to know love?

And the tortoise beat Achilles which we know he never really did andZeno’ sar r ow f oundi t smar k?

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The Surgeon Packed neatly in a portable case, f i t t i ngt her e df e l t ’ se mbr ac e , made in Edinburgh 1788, these blades of razored steel and heavy hafts, handles of mahogany. The drills to trepan coil like ballerinas; forcipate tongs twist left or right, and the saws, teeth sharp as tock of metronome, medium and small, (none large, for we are not sows, nor hearth-l ogs ,normas on’ ss t one ) r e f l e c ti nt hec a s ke t ’ sf l uor e s c entgl ar e needles to suture, pins to puncture.

Such care cutting human flesh, boring through bone and amputation like all instruments to sever and cure they come clean; so cool, so perfect, so precise they put our shoddy lives to shame. A surgeon is the cleverest man: impresario, benefactor extraordinaire, always placing others before himself.

106

Edinburgh International Inside the Apex Hotel sex is on the go; swing doors flash, loosing people in a rush; tourists move East and West.

The Waverly, a kaleidoscope of carriages slipping out and in on silver, moving hopes to termini in strange tongues.

Skeins from aircraft tangle the Laws as they swoop and lift.

We blink at larks in the sun; slow tankers froth the Forth.

Edinburgh! Bright on the lens of our startled eyes, a song on our lips, the beat of our step, our dreams, touring the globe.

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The Race I watch the race of time exhaust my parents, friends, and sorrow over fumblings, scuppered plans, like portraits painted yet denied the light of day.

I watch for tiny signs in them and log each pain, as Rembrandt, sharp and grim voyeur, captured death extend its rigorous hand.

A morbid turn of mind that grows more forceful with each lap we run: but why?

To better know myself.

My uncle at the grave-side of his sister, black shoes polished, mirroring the sky, a cold clod of mud underfoot that oozed and clung to his sole, soiled the lace, then smirched the buff, plastering the patent leather, and me not understanding a word the vicar mouthed.

Each year the change I see in them get nearer.

Could you bear a film of you racing till you dropped?

The misery would unwind you to despair.

Better the shock: the upturned photo, the injury ignored till your whole body's stiff, the puff and weakness walking up a hill, like leaving home for a holiday and on returning you notice something's missing: a slipped slate, your neighbours' car, the branch of a tree?

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Baselitz painting oaks that root in heaven and push towards the knot at the earth's heart, or those crazy faces hung in limbo before they fall.

We are all there, held up by string on gallery walls, and when we look at each other familiarity is what we ask, surprise is what we get.

And if I record the race of change in me I find that I can never be as before, am happier now though nearer death.

Yet I see others with memories more than mine who pine upon the past like old, lost dogs.

Don't they know better than me?

We will not give up what isn't ours without a plea for pity, though everything new is ours on loan and newness is all we have.

Butwhatofpai nt hat ’ snotuponmeye t ?

Pain is the start of loss of self-possession, death the end.

How all our guile and greatness is heaped against pain!

"A painless death is all I ask", said my father-in-law and he burrowed into that pending moment like a dog digs for a rabbit only to find a fox.

I will suffer pain and it will take much from me but what will pain give when it shatters my world?

Human achievement runs neck and neck with pain!

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I think of Monet, arthritic, blind, bent on capturing light, or my aunt whose heart hurt her like knives, yet whose legacy is radiance and laughter.

What a horrid irony reducing suffering might have, plunging us into peace, stealing hope, life itself.

We would wage war as tonic to our torpor!

Despite the log of loss I note in you let me stride with strength toward the finishing line.

I would not want another way, say, short or not at all.

So we age which means we change and every change is cause to sigh and celebrate, as when De Kooning forgets the weight of greatness.

My mother sits waiting for the nurse and word among the down-faced and fearful.

"Mrs Hudson, good news, you're fine" and a law of numbers ripples through the rest, like wind through blades of Autumn grass.

Which of them will fall to earth?

D端rer scratching lines before his mother's death.

She, stripped of illusion, bare as flesh dried to parchment beneath the burning sun.

Count us one by one and in the counting count yourself, count me, too. Does it matter who is first, who second or last?

I see from my window children on sports day, laughing, loose-limbed, eager to win, and above me my bronze, tarnished now,

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like an old master glazed in aged varnish, its vigour and accomplishment hidden by time, awaiting the questionable aid of restoration.

The child is never dead, its days are countless.

My father on the 'phone today saying he is "young" as he is hurtled towards the finishing post.

We are running, like the hunter in the cave painting who flees a stag to find a mammoth block his escape for there is no escape.

What a deep, deep consolation it is to know that Palaeolithic man thought these thoughts that I am writing now. It cannot be different, and the love he felt for parents, friends, was the same love that I feel towards you. Oh! These portraits run rings around time, like those ripples and rings that radiate on rocks our distant fathers carved, that experts say are clocks to count the ageing of the stars, or those thoughtfully postured, o so whole hands that Cezanne crafted in rounds from pigment, themselves taken from the wholeness in us all.

Tapes lower my uncle into earth then flutter loosely before they are folded. We leave to applause from leaves on the breezy trees.

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The Mammoth Trap You’ r ene arf or got t e nnow, anar t i s t ’ ss ke t c h of stick beating and yahooing to stampede mammoths along the gulley to the cliff lip.

Today Sitka sprout, prickle sap-green daylight, and the cries of mechanical saws tells of another harvest piled by cranes onto lorries.

Brave young hunters, you lost brothers, sacrificed and sung for kindred gone and yet to come. Man knows himself, then, for a frail thing.

And peering into t hemammot ht r ap’ smi s tandmud, I recognise our pain, the chain of blood and screams that fells us all.

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Cloudburst It's a magical Spring night: rain needles paving, drilling small pits, ejecting splashes that glow along rolling streets.

In bruised and shivering light I let raw dampness soak in heavy with urine washes from blossoming hawthorn breaks.

Then Rain lifts her musty skirt about her pure, stary thighs.

A clear celestial peace shatters when some foul bugger sea-sick, thick, blind on Export, tunelessly chants crude goodbyes to sinking winking Venus while pissing in the gutter.

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Sunday Stroll Among bleached beer cans, Tesco bags, split and stinking refuse sacks, a brolly spoke, torn porno mags, some Silk Cut butts - a wrapped tampax.

Clumps of knotgrass barely hide agol de nc omb.A c hi l d’ s ?Notqui t e .

And nearby pills - days coincide: Sunday. Did she run or fight?

A lipstick leads me on, a chit, “TheLi s t e ni ngBank”,dat eye s t e r day, some screwed up tissues next to it smeared with blood and London clay.

Upon her Access credit card I note the name and read disgrace, then see my faces bent and scarred within her shattered compact case.

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Meg Me gl oc ksherf i f t i e s ’Counc i lflat mortis click - then slowly down the steps; makes the shops: tins for the cat, gin, tonic and two pork chops.

Footsteps follow in training shoes then run onpas tatMot he r c ar e ’ s.

Meg coughs, delays, regrets the booze, negotiates he rf l at ’ s twelve stairs but stops to catch her breath before she feels the flutter of her heart.

Then, shopping lifted off the floor, she sees the door and jamb ajar.

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Impersonal She watches her arm, finds curious names for each of her eight cats.

By tea the tide ebbs, channels fill with sky like shards of that dropped cup.

At dusk she sits among the daffs insensitive to cold curling around her ankles.

116

Going Under Through a colliery earth-door, I worm my way, a pained stretch of finger pull and toe claw, sucked by cold clay margins down to where love is denied.

Now is one blind line, dangling rope without anchor; no turn to embrace what's behind, only knowing stone vibrations of the heartheat's volcano.

I'm as afraid as my father of the gorgon earth, her grin, but too late, fate's taken over: into the geode so tight hysteria is petrified.

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From a Balcony a choppy sky and gut-green sea wee blue dinghy oars pivoting on the waves moving imperceptibly to where the bay widens and gives onto cloud we watch he is not a fisherman his slowness strains our patience where is he bound? predictions fail e ac hl andmar k’ spas s e d the ocean busier with foam bruised by closing night naked cold his speck dissolves

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Kirkyard Half expect an owl to screech or bats that tangle in your hair as, stumbling through a mossy breach, you fall upon a sepulchre.

Carvings picture Fate with time-piece, bones and skull butwhat ’ st hatont hegr ani t epat e ?

A butterfly, new-born, whole!

119

a last dignity undressing in arctic wind realising its cold

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Notes 1.

Page 6: Rousay Tomb. The poem is based upon an underground Neolithic chambered tomb at Midhowe on the island of Rousay, Orkney. Built in the shape of a ship, it is one of the oldest existing structures in Scotland.

2.

Page 7: Kirkmadrine. The church at Kirkmadrine in the Rhinns of Galloway is one of the earliest Christian settlements in Scotland.

3.

Page8:Mac t aggar t ’ sSe c ondEnc yc l opae di a.J ohnMac t aggar t i st heaut horof“ TheGal l ovi di anEnc yc l opae di a”.Bor nont he farm at Lennox Plunkton in Galloway, he emigrated to Canada but retained his fascination for words and place-names.

4.

Page12:TheSham Man.“Ont hewhi zz”l .

10r e f e r st opi c ki ng pockets—an East End term employed around the time of the Second World War.

5.

Page19:AtWul l ’ sGr ave .Wul lwast heaf f e c t i onat enameus ed

by John Mactaggart (see poem p. 18) in his Gallovidian Encyclopaedia for the poet William Nicholson (1784—1849). A well-knownf i gur ei nhi st i me ,Ni c hol s on’ snamehass l i ppe d into obscurity despite his excellent poem, The Brownie of Bl e dnoc h.Ni c hol s on’ sgr avei si nKi r kandr e ws ’c hur c hyar d, Galloway. His name is set on the reverse of the headstone.

6.

Page41:Br uc kner ’ sNi nt h.Thec ompos e rAnt onBr uc kner (1824—1896) developed an obsession with counting.

7.

Page 57: Blessing the Well. The poem refers to ceremonies still current in some parts of England where pagan deities associated with local wells are placated with blessings and offerings.

8.

Page75:TheFr e nzi e dFr i ar .Theadapt at i onofDunbar ’ st al ei s l oc alt oKi r kc udbr i ght s hi r e .Ke nne dy,t hes ubj e c tofDunbar ’ s satire, owned the kirk and land around Tongland, near Kirkcudbright.

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9.

Page 76: Icon. This poem was written at the time of the attempted military coup against Mikhail Gorbachev.

10.

Page 84: The Witch. The last witch to be burnt in Scotland was Elspeth McEwan in 1698. She was tried, imprisoned and executed in Kirkcudbright. Such an event was an occasion that brought a great deal of revenue into the town. The undercurrents of persecution, paranoia, voyeurism and opportunism have, to this day, never been recognised as a crime.

11.

Page 86: The Offering. This is a true story. Gauguin painted “TheVi s i onAf t e rt heSe r mon”andof f e r e di tt ot wol oc al churches in and near Pont-Aven in Brittany, France. Both refused the gift. The painting now hangs in The National Gallery of Scotland by way of Belgium. Gauguin was a Par i s i an,henc emyadopt i onofaLondoner ’ ss t yl eofs pe e c h for his part in the poem in order to find a kind of equivalence.

The typography of the poem suggests the different voices: narrator, churchmen and Gauguin.

12.

Page 100: Bi-Centenary, Dumfries. 1996 was the bi-centenary oft hede at hofSc ot l and’ snat i onalpoe t ,Robe r tBur nswho died in Dumfries. This satire alludes to some of the ideas put forward by Councillors for the obligatory celebrations. It was originally written in a Dumfries dialect but I have simplified it here for universal consumption.

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