Shug, waistline distorted by some photographic quirk, surely
Matlock Bath
Hot on the heels of last weekends first leg of my 'Anti-English Tour of England' in Matlock Bath I returned home for the reopening of the Salon at Thomas Tosh last Tuesday. There was a packed house, free wine and good readings, from JoAnne MacKay, Alan Gillespie and myself. Very good night. Surprised myself by the number of new poems I had. I suppose the main thing is to keep writing, isn't it? The Muse is still here, and so is the writing.
Not alas for Brent Hodgson the Ayrshire makar who died last week. Brent was a totally quirky inventor of a bizarre synthetic Scots and wrote poems which were perfectly accomplished but also hugely funny,
'HELLO MAISTER SMYTH'
by Brent Hodgson
Hello, Maister Smyth,
Yow suld be att hame
Puttand yowr dennar on.
Yow suld nocht be lyggand thair,
Warslyng with a python.
He'll be sorely missed. Such a combination of eccentricity, charm and rancour is rare. Goodbye, Brent.
Tales from the Tartan Bunnet are few though I was saddened to hear that Thistlemilk Entrepreneur Theosyphillis Neill's attempt to buy the Comet chain of shops for £2 so he could take a couple of DVDs down to Cash Converter every Friday night failed at the last moment, as a result of him failing to borrow the necessary £2.
Finally I'm reprinting a poem (is it a poem?)here by special request.
Thornhill Ladies
Thornhill ladies have no dots or stripes on a Saturday,
they have torques.
Thornhill ladies have hair specially made
from steel.
Thornhill ladies peel the epidermis from their butter
like surgeons.
Thornhill ladies eat their scones without opening their mouths
even once.
Thornhill ladies see your future in the steam from
their spicy carrot soup.
Thornhill ladies are sorry to disturb your lunch,
but wonder why you’ve not been eaten,
by your mate.
