His shadow has mastered him
and light from yonder-by escaped
down avenues of years.
His stick does not crack
the lit bowl of bread for birds.
His eyes no longer scan
the line of comedy.
Sanny Hunter, now shadow-run
and light-theft, remaindered
as the sparrows wait.
Li Po’s exile doon the watter
Rivers in blossom,
the oak tree rising.
White bags appearing
to vanish under waves.
The bough-rocked hysteria,
the moon hung in blue sky
and fists of grass grabbing
the paths I walked.
When the river fades and flowers
a thousand times over,
I will be back and green and gold.
I will take your words
and croak them.
note: "doon the watter" - an old Scots phrase.
the oak tree rising.
White bags appearing
to vanish under waves.
The bough-rocked hysteria,
the moon hung in blue sky
and fists of grass grabbing
the paths I walked.
When the river fades and flowers
a thousand times over,
I will be back and green and gold.
I will take your words
and croak them.
note: "doon the watter" - an old Scots phrase.
“It will look into your eyes”
A lifeline of knucklesPlainly in a drifting dark
Waddles into the afternoon
Look into its eyes
It will look into your eyes
- S. Engels
with yellow eyes, in sepia
and a red-stone rubble
crushed beneath its feet –
it will look into your eyes
and you will stone under them
you will ice under them.
It will look, and will laugh,
plainly lit by candles
with eyes a chain
linked to all others
and a ceiling distant
as the stones beneath you.
Lochlyn, thief of the potted geranium
From theft from me comes theft from you.
And the wheel turns.
The curve lifts through its point of inflection
and that crime of yours is handed on to me.
You steal, I steal and the wheel turns
always faster on my vehicle –
my speed is more than your speed,
your crime more than mine.
And the wheel breaks with irregularities.
And the wheel turns.
The curve lifts through its point of inflection
and that crime of yours is handed on to me.
You steal, I steal and the wheel turns
always faster on my vehicle –
my speed is more than your speed,
your crime more than mine.
And the wheel breaks with irregularities.
Nethan Gorge Lullaby
Reaching up he grabbed the Moon
and chopped the awkward grasses down
with the sickle of its lunar edge.
Then shackling the Milky Way
to his car of mountains he drove away
and made a wish on stars reflected
in an ocean still with arctic breath
and ice with twice the rate of death.
He turned away and asked and urged
the forest down into his bag.
He gave a sigh and frowned as deep
as the Nethan Gorge, then went to sleep.
and chopped the awkward grasses down
with the sickle of its lunar edge.
Then shackling the Milky Way
to his car of mountains he drove away
and made a wish on stars reflected
in an ocean still with arctic breath
and ice with twice the rate of death.
He turned away and asked and urged
the forest down into his bag.
He gave a sigh and frowned as deep
as the Nethan Gorge, then went to sleep.
Faces
Compared to jigsaws? Check.
Compared to a heart? Likewise.
Compared to mountains, mirrors,
compared to masks?
Check, check and ditto.
And compared to stairways?
As always, as ever, ticked off.
All faces compare to everything
each contains the other in itself.
And all points map one-to-many
mapping all to all places
mapping mountain to moon
and mapping glint of eye to sun.
Compared to a heart? Likewise.
Compared to mountains, mirrors,
compared to masks?
Check, check and ditto.
And compared to stairways?
As always, as ever, ticked off.
All faces compare to everything
each contains the other in itself.
And all points map one-to-many
mapping all to all places
mapping mountain to moon
and mapping glint of eye to sun.
8 points on “The Perfect Lover”
i
She thaws
the awkward;
freezes the moment.
ii
She claws
at the bedpost
and smoothes the face.
iii
Her pause
is like a knife
drawing tattoos on the back.
iv
Her jaws
move in time and space
and rhythm and place.
v
She saws
at the log of memory
and leaves it as two.
vi
Her laws
are labyrinthine,
an inscrutable knot of limbs.
vii
Her flaws
scatter light superficially
and gather together as features.
viii
And she just rhymes.
Nothing more.
She just rhymes away.
She thaws
the awkward;
freezes the moment.
ii
She claws
at the bedpost
and smoothes the face.
iii
Her pause
is like a knife
drawing tattoos on the back.
iv
Her jaws
move in time and space
and rhythm and place.
v
She saws
at the log of memory
and leaves it as two.
vi
Her laws
are labyrinthine,
an inscrutable knot of limbs.
vii
Her flaws
scatter light superficially
and gather together as features.
viii
And she just rhymes.
Nothing more.
She just rhymes away.
Love song for rain and earth
All mud, all mud,
all mold-a-man
in the stick-and-cling
of new ploughed mud.
all fold-a-man
to black-and-dark
of newborn mud.
all mold-a-man
in the stick-and-cling
of new ploughed mud.
Do you recall,All mud, just mud
the rain asked,
when I__ not just
the__ well, first time
I fell for you?
I do,
said the earth,
and I recall
each other falling
each when you came
with no beck-or-calling.
Did you want me?
asked the rain.
all fold-a-man
to black-and-dark
of newborn mud.
Book Worm Dervish
“When I see the poor dervish unfedOne short-step, see-through speck of ghost
My own food is pain and poison to me.”
- Saadi of Shiraz
stood face up to face me –
his legs on a verb,
his shadow adjectived,
his nouns bouncing a swerve across the page…
He looked up and spoke his eaten words:
His short talk and rabbling“Reader, why read
in this river-logic fashion
when my mole-like drill
and miner-ing option
are more efficient, more pages
done, more words ingested,
more books overrun
by my rotating jaws?“Note we are less dissimilar
than the poet suggests –
to read is to eat,
to eat to devour
quite constant and steady
upon hour from day
from week to life.“But you reader
read that river-logic way –
you meander, you take
pleasure in the poetic
ox-bow lake and island
and eddied-stream,
broken steady by an end
of page and ocean.“Reader, instead
turn pages and follow
my passage from Atlantic
bold to Pacific fine –
follow my drinking
this ocean surround me.“Take time to treasure
at my feeding on this fluid
in pleasure at finding
my passage has included
words we have sampled,
regained and forgotten…“We are alike in our aim,
but our methods encounter
a stone in your stream,
while the river’s mouth opens
to what my ocean can mean.”
between punctuation wild and ghosted.
I looked at him and asked:
"If you riddle me waterAnd I shut the book on him,
as model for reading
why read in the water
the words you ignored?"
left my belly full, satisfied.
Green Buttons
The light artificial
reflects you towards me.
The mind underneath
keeps hidden away.
If a button were to lose
its thread and fall off you
would my finding it,
my keeping it,
send me off by your way?
reflects you towards me.
The mind underneath
keeps hidden away.
If a button were to lose
its thread and fall off you
would my finding it,
my keeping it,
send me off by your way?
Drunk man on Saltmarket
Sing your voice to the pavement
help it fill up your bladder
with the cocktail of bottles
poured one into the other.
Sing those words to the river
of those who would beat you
as a drum to call forward
their fight and would argue.
Sing a street to existence
where nothing should be,
sing: take me to the church,
my bumble bee.
Sing those words to the river
and their meaning to the ground,
stamp, piss on the surface
and raise your face from the sound.
help it fill up your bladder
with the cocktail of bottles
poured one into the other.
Sing those words to the river
of those who would beat you
as a drum to call forward
their fight and would argue.
Sing a street to existence
where nothing should be,
sing: take me to the church,
my bumble bee.
Sing those words to the river
and their meaning to the ground,
stamp, piss on the surface
and raise your face from the sound.
Who killed Cock-Robin?
I did, said the train,
with my superior brain
and calculating power.
I chose the hour
of Cock-Robin’s death
from a timetable programmed
in my motions and method.
I lay in wait stalking
his path on the air.
with my superior brain
and calculating power.
I chose the hour
of Cock-Robin’s death
from a timetable programmed
in my motions and method.
I lay in wait stalking
his path on the air.
Franz Kafka’s attempts at selling a hat
“Sir, reveal your skull
to me and ruffle
your hair and clarify
its size in whistle and stare.
“Choose style from dozens
and warmth and width
of brim – go brimless! – take
the wealth upon your heart.
“Panama; a skull cap;
bolero worn as sun protector;
carrier bag as rain protector;
No, Bowler, bowl the heathens over.
“Baseball cap or mitre;
shadow-dress or kitchen-strainer;
hide your ruffled hair
and take just one – surrender!
“A choice made, Sir, is worthier
than choices piled and left to breathe
their life beneath the caponier
of castle fort and milliner.”
to me and ruffle
your hair and clarify
its size in whistle and stare.
“Choose style from dozens
and warmth and width
of brim – go brimless! – take
the wealth upon your heart.
“Panama; a skull cap;
bolero worn as sun protector;
carrier bag as rain protector;
No, Bowler, bowl the heathens over.
“Baseball cap or mitre;
shadow-dress or kitchen-strainer;
hide your ruffled hair
and take just one – surrender!
“A choice made, Sir, is worthier
than choices piled and left to breathe
their life beneath the caponier
of castle fort and milliner.”
Overheard conversation
“that complex over by –
what is it? prison maybe?
school or labyrinth,
elaborate in design,
and treelike on horizon
with pirouettes of castelations
so solid on the ground
and a thug of gravity
and windows knived
slots within the walls…
what is it? should we go?”
Yes, yes. We should go.
what is it? prison maybe?
school or labyrinth,
elaborate in design,
and treelike on horizon
with pirouettes of castelations
so solid on the ground
and a thug of gravity
and windows knived
slots within the walls…
what is it? should we go?”
Yes, yes. We should go.
Five poems written after watching Werner Herzog’s Heart of Glass
one.
Not what the master
took as given – the lake
took ruby glass like a child
running faster away
from the snow, from
the bridges and never
turning red – a blood
crevice bleeding from
the sunken glass
that in being red
kept red – and blanched
all the world watching
to invisible.
two. The tale of the Liar and the Thief
The liar shouted to the thief:
what path are you taking?
The thief lied, blushing,
and the liar stole
all the shining facets
of that answer.
And each took a path
dissimilar and led the way,
passing-off steps tumbled
like some foul dancer.
three. The Glassblowers
We are not vandals –
we are creators of beautiful things.
We are the chorus the dawn-bird
lifts to light, rotates and sings.
And we work in air, in fire,
earth possessed; and we repent
the sin of animism in bathing water.
We are forest-sent, we force
the world from the light
kept hidden in the trees.
We are those pauses before dawn –
we are those dark, starred
and moon and cloud delays.
Where the form is absent
we calm the waves to surface;
we form absence and hold it
tense against the world
where the vandals come
to slack it.
four.
The world will end this way:
your knuckles pressed to your eyelids
where the colours come –
the shapes striping the dark
and all light shot through.
five. Nursery rhyme
“And a shock to find
the truth was laid
by a goose behind
the milkmaid.”
“And a shock to hear
the sun was born
from a mother-deer
in hawthorn.”
“And a shock to see
Death ride the waves
in falsity
and lost lives.”
Each eye can take
the ear and find
the truth, light and end
you’ve left behind.
Not what the master
took as given – the lake
took ruby glass like a child
running faster away
from the snow, from
the bridges and never
turning red – a blood
crevice bleeding from
the sunken glass
that in being red
kept red – and blanched
all the world watching
to invisible.
two. The tale of the Liar and the Thief
The liar shouted to the thief:
what path are you taking?
The thief lied, blushing,
and the liar stole
all the shining facets
of that answer.
And each took a path
dissimilar and led the way,
passing-off steps tumbled
like some foul dancer.
three. The Glassblowers
We are not vandals –
we are creators of beautiful things.
We are the chorus the dawn-bird
lifts to light, rotates and sings.
And we work in air, in fire,
earth possessed; and we repent
the sin of animism in bathing water.
We are forest-sent, we force
the world from the light
kept hidden in the trees.
We are those pauses before dawn –
we are those dark, starred
and moon and cloud delays.
Where the form is absent
we calm the waves to surface;
we form absence and hold it
tense against the world
where the vandals come
to slack it.
four.
The world will end this way:
your knuckles pressed to your eyelids
where the colours come –
the shapes striping the dark
and all light shot through.
five. Nursery rhyme
“And a shock to find
the truth was laid
by a goose behind
the milkmaid.”
“And a shock to hear
the sun was born
from a mother-deer
in hawthorn.”
“And a shock to see
Death ride the waves
in falsity
and lost lives.”
Each eye can take
the ear and find
the truth, light and end
you’ve left behind.
The crab’s song of fatherhood
Call accident, call out
the words in claw-clatter to child
and set those words running
to the wild, the escape
of voice-in-mineral away
from sound__ the sign
greater than explosion
of rough whine of throat.
Call error, call out
that sentence in wave-water to son,
what taken by the tide
will have begun erosion
of the land in denial,
and the stone of beach
will argue to sand and drift
on watch to growing cliffs.
the words in claw-clatter to child
and set those words running
to the wild, the escape
of voice-in-mineral away
from sound__ the sign
greater than explosion
of rough whine of throat.
Call error, call out
that sentence in wave-water to son,
what taken by the tide
will have begun erosion
of the land in denial,
and the stone of beach
will argue to sand and drift
on watch to growing cliffs.
The Incomparable Les
Old Les was perhaps too proud
of that one less ‘s’ tied to his name.
You don’t get more, he’d shout, but Les!
and stand triumphant at the door.
He’d take a list and minimise it
pour a glassful on the floor
and memorise a half of it.
Les again, much Les of it
like burning up a candle am I,
that’s me and, yes, I’m yearning.
Not for owt, but just in general,
a scandal! just a scandal!
but Les of one, what’s more!
At his funeral we milled
around and ground his memory down
like butter melting, grist and grease
combined and fried, we asked
each other about him, angered
ourselves at forgetting facts
and angered ourselves at him.
You were no candle.
Irretrievable Les, irreplaceable,
implacable Les we miss you so hard
the half-bricked fireplace blazes
like the bastard you were.
And with the tick of days
we don’t miss you, Les,
but well, go on then, yes,
we miss you more.
of that one less ‘s’ tied to his name.
You don’t get more, he’d shout, but Les!
and stand triumphant at the door.
He’d take a list and minimise it
pour a glassful on the floor
and memorise a half of it.
Les again, much Les of it
like burning up a candle am I,
that’s me and, yes, I’m yearning.
Not for owt, but just in general,
a scandal! just a scandal!
but Les of one, what’s more!
At his funeral we milled
around and ground his memory down
like butter melting, grist and grease
combined and fried, we asked
each other about him, angered
ourselves at forgetting facts
and angered ourselves at him.
You were no candle.
Irretrievable Les, irreplaceable,
implacable Les we miss you so hard
the half-bricked fireplace blazes
like the bastard you were.
And with the tick of days
we don’t miss you, Les,
but well, go on then, yes,
we miss you more.
Pedro’s trail, his tower of light
Awards won – all heard about
the news of galleries,
the places been
and the money won
from five years careful work.
to a new land – the plane landed
and the blank sky of Glasgow
greyed over, and in wonder
the tower gloried empty above.
hung demolition on the walls,
the windows shone with images
of windows falling, rubble dusting
the tower falling only in light.
Pedro’s tower rested as dust
and rubble fell and the image
stood still on the climbing cloud
as the demolition lasted.
the news of galleries,
the places been
and the money won
from five years careful work.
“What talent! What beautyPedro took his Latin vowels
in the forms he projects!
He takes Art, rehangs it
through the soul of the viewer.”
to a new land – the plane landed
and the blank sky of Glasgow
greyed over, and in wonder
the tower gloried empty above.
“A unique experiment –For six nights the projector
it will shout a decision of being
and not-being, of drama
in this post-millennial a-clarity.”
hung demolition on the walls,
the windows shone with images
of windows falling, rubble dusting
the tower falling only in light.
“Aye, well, it keeps the kidsAnd on the seventh night
amused and nae hassle -
watchin’ the telly o’ a building
fallin’ on a building no’.”
Pedro’s tower rested as dust
and rubble fell and the image
stood still on the climbing cloud
as the demolition lasted.
A boy kicking dust while walking to school
Dust-footed, quarter-stepping
through a puddle unpuddled,
a depression filled
with the dust of summer
which clouds him, coats him
learns him, knows his
form like a ghost that surrounds
dust-footed summer.
through a puddle unpuddled,
a depression filled
with the dust of summer
which clouds him, coats him
learns him, knows his
form like a ghost that surrounds
dust-footed summer.
Yousef
On the ridge of the dune
blue-clad under non-existent moon
he said You should be a man.
I am no man. I am mathematician.
He smiled and beat his chest
that, yes, it was good but not best.
The two sat furthest and last
on the dune’s ridge as the sun passed
and did its falling-down
from adjective of noon to noun
of twilight where two men
sat sharing verbs.
blue-clad under non-existent moon
he said You should be a man.
I am no man. I am mathematician.
He smiled and beat his chest
that, yes, it was good but not best.
The two sat furthest and last
on the dune’s ridge as the sun passed
and did its falling-down
from adjective of noon to noun
of twilight where two men
sat sharing verbs.
Scapa Flow
Children watch, accepting,
amazing at the view –
the ships stranded one-by-one
rear-up then fall
into a mercury flow of men.
Hans Friedrich swims,
minimal panic pasted
on atlantic face
as he fixes an eye
first on land, then the head
he thinks belongs to Johannes.
Children watch, amazing,
accepting the view.
Why shouldn’t the ships
descend and spew out
their men with twisted tongues?
amazing at the view –
the ships stranded one-by-one
rear-up then fall
into a mercury flow of men.
Hans Friedrich swims,
minimal panic pasted
on atlantic face
as he fixes an eye
first on land, then the head
he thinks belongs to Johannes.
Children watch, amazing,
accepting the view.
Why shouldn’t the ships
descend and spew out
their men with twisted tongues?
Byron, one morning, looks in the mirror, then looks at the page
- the poet’s voice is not
the voice of the poem.
Look, the Thames is filthy –
sodden with water of a city’s life
and dirt of its unseen people.
The water, the view, all manner
of angles and positions
are both the water and the life
of the city, the people.
But the Thames is not the city,
nor the city the Thames.
- the poet’s face is not seen
in the cliff face of the poem.
Look at the Cathedral, St Paul’s –
alive in stone and pigeon shit
and the believers who try
and find a god within the stone
a stone within the god oh rock
of ages between thin gilded pages
of bibles, hymnaries and the faithful.
But the Cathedral is not stone,
nor the stone the Cathedral.
- the poet’s eyes are not seen
in the needle of the poem.
Look, she lies asleep – the sun
risen gold upon her face; she walks
imaginary in the night I imagine –
her beauty beneath sheets within
my sight only; imaginings of readers
create her new in infinite forms
that form infinite beauty.
But she is not your Beauty,
nor does Beauty lie beneath the sheets.
- the poet’s body, his will,
is not the body of the poem.
The poem lies sleeping
upon the sheets.
the voice of the poem.
Look, the Thames is filthy –
sodden with water of a city’s life
and dirt of its unseen people.
The water, the view, all manner
of angles and positions
are both the water and the life
of the city, the people.
But the Thames is not the city,
nor the city the Thames.
- the poet’s face is not seen
in the cliff face of the poem.
Look at the Cathedral, St Paul’s –
alive in stone and pigeon shit
and the believers who try
and find a god within the stone
a stone within the god oh rock
of ages between thin gilded pages
of bibles, hymnaries and the faithful.
But the Cathedral is not stone,
nor the stone the Cathedral.
- the poet’s eyes are not seen
in the needle of the poem.
Look, she lies asleep – the sun
risen gold upon her face; she walks
imaginary in the night I imagine –
her beauty beneath sheets within
my sight only; imaginings of readers
create her new in infinite forms
that form infinite beauty.
But she is not your Beauty,
nor does Beauty lie beneath the sheets.
- the poet’s body, his will,
is not the body of the poem.
The poem lies sleeping
upon the sheets.
Searching for gods
I supposed, with you beside me,
that somewhere in the wilderness,
amongst rocks strewn,
a handful formed the name of God
- yes, yes... but we are atheists,
some rocks spell that out too -
and so the god of ancient river rocks
compelled me to remove
the one that partially spelled
the sound of you.
that somewhere in the wilderness,
amongst rocks strewn,
a handful formed the name of God
- yes, yes... but we are atheists,
some rocks spell that out too -
and so the god of ancient river rocks
compelled me to remove
the one that partially spelled
the sound of you.
Hugh de Cressingham
Hated, flayed
his fat flesh cured
and games played
for an inch of hide.
The Wallace ordered
four foot be made –
in style best favoured –
to a belt with silver buckle.
Slaughtered, skinned
and fourthed ad infinitum.
Cressingham never planned
the worth of himself.
his fat flesh cured
and games played
for an inch of hide.
The Wallace ordered
four foot be made –
in style best favoured –
to a belt with silver buckle.
Slaughtered, skinned
and fourthed ad infinitum.
Cressingham never planned
the worth of himself.
Photoshopped Beatrice
“She appeared dressed in the most noble of colours, a subdued and decorous crimson, girded and adorned in a style suitable to her years.” – DanteBut not you, no, god-awful
are your clothes – with crimson,
yes, the blood within you
as your scarf – your life
present as the jacket
of you – the blue of eyes
echo the racket of the shoes –
the brown hair a belt above
the pale pink of waiting skirt.
God-awful before me, in awe
I slide before you, now take
my eyes bled of shone resistance;
and here, take my heart
and hold it awful before you
in your style now subtle, subdued.
Backgammon
What a universe you are –
opposing measures of chance
in duel and strategy.
A dance luck takes from
point-to-point co-incidence
and an enemy in sway
to all forces such as you.
That way, this way to the clock
and shuffled from arena
to some empty column, Stage Right.
And the dice piled high –
what luck are you
that you smiled on both,
neither and alternate?
Take tumble, create
some sense from it all.
opposing measures of chance
in duel and strategy.
A dance luck takes from
point-to-point co-incidence
and an enemy in sway
to all forces such as you.
That way, this way to the clock
and shuffled from arena
to some empty column, Stage Right.
And the dice piled high –
what luck are you
that you smiled on both,
neither and alternate?
Take tumble, create
some sense from it all.
Approaching Draffanmarshill
I climbed rung to rung
of cloud and light and shade
and climbed the sty
to wet feet and soak –
the water puddled
at its base, and I sank.
The trees grew with the wind,
blasts giving bare branches
a leaf they had forgotten.
They crumbled the brown
of the land in the sun that
all day set as soon as it would rise.
I stepped from one yellow dead
to dead yellow ramp of grass
that was waterborne –
this land in lie was neither land
nor water, this marsh was neither
the land nor the water.
And the sun always blinding,
this life always marking corona
on the eye when the clouds disappear
and I looked to the ground,
head bowed as necessity
and ignorant of Draffanmarshill.
I walked witnessed – the cross
of the hawthorn looked on,
white muzzle of horses,
the beating of gulls, all trees
and all grasses watched
as I tumbled the starlings from sky.
An end approached –
the grass ended, a fence
to climb, I upended my feet
and jumped to muddied grush
and path – a puddle red
catching the winter sun.
Draffanmarshill ahead.
Its outhouses static.
The black plain, but hidden
by this thug of sun, whose light
was all to be seen, and washed
the black away, all quite away.
I walked into Draffanmarshill,
I felt the silence; heard the wind.
I took shelter from the light.
And in the dark of the outhouse
there they lay, dead and sunken –
lined-up and waiting for me.
of cloud and light and shade
and climbed the sty
to wet feet and soak –
the water puddled
at its base, and I sank.
The trees grew with the wind,
blasts giving bare branches
a leaf they had forgotten.
They crumbled the brown
of the land in the sun that
all day set as soon as it would rise.
I stepped from one yellow dead
to dead yellow ramp of grass
that was waterborne –
this land in lie was neither land
nor water, this marsh was neither
the land nor the water.
And the sun always blinding,
this life always marking corona
on the eye when the clouds disappear
and I looked to the ground,
head bowed as necessity
and ignorant of Draffanmarshill.
I walked witnessed – the cross
of the hawthorn looked on,
white muzzle of horses,
the beating of gulls, all trees
and all grasses watched
as I tumbled the starlings from sky.
An end approached –
the grass ended, a fence
to climb, I upended my feet
and jumped to muddied grush
and path – a puddle red
catching the winter sun.
Draffanmarshill ahead.
Its outhouses static.
The black plain, but hidden
by this thug of sun, whose light
was all to be seen, and washed
the black away, all quite away.
I walked into Draffanmarshill,
I felt the silence; heard the wind.
I took shelter from the light.
And in the dark of the outhouse
there they lay, dead and sunken –
lined-up and waiting for me.
Wind on spring day
A false winter leaf
tumbles in front of me,
takes a run, gallops
and horses its way before me
and I step to.
The chaffinch falls,
fakes its fall and lies
on the wire and cries calm
notes into the air
shakes my thoughts
in the wind and I share
the wind with it.
And the leaves, the buds
old new dead and dying
move in the movement
of air and my passing
by is a passing through,
dividing wind from air.
Gull, chaffinch, crow and leaf.
All movement folded with the wind,
all movement repeated by the wind.
Gull, chaffinch, crow and leaf.
tumbles in front of me,
takes a run, gallops
and horses its way before me
and I step to.
The chaffinch falls,
fakes its fall and lies
on the wire and cries calm
notes into the air
shakes my thoughts
in the wind and I share
the wind with it.
And the leaves, the buds
old new dead and dying
move in the movement
of air and my passing
by is a passing through,
dividing wind from air.
Gull, chaffinch, crow and leaf.
All movement folded with the wind,
all movement repeated by the wind.
Gull, chaffinch, crow and leaf.
“Who was Pietra?”
A face in sepia moon
her face a moon
her face the moon
stealing this life of mine
and dulling it over.
Take life, Pietra,
make art.
Take art, Pietra,
make life as life
should be and can be
in dream and moon
where your face rises.
her face a moon
her face the moon
stealing this life of mine
and dulling it over.
Take life, Pietra,
make art.
Take art, Pietra,
make life as life
should be and can be
in dream and moon
where your face rises.
Five Daedalus poems
1) Daedalus finds a parasite on his leg
In fatherhood I have only you.
Unknown but for the minute
in which I tumbled you
between thumb and forefinger.
Dry blood peppering my nails
where I scratched
your life off my ankle.
Each leg of yours scurrying
out of my grasping reach.
For two days I must have
carried you in ignorance
and you drank of me
and fed of me.
I feel a love for you, son,
for only one second after
I crush.
2) Daedalus tries geometry
Euclid, you bastard, you never got it right.
Point-to-point coincidence is not one point but two.
Two and another can just some times
make one or none or some more than two or three.
And, further, your sloppy noughts are no such thing!
Another thing erroneous! Not empty, just not there.
Must try harder, Mr Euclid. Try harder and see
each axiom like a cornered bull all slaver faced
And your postulates are drying frogs at midday.
They grumble so, a bit like this.
Euclid, your points are of less concern to me
than the plane on which you place them
to dart and dot and line about one another.
With no magnitude to speak of, how can you say
that they are there and breathing like this bird here
flying__ yes, I did that once and breathed
and saw no points around me far and beating.
I saw no geometry then, but now I see through it
and you, you bastard Euclid, I grumble now
and clear: we’re through.
3) Suns
The Sun is part of my problem today:
on another solar system I could curse my thumb
at a dozen or more of them and spit and swear
at a thousand or more all rising and crashing
and cracking up at five million coronas with
a passion verging on despair. I could crack
my head on an infinite eclipse and be grateful
that there’s so many to do so little with.
4) Two crows playing
It’s a bullfight in monochrome
where each one fights
and both are the bull.
And each wing is the cape
and all four are the eyes
of the matador, of the bull
and of the crowd.
And the beaks are the horns,
each the toes of the shoes,
both the hilt and the point
of the swords and the spears.
The daggers are the glint
in the eyes of the crows
which is the rage in the eye
of the fighter. Which fighter?
And the falling in the sky,
the tumble in the clouds
is the charge and the thrust
and the sweep of the cape
and of the bull and the birds.
Then each fighter comes alive,
and the game begins again.
5) Daedalus remembers the Minotaur
He tickled himself on piano keys
and scraped his broken nails down
tender cello strings.
And then let fall the marbles
on a snare drum wandering.
He hung himself from lampposts
and watched them.
He hid in bins to spy them,
took what air their tyres had
and breathed in smoke and thicker.
Then bricked himself up in no gold towers
but hollered from bunkers and doors,
shadowed the stonework
with restless fingers picking
mortar, testing it away.
In fatherhood I have only you.
Unknown but for the minute
in which I tumbled you
between thumb and forefinger.
Dry blood peppering my nails
where I scratched
your life off my ankle.
Each leg of yours scurrying
out of my grasping reach.
For two days I must have
carried you in ignorance
and you drank of me
and fed of me.
I feel a love for you, son,
for only one second after
I crush.
2) Daedalus tries geometry
Euclid, you bastard, you never got it right.
Point-to-point coincidence is not one point but two.
Two and another can just some times
make one or none or some more than two or three.
And, further, your sloppy noughts are no such thing!
Another thing erroneous! Not empty, just not there.
Must try harder, Mr Euclid. Try harder and see
each axiom like a cornered bull all slaver faced
And your postulates are drying frogs at midday.
They grumble so, a bit like this.
Euclid, your points are of less concern to me
than the plane on which you place them
to dart and dot and line about one another.
With no magnitude to speak of, how can you say
that they are there and breathing like this bird here
flying__ yes, I did that once and breathed
and saw no points around me far and beating.
I saw no geometry then, but now I see through it
and you, you bastard Euclid, I grumble now
and clear: we’re through.
3) Suns
The Sun is part of my problem today:
on another solar system I could curse my thumb
at a dozen or more of them and spit and swear
at a thousand or more all rising and crashing
and cracking up at five million coronas with
a passion verging on despair. I could crack
my head on an infinite eclipse and be grateful
that there’s so many to do so little with.
4) Two crows playing
It’s a bullfight in monochrome
where each one fights
and both are the bull.
And each wing is the cape
and all four are the eyes
of the matador, of the bull
and of the crowd.
And the beaks are the horns,
each the toes of the shoes,
both the hilt and the point
of the swords and the spears.
The daggers are the glint
in the eyes of the crows
which is the rage in the eye
of the fighter. Which fighter?
And the falling in the sky,
the tumble in the clouds
is the charge and the thrust
and the sweep of the cape
and of the bull and the birds.
Then each fighter comes alive,
and the game begins again.
5) Daedalus remembers the Minotaur
He tickled himself on piano keys
and scraped his broken nails down
tender cello strings.
And then let fall the marbles
on a snare drum wandering.
He hung himself from lampposts
and watched them.
He hid in bins to spy them,
took what air their tyres had
and breathed in smoke and thicker.
Then bricked himself up in no gold towers
but hollered from bunkers and doors,
shadowed the stonework
with restless fingers picking
mortar, testing it away.
Playing guitar with River Rain
He drummed, and in drumming
I ripped my fingers open
on guitar strings. Strumming
too fast to compete with a dozen
or so beats in his each half bar.
And the day after on the beach
I showed him the sandy filled scar
beneath the plaster. “River Rain?”
I asked. “Why do you have that name?”
And he looked and never answered.
Nothing but a syncopated game
he plays with the world to scar us.
I ripped my fingers open
on guitar strings. Strumming
too fast to compete with a dozen
or so beats in his each half bar.
And the day after on the beach
I showed him the sandy filled scar
beneath the plaster. “River Rain?”
I asked. “Why do you have that name?”
And he looked and never answered.
Nothing but a syncopated game
he plays with the world to scar us.
Ready wit repulses the Banshi
A banshi, a fairy woman, came to take away a child.
Outwitted, or outspoken, the banshi fled.Dark is your body.
- But dark is the mind of the sad man and his house as he wakens.Light is your body.
- But light are those who eat the autumn fruits and those who look over their eating and match eyes with their loved one, their secret; light are all those secrets.Grey is your body.
- Grey is wood, grey the sky, grey the pallor of the sick man returning to his maker, and grey are the leaves, the grasses and the waters of the loch.Liquid is your body.
- But liquid is the water of life, the talk between the people at night.Solid is your body.
- But solid is the earth, the thud as we fall and feel ourselves living as solid beasts, warlike figures in this world – solid are the pains.Airy is your body.
- Airy is the devil, the mode of your travel, airy is the lung, the above-sea, the forest that you hide in – airy is the light, the dark, the invisible; airy the water and the earth. All we know is of the air, and has the air in it.
Three creatures from the West of Scotland
a) Na Fir Ghorma
Like ground where water
flows between the Western Isles
they hunt their running prey
naked barefoot on the waves
and dig with hands to scoop
the watergraves of all their men
who blue are noticed always
on the grey days in the rain.
b) Banshi
The green on heather curtain
of the glen ran on
and we rattled our feet
on stone and gravel.
She goes there! Goes there…
c) Urisk
Alone on grey, beneath
the overcast and rain.
The green hill desaturated,
the heather grown black
and there, the horseman,
his eyes are no more blue
and his coat bled dry.
it shapes; the burn a clatter
in rainfall and tumbling.
A footscrape on rock
releases grush to gravity
and all the colours of the world
fall with it.
Like ground where water
flows between the Western Isles
they hunt their running prey
naked barefoot on the waves
and dig with hands to scoop
the watergraves of all their men
who blue are noticed always
on the grey days in the rain.
b) Banshi
The green on heather curtain
of the glen ran on
and we rattled our feet
on stone and gravel.
She goes there! Goes there…
c) Urisk
Alone on grey, beneath
the overcast and rain.
The green hill desaturated,
the heather grown black
and there, the horseman,
his eyes are no more blue
and his coat bled dry.
He stops, looks up to me,The sound of wind on rocks
then waves – he shouts to me.
it shapes; the burn a clatter
in rainfall and tumbling.
A footscrape on rock
releases grush to gravity
and all the colours of the world
fall with it.
Starlings
Reflected, fifty thousand fly
from the window under grey
and broken cloud and sky.
Loop they fall they rise and share
their movement under distant fire
over grey and broken layer.
Fifty thousand take and fall
up the earthen narrow aisle
each swallowing each peck and call.
Each single starling of the crowd
reflects the way all others led
beneath the sky and broken cloud.
All together, each as part,
each a flicking of the skirt
throwing house before the cart.
Spiral out they spin and take
each part of sky each as they like
and all flicker in their wake.
Starling is as starling matched
by the ones who sat and watched
reflected, framed and viewed.
from the window under grey
and broken cloud and sky.
Loop they fall they rise and share
their movement under distant fire
over grey and broken layer.
Fifty thousand take and fall
up the earthen narrow aisle
each swallowing each peck and call.
Each single starling of the crowd
reflects the way all others led
beneath the sky and broken cloud.
All together, each as part,
each a flicking of the skirt
throwing house before the cart.
Spiral out they spin and take
each part of sky each as they like
and all flicker in their wake.
Starling is as starling matched
by the ones who sat and watched
reflected, framed and viewed.
Sand from desert, sand from beach
Identical. I cannot tell
one from the other when I pour
each from my shoe into the well
of open hand.
Self-similar. Each pinch projects
an image of its larger self
onto itself where it protects
its shape of sand.
Quite infinite. The grains divide
forever, taken ten each time
and leave a line as narrow guide
to empty lands.
one from the other when I pour
each from my shoe into the well
of open hand.
Self-similar. Each pinch projects
an image of its larger self
onto itself where it protects
its shape of sand.
Quite infinite. The grains divide
forever, taken ten each time
and leave a line as narrow guide
to empty lands.
There is a silence in selfishness, selfishness in silence.
“Keep quiet! Hold it back!
They will hear us…
change track
and lose them.
Don’t look back and allow
the words to flow
or thoughts
or money.
Never show them the thoughts
the cash or words.
Keep caged birds chipped
of beak and silent.
Keep vast crowds subdued
with violence.
Keep a penny wrapped
in wool
while you tiptoe
and say nothing.”
They will hear us…
change track
and lose them.
Don’t look back and allow
the words to flow
or thoughts
or money.
Never show them the thoughts
the cash or words.
Keep caged birds chipped
of beak and silent.
Keep vast crowds subdued
with violence.
Keep a penny wrapped
in wool
while you tiptoe
and say nothing.”
Hate your books
Learn to hate your books
learn to rip them and tear
your hair out as kindling
to burn upon the flame.
Learn nothing from them,
despise them
take each third word as a lie
and bury ashed pages
under ash piles, and ash them
high before the libraries
now emptied, now calm.
Learn to hate your books,
despise them,
take no words nor sense
but walk in air, in grass,
and revel the absence
the ashed wind blows.
learn to rip them and tear
your hair out as kindling
to burn upon the flame.
Learn nothing from them,
despise them
take each third word as a lie
and bury ashed pages
under ash piles, and ash them
high before the libraries
now emptied, now calm.
Learn to hate your books,
despise them,
take no words nor sense
but walk in air, in grass,
and revel the absence
the ashed wind blows.
Laomachan
This hogmanay – with partying
across the land, across
this world and fireworked universe
with lights to rival apocalypse –
bring calm, silence.
Pause and hear the future
trample present and bloody
its hands on this shadow –
forehead lifting hand
to bloodied hand of future.
This new years day be ready
for the absence of folk in cloud
first-footing in a light as tangible
as bloodied hand of future
and the end of days, as livid.
Gallop, trip, remove yourself
from now to past and find
your way blocked by setting mist,
and eye yourself to safety
by looking by the past.
This year end meets this year
beginning at singularity.
This new day meets night,
met night, will meet forever
at the clouding of the light.
across the land, across
this world and fireworked universe
with lights to rival apocalypse –
bring calm, silence.
Pause and hear the future
trample present and bloody
its hands on this shadow –
forehead lifting hand
to bloodied hand of future.
This new years day be ready
for the absence of folk in cloud
first-footing in a light as tangible
as bloodied hand of future
and the end of days, as livid.
Gallop, trip, remove yourself
from now to past and find
your way blocked by setting mist,
and eye yourself to safety
by looking by the past.
This year end meets this year
beginning at singularity.
This new day meets night,
met night, will meet forever
at the clouding of the light.
A student drinking Assam tea in the University Staff Club
“I am drinking Assam tea
beside the fireplace, blazing
with dried flowers.
Faded by timetable talk
and the overbearing flick
of journal pages, abstracts
and shield-like broadsheets
brandished like broadswords;
that would be the Old English tutor.
“Whereas he of Modern Literature
measures teaspoons of seconds
before his theatre visit
and weighs the books then adds
another, weighs them all
and adds more for the joy of it.
Engineering wets himself
at the beams, the listed building
bricks and patternations stencilled
“between the spaces between the bricks.
Theology hasn’t come.
Geology sits and twiddles his thumbs
while fiddling away with his button holes
beneath the layers of other fingers.
Psychology drinks her tea – Darjeeling,
Earl Grey – some kind else
and categorises and looks and pierces
the walls with haphazard, puzzled faces.
“So out of sorts with my Assam tea.
Not what I’d drink normally.
Nor where I’d sit, given the choice,
but contained within this chamber
I feel the comfort rush on me,
take me by the throat and smother me
in maltiness and richness
in tobacco smoke from fifty years past
and the click-click-click of snooker balls.
“And will they ever discover me?
Without a tie, without a collar
and with a weighty sack of textbooks.
Conspicuous in contrast.
Ridiculous inside this
grander hall than cafeteria;
sitting, lying to myself and them,
and soaking up the cushioned seat
and spreading legs luxuriously
“while supporting my cup of Assam tea
on my near horizontal belly
gazing to the beams like Engineering.
Head turning to the walls
and studying – quite closely – the art.
And the flowers blazing
dryly in the fire and warming
my eyes who should never
see them in this hall.”
beside the fireplace, blazing
with dried flowers.
Faded by timetable talk
and the overbearing flick
of journal pages, abstracts
and shield-like broadsheets
brandished like broadswords;
that would be the Old English tutor.
“Whereas he of Modern Literature
measures teaspoons of seconds
before his theatre visit
and weighs the books then adds
another, weighs them all
and adds more for the joy of it.
Engineering wets himself
at the beams, the listed building
bricks and patternations stencilled
“between the spaces between the bricks.
Theology hasn’t come.
Geology sits and twiddles his thumbs
while fiddling away with his button holes
beneath the layers of other fingers.
Psychology drinks her tea – Darjeeling,
Earl Grey – some kind else
and categorises and looks and pierces
the walls with haphazard, puzzled faces.
“So out of sorts with my Assam tea.
Not what I’d drink normally.
Nor where I’d sit, given the choice,
but contained within this chamber
I feel the comfort rush on me,
take me by the throat and smother me
in maltiness and richness
in tobacco smoke from fifty years past
and the click-click-click of snooker balls.
“And will they ever discover me?
Without a tie, without a collar
and with a weighty sack of textbooks.
Conspicuous in contrast.
Ridiculous inside this
grander hall than cafeteria;
sitting, lying to myself and them,
and soaking up the cushioned seat
and spreading legs luxuriously
“while supporting my cup of Assam tea
on my near horizontal belly
gazing to the beams like Engineering.
Head turning to the walls
and studying – quite closely – the art.
And the flowers blazing
dryly in the fire and warming
my eyes who should never
see them in this hall.”
Devlin
Eyes like mine but not
so searching, or rather
more so than mine
he hunts single eyed
Polyphemus as a baby
no depth to his reach
only the will to fetch
that which he sees
not what he hears
two eyes as one
no stereo to confuse
nothing to use as distance
but the length of hands,
arms and stretch of shoulders
sun shadowed face
that emotes or rather
doesn’t with a blankness
no emotion bleeding
from the mouth
no smile, nor sulk
he speaks in fingers
catching fingernails
on the barrier between us
drummed as skin
taut webbing that separates
my hand and patting fingers
from his, quarter sized
touching through the web.
so searching, or rather
more so than mine
he hunts single eyed
Polyphemus as a baby
no depth to his reach
only the will to fetch
that which he sees
not what he hears
two eyes as one
no stereo to confuse
nothing to use as distance
but the length of hands,
arms and stretch of shoulders
sun shadowed face
that emotes or rather
doesn’t with a blankness
no emotion bleeding
from the mouth
no smile, nor sulk
he speaks in fingers
catching fingernails
on the barrier between us
drummed as skin
taut webbing that separates
my hand and patting fingers
from his, quarter sized
touching through the web.
30 lines for My Jack Russell Jenny
She - for she is she no doubt - is a star in daylight.
She is not no-one, nor does she stand forth from a crowd.
She raves on occasion against a world unseen, unthought, uncaring.
She thinks perfectly imperfectly.
She speaks scottishly unscottishly.
She is americanly she who must, no doubt, be heeded.
She is the colour of cloud in temperament.
She is white on days of joy unknown but stated.
She is grey on other days, black on others still.
She is green tinge of thundered storm cloud haunting horizons of towerblocks.
She is peach sunset when without herself and setting upon a task.
She writeth in silence, and in darkness writeth words that cannot speak.
She yappeth forth upon the ears of all who would stand by her.
She speaketh in security a thought guarded and unstealable.
She stealeth time of the public.
She is far from home in a home of her own.
She has crossed seas to reach this new land, waving from shore to shore.
She lies in bed in dark when day in light the trees in leaf are swaying.
She takes the time of her homeland, spreads its blanket on this Scotland.
She assumes too much.
She assumeth the poet ridicules her, she assumeth – as always – incorrectly.
She hath five fingers to display her views of the world.
She raises her pinkie at the stupid.
She fingers ring finger at the dim light of ordinary man.
She flips middle finger to those who cross her way.
She points an index at the library of all of human life,
She lowers thumb rarely, enthusiasm lifts it up.
She, for it is she, resembles a dog in attitude.
She yappeth, writeth, speaketh, stealeth the friendship of poets.
She biteth the ankle of those who ignore her.
She is not no-one, nor does she stand forth from a crowd.
She raves on occasion against a world unseen, unthought, uncaring.
She thinks perfectly imperfectly.
She speaks scottishly unscottishly.
She is americanly she who must, no doubt, be heeded.
She is the colour of cloud in temperament.
She is white on days of joy unknown but stated.
She is grey on other days, black on others still.
She is green tinge of thundered storm cloud haunting horizons of towerblocks.
She is peach sunset when without herself and setting upon a task.
She writeth in silence, and in darkness writeth words that cannot speak.
She yappeth forth upon the ears of all who would stand by her.
She speaketh in security a thought guarded and unstealable.
She stealeth time of the public.
She is far from home in a home of her own.
She has crossed seas to reach this new land, waving from shore to shore.
She lies in bed in dark when day in light the trees in leaf are swaying.
She takes the time of her homeland, spreads its blanket on this Scotland.
She assumes too much.
She assumeth the poet ridicules her, she assumeth – as always – incorrectly.
She hath five fingers to display her views of the world.
She raises her pinkie at the stupid.
She fingers ring finger at the dim light of ordinary man.
She flips middle finger to those who cross her way.
She points an index at the library of all of human life,
She lowers thumb rarely, enthusiasm lifts it up.
She, for it is she, resembles a dog in attitude.
She yappeth, writeth, speaketh, stealeth the friendship of poets.
She biteth the ankle of those who ignore her.
The cooing of a pigeon
The cooing of a pigeon
took me from Bardic philosophy –
fake and 16th Century –
to the world of that pigeon
cooed from a rooftop,
sky cirrused and textured,
crow struggled in cold,
iced, clear and bare-treed air,
and tile covered lives
and life covered tiles.
And the vault of morning
covered horizons and sighed.
took me from Bardic philosophy –
fake and 16th Century –
to the world of that pigeon
cooed from a rooftop,
sky cirrused and textured,
crow struggled in cold,
iced, clear and bare-treed air,
and tile covered lives
and life covered tiles.
And the vault of morning
covered horizons and sighed.
Two 8th century portraits
for GMB
one. The farmer Dagfinn Erlendson
Farmer. Oarsman.
An axeman to his king
when his king required
to stroke some foreign skulls.
flames upon the monastery
and set down with his fellows
the man-wheat on the stones.
Farmer – he threshed
words from the clerics’ room.
A thousand poems flailed,
then ground to ash.
A good man to his wife.
A good man, provider
to his people and himself.
two. His wife Gunhild Sigurdottir
“He came back from the wars.
My son and three daughters
had helped with no man around.
We had managed the land,
we had mastered the ground
and come the Autumn he fell
from the ship to the sea
from the sea to the beach
from the beach to his home.
His words were closed
for the winter – stored by –
but he drank his ale and we hoped
in Spring his words would come.
And his words came.
He held to me some paper.
I took it, he whispered. I took it
and saw runes and ogres,
a dove and a bear.
It’s still hanging, there,
by our son’s bed,
where he dreams.”
one. The farmer Dagfinn Erlendson
Farmer. Oarsman.
An axeman to his king
when his king required
to stroke some foreign skulls.
He sailed to LindisfarneFarmer – he sowed
flames upon the monastery
and set down with his fellows
the man-wheat on the stones.
He wandered Lindisfarne –
surveyed the land,
observed the seasons,
took a farmer’s guess
to the time of harvest.
Farmer – he threshed
words from the clerics’ room.
A thousand poems flailed,
then ground to ash.
He sailed from Lindisfarne.Farmer. Husband.
A good man to his wife.
A good man, provider
to his people and himself.
two. His wife Gunhild Sigurdottir
“He came back from the wars.
My son and three daughters
had helped with no man around.
We had managed the land,
we had mastered the ground
and come the Autumn he fell
from the ship to the sea
from the sea to the beach
from the beach to his home.
His words were closed
for the winter – stored by –
but he drank his ale and we hoped
in Spring his words would come.
And his words came.
He held to me some paper.
I took it, he whispered. I took it
and saw runes and ogres,
a dove and a bear.
It’s still hanging, there,
by our son’s bed,
where he dreams.”
Lunar self-portrait
The Moon drew herself
in charcoal – soft now,
smudged horizons,
took care to shade
her darkside, her lightside
shone in paper, thin,
removed from printer
and rippable by wind
and breeze and breath
alone – quite believable
as cheap, as tattered.
The Moon drew herself,
revealed in portrait
her craters, mountains,
canyons present
in impressionistic
implications and swirls
of black and smear
on white and dirtied.
The Moon drew herself –
her audience halved
to those who laughed
a biting snigger
and those who looked
one second longer.
in charcoal – soft now,
smudged horizons,
took care to shade
her darkside, her lightside
shone in paper, thin,
removed from printer
and rippable by wind
and breeze and breath
alone – quite believable
as cheap, as tattered.
The Moon drew herself,
revealed in portrait
her craters, mountains,
canyons present
in impressionistic
implications and swirls
of black and smear
on white and dirtied.
The Moon drew herself –
her audience halved
to those who laughed
a biting snigger
and those who looked
one second longer.
Eighteen Cuba Libres plus one birthday drink on me
for Heather and for April 2006
1. Cuba Libre
A Cuba Libre
is rum, lime and cola
That’s rum for filling
a black hole in the belly,
(a feature of which is
it can never be failed.)
That’s lime for freshening
a spark in the mouth,
(a feature of which is
it appeals to the flesh.)
That’s cola for sweetening
the spark-filler of the drink
(a feature of which is
it requires some sweat.)
Cuba Libre:
filler, spark and sweetening.
2. Dogs
At each point we set guards,
protectors, canine defenders –
a wall of bricks of dogs of honour.
Brick one – Fatima, who stayed
faithful when spread-eagled faithless.
Brick two – Lizzie, who swam
while the vultures circled us.
Brick three – Franz, who held you
fifty feet above the wind.
And others, more bricks
securing, anchoring against
the many currencies of Cuba.
3. The Malecon
One grey sliver to keep the ocean away
with black flags to keep the curious away
with tower blocks to keep traditionalists away
and colonial splendour to annoy the modernists.
One beige streak to stop the people leaving
with stadiums to stop the baseballs from leaving
with crowds to stop the Revolution from leaving
and billboards to annoy former colonists.
One yellow streak to keep everything in
with tourists to bring their tourist money in
with CoCo taxis to bring those tourists in
and those tourists to annoy the communists.
4. Sour oranges
From the sour orange tree
picked, sliced and dripped
into each of our mouths
and not sour at all.
Perhaps those that fell
developed the sourness,
an otherness of flavour
that could draw our mouths.
But not those that stuck
secure with the tree
who stayed with their partner
and never leapt free.
It was Lazarus who
dripped the juice into our mouths.
Perhaps the fallen raise
those stuck to the ground?
5. Michael in Camagüey
was a child who asked questions
of his mother in church.
Asked why there were angels
of white but no angels
of black in the church.
And he was told to be quiet.
He was a child who asked questions
of his father in his study
about the white angels, and why
he saw none of black
staring back in the church.
And was ignored, then sent away.
And soon Michael asked questions
of a book of biology
and found no answer to his troubles
so buried those troubles
and asked no questions about angels again.
6. A fantasy of Jorge’s missing arm
“Who needs two arms?
Who needs ten fingers?
Who needs a need
to need both hands?
“I lost this when I fought him
or maybe when I lost him
or perhaps the day I landed
twisted, broken, down the mountain.
“Or it fell off when I asked her
or maybe when she let go
or perhaps the day I jumped up
and landed on a no-show.
“What missing arm? I swear it’s there
and functioning quite happily.
I never lost my arm, you lost your eyes
by staring at the sun in Cuban skies.
“Who needs those fingers anyway?
I can do without the half of them.
And whatever things I require to do
I’ll find a way to master them.”
7. Fire flies
I saw an extra road with extra cars
speeding by above on the road we were on
and was wrong in image and quality.
You looked up and saw the stars
moving amongst true stars and branches
and saw a fire greater than mine.
And no-one else spotted those lights.
We asked and no one saw them.
And yet one of us saw them.
You were the one who saw the lights.
8. Free translation from Jose Marti 1
“In the pierced frame
of a Moorish window,
the pale moon
meditates, giving.
“Pale in a couch
of red Tórtola silk,
Heather silently lifts
a violet from her tea.”
9. Revolution Square and Carlos
Yes, quite right, Carlos.
What did José Marti ever do
for you and the people of Cuba?
He may have raged against the armies
of the Spanish and the dancers
of foreign ballets and polkas,
he may have fought the battles
and lost his life but he never
lost an arm nor left a face
quite beautiful for the Revolution.
So he achieved nothing but writing –
only a locust of words
battling across the skies
and up the towers of Colonial lies
to collapse them.
He was just a poet and seems
just to have his face in the mind
of every tour guide in Cuba.
{And two weeks later:
What had Carlos done for us?
Well he remembered us for a start.
And a good start;
it shows heart.}
10. Free translation from Jose Marti 2
“I already know:
a flower can be made of meat
with the power of affection.
And can make a sky and a boy.
“The scorpion
can also be made of meat,
and the worm from the rose,
and the sirens frightful.”
11. Surrealist Ché,
in the Latin way,
in the streets of Santa Clara,
has a goat upon his shoulder
and a prisoner in his sleeve.
And still dressed as a soldier
Ché can believe the hands
he has, so huge, are maps
of the lands to be freed.
And still with parade as belt
can march the trousers wide
in safety over the railtrack
on the streets of Santa Clara.
But Ché can’t move
his bronze surrealist feet.
12. Bongo journey
Lead us here, there
and back to here
and round about
and back to there.
Beat, beat the drum
and follow feet
of men who take
you down the street.
Count one and two
and find the shop
before a house
where walkers stop,
awakening
the man within
to sell the boy
a right guid yin.
Take the bongos
back to Scotland,
take them via
Rotherhithe, England.
13. Colonial House / Farm House
“I own the house,
I won the house,
I rent the house to tourists
who take their photographs
and share them
with their loved ones
and their dearest.
“But they never look to ask me
if I have a mind about their pictures
if I have a care about their lenses
or objection to their shutters.
“They’re only tourists
in my home, my house.
Only tourists with their lenses.”
(Their eyes half-watching
our eyes that are ignored.)
14. Vinjales Caves
The Cathedral lit up by one flame.
Can you remember the name
of the man who led us through
only a little, through a few
of the caves, the many miles
of stone passages and piles
of midget frogs in the dark?
His flame died, and with a spark
came to life again – resurrected –
and we walked on, protected
by his light if not his name.
This Man of the Flame.
15. Boomerang
In Vinjales I gave
your boomerang away.
I threw it and it stayed
stubbornly away
while the boy ran
to find it and throw it
back over the farmhouse
and he knew it,
he knew how to throw
it so that it would return
to his feet with no need
to run out and return
it to his hands with effort.
A boy who knew how
to throw a boomerang
instinctively and how
to return all things to his feet.
(And I will continue
my ignorance of throwing
by never returning
to Cuba.)
16. Ché’s Zither
“Christ, what a man,But no pictures of him
what a handsome man
what a rebel of a man,
I want him…”
strumming his zither,
caressing the board
and fondling strings.
“Christ, what a man,And sexless, no love
what a handsome man
what a rebel of a man…”
for the music nor any other –
only the many stern gazes
for the masses and the crowds.
“Christ, what a man,The zither sits, unseen
what a handsome man…”
to be played and shines
by photographs of the legend
those photographs have made.
“Christ, what a man…”
17. Kite flying
Let’s fly our kite by El Moro
where the grass rolls to the sea;
it will be our only chance
to see it fly and dance
quite effortlessly
as we must leave tomorrow.
***
But we have crashed our kite by El Moro
where the sea rolls to the grass
so a chance is still there
to see it first stare
down at us and fly past
us some tomorrow.
18. Climbing steep roads in Cuba
(or “Salsa for Beginners”)
The first stage is to choose a suitable vehicle
that handles well.
Next to ignore instructions and be led
by the curves and swell
of the geography placed before you
and move along
keeping close to the pull of a gravity
that is locally strong
and attractive; sweating with the effortlessness
of it all.
It may take you by surprise so be careful
not to fall.
And allow the landscape, all those bumps,
and rhythms to guide
the movement of your line from one
to the other side.
At which point: stop where the incline
reacts and regrets
the movement made upon it
and never forgets.
One birthday drink on me
You may remember I
bought a thing for you when
I had some convertibles in pocket,
(less than ten)
and I needed to lose them
before we left for the sky
and returned to grey.
So what did I buy?
I bought that glass for you
with Cuba Libre written on it
and while I can’t fill it up
I can fill this sonnet
with one birthday drink on me –
these Cuban words I give for free.
Text mechanically recovered from loose leaves and marginalia of the Exeter Book
Trans. Lady Meredith Browne-Chasterton
With wind of invader each winter solstice
he chose the path that broken might lead to them.
For ten years in open wilderness
of tower wreckage, water tanks
of blackened vehicles – abandoned, bombed,
by either side, the flags eroded
to reveal one mark, both marked as black.
For ten years he hunted invading armies
and each year left him alone, away
from the men who would kill him
alone, away the rebel fell
to ground well stocked with footprints.
“Whose feet have walked these roads and left
a trace, a passing evidence groaning
in dust and mud and coverings
of rags and arms of militia?
Where are the enemy? Where do I sight them?
Where are the tanks that crandle to thunder
and thunder to crush me, weigh on my body?
Where is this enemy, this death on the land?
“I have walked ulcered and blistered
drunk from rivers polluted
and frozen where dams were constructed by others
who would speak only if I were to chance
on their faces; but I can never, can never,
find hope of finding them – never
see a corpse of one slaughtered invader
who invaded my land.
“I have marched the cities in ruins
in villages painted the blood of my brothers,
the red of my uncles.
“I have levelled my gun at horizons
dark pulses suggesting an enemy gathered
but each turning to trees, a copse I have slept in.
“I remember the time this earth was flooded
by wheat, by a life, by summer in passing.
“I remember crowds of cities on holiday
praying by the water reflecting a sun
and consuming the breeze to motionless.
“But now winter solstice and wind
throw the trees down, the moon
broken through branches unleafed and unread
for ten carbonised years, tenfold charcoal burnings.
And with each winter Invader,
personified as absence,
is stronger, is nearer, more likely to fall.”
He took the path south, then to north
wind he sang cold for a second:
“You earth-dead, you burnt land
take over Invader.”
With wind of invader each winter solstice
he chose the path that broken might lead to them.
For ten years in open wilderness
of tower wreckage, water tanks
of blackened vehicles – abandoned, bombed,
by either side, the flags eroded
to reveal one mark, both marked as black.
For ten years he hunted invading armies
and each year left him alone, away
from the men who would kill him
alone, away the rebel fell
to ground well stocked with footprints.
“Whose feet have walked these roads and left
a trace, a passing evidence groaning
in dust and mud and coverings
of rags and arms of militia?
Where are the enemy? Where do I sight them?
Where are the tanks that crandle to thunder
and thunder to crush me, weigh on my body?
Where is this enemy, this death on the land?
“I have walked ulcered and blistered
drunk from rivers polluted
and frozen where dams were constructed by others
who would speak only if I were to chance
on their faces; but I can never, can never,
find hope of finding them – never
see a corpse of one slaughtered invader
who invaded my land.
“I have marched the cities in ruins
in villages painted the blood of my brothers,
the red of my uncles.
“I have levelled my gun at horizons
dark pulses suggesting an enemy gathered
but each turning to trees, a copse I have slept in.
“I remember the time this earth was flooded
by wheat, by a life, by summer in passing.
“I remember crowds of cities on holiday
praying by the water reflecting a sun
and consuming the breeze to motionless.
“But now winter solstice and wind
throw the trees down, the moon
broken through branches unleafed and unread
for ten carbonised years, tenfold charcoal burnings.
And with each winter Invader,
personified as absence,
is stronger, is nearer, more likely to fall.”
He took the path south, then to north
wind he sang cold for a second:
“You earth-dead, you burnt land
take over Invader.”
Conversation between Sun and Moon
Moon, fogged and misted,
asked Sun, now searching,
do the Stars search too?
No, Sun looked up,
in view of all searches
only one searches true.
But, Moon clouded,
you star just like them
and are star in name.
But, said Sun,
I search you, Moon,
for the game, the game.
asked Sun, now searching,
do the Stars search too?
No, Sun looked up,
in view of all searches
only one searches true.
But, Moon clouded,
you star just like them
and are star in name.
But, said Sun,
I search you, Moon,
for the game, the game.
Nursery rhyme: starlingtree
starlingtree starlingtree
sycamore sycamore
wingnested beakfallen
birdfested starlingtree
what lifts the leaves for you?
sycamore starlingtree
featherborn leaf-in-hope
starlingtree sycamore
what hides under wings for you?
overcast shadowtree
rhymingform branchedly
sycamore sycamore
starlingtree shadowedly
leapt-out horizonly
sycamore paintedtree
birdlike incessantly
sycamore sycamore
wingnested beakfallen
birdfested starlingtree
what lifts the leaves for you?
sycamore starlingtree
featherborn leaf-in-hope
starlingtree sycamore
what hides under wings for you?
overcast shadowtree
rhymingform branchedly
sycamore sycamore
starlingtree shadowedly
leapt-out horizonly
sycamore paintedtree
birdlike incessantly
Crofter McNicol’s five bold skies
Black sky; brown sky;
brindled crow-sky;
night of the single
starred and banded sky
that never darkens on itself;
white-glory sky
of photonegativity.
Oh white face,
oh white sky,
black, brown, brindled
and single starred.
Sky upon me and be
a source of island wonder;
sky upon me now
and wonder, wonder
sky and stolen air.
brindled crow-sky;
night of the single
starred and banded sky
that never darkens on itself;
white-glory sky
of photonegativity.
Oh white face,
oh white sky,
black, brown, brindled
and single starred.
Sky upon me and be
a source of island wonder;
sky upon me now
and wonder, wonder
sky and stolen air.
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