Hen or Egg

There is an old Chinese proverb
which, loosely translated, says,
"There is an old Scottish proverb
which, loosely translated, says..."

A Better Classa Folk

Lookin back,
oor Jeannie said,
that time
thit ahwis raped,
it seemed ti gie
some comfort
ti ma mammy,
thit it least
ahwis pult
uppa wally close.

A Consolation Of Mountain Men

Those self-same missiles which
will slice a thousand feet
off each of the Munros
will also scythe the climbers
who might mourn them.

Joining

We loved, with our bodies,
For the last time,
Climaxed together,

Lay silently clasped
Within, around each other,
Letting the weld cure.

The new emergent pulse
Was the algebraic sum
Of our two heartbeats,

The slower wave,
Our alpha rhythms
Heterodyning.

We were an engine
Of latent growth,
Of humming potential,

A chrysalis, quiescent,
Waiting the last catalyst
To unfurl the bright wings.

Garthamlock Windaes

Oh aye!
Hiftibi quick wi the planks,
the jiners,
whiniver a hoose faws emty,
ur thur in.

Hale scheme's fulla blin windaes.
Kinna eerie it night,
Planks disnae reflect the moon.

A Course of Action

Something must be done!
Something drastic, something
to assuage the bleak, black guilt
felt for all the whales, the dolphins
flown to their icarus suns,

for all the black babes in Africa
metamorphosed into
matchstick men by fat, white
market forces everywhere,

for all the blistered lungs,
the profitably powdered
living bone, the purple pulp
of the imploding, pulsing flesh
of peasants in three continents.

Something must be done.
Something personal to me,
and enraged symbology,
a protest with posters,
a suicidal leap perhaps
from a ground-floor window.

Walking By

I was a quiet man, not long retired
from a quiet job, and glad to be above
Contention, out of the race
where electronic timers digitise
a micro-second's worth of failure,
and mark your credit rating down.

I was no threat to anyone,
and was astonished when the bottle hit
my head and knocked me out, and when
the jagged stump, thrust at my face,
severed the jugular as I went down
and emptied out my life into the sheugh.

It was a frightened little boy,
machoed by booze to flaunt his adulthood
who flailed and justifed his 18 years.
"Wisnae ma fault" he told the sarge,
"Fur ahwis bevvied oot ma skull,
n this auld bastard jis' walked by."

Glesga Highcoo No.4

Muggers leaves us rich,
Sterrin straight up it the stars,
Rain in the sivers.

Glesga Highcoo No.3

Love spurned in Bath Street
Strips aff in Sauchiehall Street,
Waves its defiance.

Glesga Highcoo No. 2

Mind wance, butterflies
Agitatin Red Road fields.
Noo jist in ma belly.

Glesga Highcoo No.1

Eighteenth storey flat.
The burds peck it the windies,
Bit oh, the hard grun.

I shall die in this old Scottish house... (untitled)

I shall die in this old Scottish house
And may be privileged to meet
The one who walks on soundless feet,
Ghost lady in the crimson blouse.

Perhaps she will invite me to
Her astral equivalent of tea,
A mutual, frank telepathy,
A quiet interchange of view,

From which I shall emerge to face
And balance roundabouts and swings,
And keep a guardian eye on things,
Ancestral spirit of the place.

The gardener or the architect
Who took no chances with the fates
And planted rowans at the gates
Did well to keep the evils checked;

Whilst I, whom History designates,
Will house and home and you protect.

Love's Surgery

My lover
turned away from me
and slept
leaving the scalpel
silently dissecting
my heart.

To A Married Lady

When we made love illicitly last night
Enclosed within the enclave of my dream,
Perforce I used imagination's flight
To raise those secret parts I have not seen.

But when the wine of fantasy is quaffed,
The real that I remember is, you laughed.

Old Wounds

The spoil of life and time
Erased your face, your flame,
The body's feel, the chime
of voice, even your name

Would take a dredge of memory
To resurge. And yet the blaze
Of our insanity
Can, at this distance, raise

A half-forgotten strand,
A sensual silken fichu,
A half-remembered hand
Upon the heart's scar tissue.

I feel the knife that flensed
And flayed and left me crying.
I tense again against
That ancient dying.

Lover's Moon

I thought that, when at last
men walked upon the moon
and radiated back
the arid data stream,
poetic lovers everywhere
would lose love's potent symbol.

In the event, pragmatic men
looked back across the void
to earth and saw
raw poetry.

The Healer

Hand me your hurt.
I will wear it briefly
And throw it to the wind.

Pour me your poisons.
I will be a filter
For your essences.

Give me your grief.
There's an astonishment
Of solace in my hands.

Leave me your love.
It will make a chisel
And I will sculpt you God.

Thief

Once, long ago, I stole a book;
so long ago, it seems quite safe
to talk about it now.
Statutes of Limitation must
apply, assuming that such things
exist in Scottish Law.

It was a book I coveted,
a thick, authoritative tome
on Ancient History
from which quotations constantly
appeared in other works I'd read
upon my chosen theme.

And it was second-hand and priced
astonishingly cheaply too,
a good six-shilling’s worth.
I knew at once the book was mine.
The price was well beyond my means,
and so I lifted it.

And I still have it after fifty years.
It stands there flanked by all those lesser works,
The only one I haven't read.

The Auld Enemy (last of four short poems)

It's not so much that we
have long memories
as that it is still
happening to us.

Age - (third of four short poems)

Conjuring old young faces
                    out of the air,
Knowing every inch of places
                    no longer there.

Untitled (second of four short poems)

Pity my silences,
they may be reticence.
Pity my reticences,
they may be the fruit
of my silenced tongue.
Pity the pool of tears
behind my eyes,
they were shed
for my lost words.

Untitled (first of four short poems)

I love the darkness.
Darkness is the light
by which I see my dreams.

The Magic Door

Step lightly through the magic door to friends,
Nor yet regret the room you are to leave.
Dream more of new beginnings than of ends.

Though going, and your imprint's loss offends,
And you ever reluctant to bereave,
Step lightly through the magic door to friends.

And if the blanket of the past descends,
Seduces you to sorrow and to grieve,
Dream more of new beginnings than of ends.

Those old men cashing wisdom's dividends,
Recalling what a foreguard can achieve,
Step lightly through the magic door to friends.

And, seeing with perception that transcends
The images myopic eyes perceive,
Dream more of new beginnings than of ends.

Consider then, as your last pace impends,
The greetings you are likely to receive.
Step lightly through the magic door to friends,
Dream more of new beginnings than of ends.

Me And Big Bine

Bine was big. BIG
and angry.
Not at specifics.
Fundamentally.
His very nature
was structured rage.

"Who ye laughin it?"
was all he asked me.

I had not laughed,
not cracked a smile,
not twitched a lip.

There was no reason
for his thumping me.

Stamping on my hands
was overkill.

I do not play piano
any more, or smile.
It is enough to type
one-finger poems
with my elbow.

Just As

Just as the lover finds, who only
loves if loved, the truth of love
is unconditional.

Just as the sculptor, who can dream
the form inside the marble block,
will come to know the chiselled space
within the form.

Just as the painter, who has used the life
to copy life, will ultimately live
in pure white canvasses.

So will the poet learn to sing
his songs in silence,
ceasing to insert his words
between desired and known.

Child

If you, child, hurt,
I, compassion, bleed,
My arms enfold.

If you, child, hunger,
I, provider, feed,
My bread your gold.

If you, child, sicken,
I, physician, heed,
Your fever hold.

If you, child, die,
I, Death, intercede,
My cloak your fold.

Not To Be Outdone

Outstep the deadly dominance dance,
Outplay the power game,
Outstare the calculating glance,
Outspan the fingered fame.

Outspan the fingered hand of fame,
Outbid the random chance,
Outburn the double candle flame,
Outstep the dominance dance.

Anurra Heed Itra Baw

Ah love ye Boab! wis whit ye sade,
nmeenma workin bunnet tae
wi biler scalins up ma nose
na yerd muck still oanmi.

Ah love ye Boab! That took some sayn,
bit Goad, amanno gled ye spoke,
furrawid nevera goat roonti it
masell, nitwis better oot.

Uv coorse Hen, it's the saicent hurl
oana barra furra baithy us,
so lean against me saft awhile
cause amaw black nblue

faera tackety bootsa time.

Church Parade, RAF Padgate

Oi!  Take your fuckin' 'at off in
The fuckin' ouse of God.

The Music of Love

The back close was our winter enclave. We
Were sheltered from the wind and rain by brick
Abutments which the green gas barely touched
Before it guttered at the dark and died.

Invisibly we whispered tender scales,
or played impassioned airs with lips and tongue,
Plucking the solo strings of wild cadenzas
Out of our duet's gentle fingering.

We plumbed the fugal depths and lit the high
Sonatas' darkness bright with timpani.
Then at the rallentando's dying fall
We paused and packed our instruments away,

And set our ears to guage the double entrendres
In the hissing lamp's dim innuendos.