Monday, February 02, 2009

Stuart Paterson

Having arrived like a blast of janwar win, Stuart Paterson has departed southwards, my liver waving him a fond farewell at the border. Paterson is a fine poet whose voice has been stilled these last eight or so years. Let's hope we hear it again as he is a rumbustuous and thorny fellow who writes with insight, flair and humour. I'm sure he would not mind me reprinting one of his poems here to show what we're all missing.


By Rydal Lake we're watching

acrobatic ducks pose dives

for perfect tens.

Cacophanies in cars

chunder wildly near to where we are,

impatient children dashing

mindlessly. Above, no gulls

threaten theft, no ferries sidle

up & nuzzle harbour-side,

but there's a feel of Scottish

west coast madness lurking

just beneath the picture perfect

skin of greens, blues and browns.

Perhaps it isn't where we are

but where we were in certain

conversations while enormous

unseen clocks stopped their roatation

for a moment only, whirring

in my ears like grinding turbines

on a ferry slowly going

ever out of sight, and west.


the broken down barman said...

he looks like a right nutcase!! are you sure he writes poems?

Sorlil said...

Oh very nicely done, and 'chunder' - what a great word!

hope said...

Interesting. I've always loved the word "cacophony".

In case you missed it, I politely requested that you add your "Bear" poem back over in my little corner of the world.

Frances said...

Is that you with the woolly hat?

the broken down barman said...

i thought shug was the guy with the glasses???? looks like him in the pics down the side?????

Stooshie said...

Yes, he is indeed a right nut case, Barman. That very same night he took 17 photos of the same cat on the same armrest over a period of five hours.

Interestingly enough, mere seconds after this fine portrait of the poets was captured, Paterson was unceremoniously hustled off of Bank St. at the fully-extended length of a policeman's telescopic baton. His 'crime'? Attempting to photograph, with one hand, the onrushing pipe band while cradling a pint of bass in the other. Fortunately, no beer was spilled & the two fine poets emerged unscathed to rush north to Penpont & lashings of free haggis & bevy. Huzzah!

the broken down barman said...


Stooshie said...

There wasn't much freedom in my duvet, I can tell you.