Category: POETRY

Burning ambitions. 3 Luib’s Cottages, Kilmartin, Scotland. 1997.

‘It is strange how my head can be so full of great, innovative, stories and ideas and then, suddenly, as soon as I pick up a pen and paper, all of this burgeoning, creative talent vanishes. leaving me floating in a frustrated void.
Fire flickr’ing tounges.

Tempting caverns within the embers.

Taking Sunday slowly, sheltering,

From the slashing, freaking, gusting weather

With an attitude of prooving our resistance.

T.V. and wellies.

The slow contented sigh of a man.

The crackling fire warms my arse as I sit with my knees up.

Blinking with dry eyes.

In my mind my ambitions burn, then mingle and merge , like smoke.

Confusing me.

Where to begin again?!!’

 

 

 

Lifting the lid. Braevallich Cottage, Scotland. 1996.

The inspiration crawled away and hid.

I found it for a while today,

In a small snuff box, when I lifted the lid.

I don’t know where it’s flown to now.

It’s done it again, just disappeared!

No point in believing that’s the end that I feared.

For some other day, as long as there are blank pages in my book,

I’ll find it again

When I am having a look.

Bared. Fragment of pure automatic writing.(unedited) Braevallich Cottage, Scotland. 1996.

Total absolution.

Flimsy in timeless, gruesome heat.

Auburn textured tunes of other times.

Marching on weary calloused feet.

Crawling now on hands and knees.

Please, please, please, please.

A great swan, like a star, flies into a blackened gap, like a void.

A glowing, auric asteroid and screaming the song,

Willowed fancy bent her neck with grace.

Flow into the pen-song, sing if you like, sing along.

Allow the voices to creep up beside you

Muscle sing and sinew.

Breathe the universe and smile.

Sit a while.

It is a privelidge, to many misunderstood,

That to burble like a stream unconscious can be good.

Our downfall lay in our endless control.

Towelling. Dry them all away.

Put on your clothes and pack away our bare defensless nudity.

Not good to see where we are from.

Cover it up-hide it away.

My God what would the neighbours say.

Not good to examine the pore and sweat

A living body is more than that.

We should live only for soul and hide away.

The body that carries us day after day.

Let it be tangled with lust and sin.

After all it’s only a bag we keep our egos in.

But lust and sin, lust and sin, the pinnacle point of our marketing.

Selling the sack that we keep our souls in.

Moulding and crafting, perfection the key.

Only the perfect retain free nudity.

For the soul must show shame for its wrinkles and bulges

Cry in its prison and hide from the vultures.

Skin and love.

Comfort and sweaty love-making begin.

Nudity a barefaced crime.

Imperfection in mirror eyes

A sin.

Stone. Braevallich Cottage, Loch Awe, Scotland. 1996.

Stone held in concentration.

Cold in soft, warm palm.

Ancient against the new living tissue.

Carried by time.

Dimples, holes and mineral-layering, mixing and solidly forming,

Fossilize, hardening,

Hot lava and chalk.

Carrying her DNA.

Simple elements.

A mystery.

Stone against skin.

So soft a knocking.

A lucky charm.

Reminding.

Wild wind. Braevallich Cottage, Loch Awe, Scotland. 1996.

Wild wind.

Wild wind howling, stabbing,

stalling, winding, ‘wind’ing,

around this solid shelter.

Helter-skelter missiles surrender,

Thrown against the glacier blue.

A black shadow crow glides and flutters, head on,

Choked on caw,

Blown inside out.

Wild wind, blowing as hard as it can,

Seems, though, it can never blow us all away,

The earth’s scurge and virus,

Man.

The next door. Nivensknowe Caravan Park, Loanhead, Edinburgh. 1996.

I met my nextdoor neighbour today.

This day.

This day began as any other.

Shutting my soul, tight, to change,

Hurt by the loss of carefree joy,

And the twisted appeals of my mother.

Pulling the end closer.

Its ghouls and shadows,

Preyed on me.

With ghosts like these was I still ‘free’?

Alone with ‘only I know’

I cursed myself to solitude.

And in meeting every stranger,

I brought only, selfish, tales of woe

But my nextdoor neighbour

Told me which way to go.

The sad old men could nothing say

To relieve the pain I felt this day.

This day like any other.

I needed the words of one who knew,

an older woman, a compasisonate mother.

 

She offered no escape in drink,

No comforting joint was passed to me.

She simply said , repeatedly,

 

“Head for the light and you’ll be free.”

 

She’d been where I was now.

But taken the “good with the bad.”

And I could see in her older face

That she’s having the best time she’s ever had.

She’s going to America, to be with her son and family,

It made me think that maybe, one day, that could still be me.

I’m glad to have met this stranger,

Who’s grown older, gracefully.

 

“Hold your toungue and you will find some, greater, peace of mind.” she said.

It strikes some deeper chord, inside.

I must learn to laugh again and ride

all these undulating changes, that are brought on the tide.

Hold my tongue. Learn not to say.

Everything.

 

So I am heading for the light.

I wave goobye to nursing pain.

I’m taking the reins of my life

Into my hands again.

The same “dumb insolence” will aid me

And I hope I will become

As kind and as real as my nextdooor neighbour

And one day help someone.

 
“Head for the Light”

“Dumb insolence”

 

Here is the crossroads.

 

Stop running into despair.

So when younger ‘changlings’ come

They’ll find an older woman there

Who reminds them only to take care and

“Head toward the light.”

Whatever it may be.

“We all go through changes.

Like a sapling to a tree.”

 

Sometimes over comforting red Nescafe mugs

Full of Nescafe.