Sunday, June 30, 2019

Poetry at the Vic Beer Garden

Unlike many other poets who cross the road when they see me coming, the makar Stuart Paterson

has been a long and warm companion on many a seasonal and unseasonal day and is always keen for a chat usually over a drink. The other day, we ventured to a little known oasis in Drumsleet, the beautiful, well appointed and lush beer garden of the Victoria Arms. There we exchanged news about our recent poetry successes. Stuart is just back from a triumphant tour of South Africa, where he made many important contacts with isXhosa poets, some details of which can be found here:

He is of course one of the best writers of Scots poetry there is and was also excited to reveal great news of a new book, and many new opportunities lying ahead in the year to come. I was happy also to talk, among other things,  about my upcoming tour of the Blash o God, a multi media collaboration with a French based artist focused on the Buchanites which is due to appear in three cities and the Wigtown Book Festival.

 All in all we shared the multiplicity of rich poetry projects and achievements that you might expect from two poets at the very top of their game.

What an afternoon! I think we had eight quid between us.

Wednesday, September 06, 2017

Walking Quietly

I'm afraid this blog, rich source of wisdom though it is, fell foul of the easy lures of Facebook. I am less enamoured of pussbook now so am inclined to meander back here in my dotage, back to tales of Theosyphilis Neill- yes still bringing in the contraband thistlemilk by barge down the Nith every Sunday morning- Macduff and the rest.

I have retired from being a pedagogue though have been drawn back by episodic penury. I am still writing to some effect, but this effect is not so far visible in my wallet.  Two books have come and gone, and  Others are on the stocks, more talk of them soon.

Currently I am writing some poems about Original Nations in America. There has always been a rumour, backed up it must be said by DNA evidence, that a great grandparent was of this stock: a very exciting prospect. I have always walked quietly in Capenoch Wood, for instance, another sure sign. Researching Bufallo Bill's Wild West Show and its visits to Scotland, I came upon the tale of Crazy Dancer, one of the Sioux Ghost Dancers who was sprung from incarceration to tour with Bufallo Bill and re-enact the destruction of his own people on  daily basis. He spent some time in Barlinnie having been arrested in a pub. here's a poem about it: The picture is from Buffalo Bills visit to Dumfries.

Ghost  Dancing
in the Gallowgate 1892

After one whisky too many
Crazy Dancer
thumped a minder
over the head with a doorstop

but before that had reached
an understanding
beyond the need for words
with Donald from Sligachan

whose leg was shot off
in Egypt with the Seaforths.
They both lived in
the hem of their histories

ragged at the edges
telling stories for beer
over and over
in the insistent poetry of tongues

as though the fevered act
of repetition might
reel back time
and the landscapes
black with ghosts.

Sunday, September 04, 2016

Arts in Dumfries in Rude Health

The Arts in Dumfries are in Rude Health as Twelve People  Follow a Man in a Horse's Head and Four Girls with Pink Faces hold Smoke Sticks as a Machine Lifts a Cow

Not for the first time 
the town is being reanimated,
filled with colour, music and ritual.
Ignore the blank expressions 

and the cries of What the Fuck,
we are empowering the people
and what risks we take! 
It harks back to the time

the Vikings sailed here 
trading beads and origami herons. 
Our links with this proud race
are perpetuated in

a vegetarian stovie recipe,
our sense of destiny,
and the ruthless way we fill
in our funding applications.