Tuesday, April 15, 2008

You can't keep a good poem down.

Dear Jane

I had a poem for you: a giant metaphor
that had the line ‘the hills still wear

the thin smile of home’, but near Tyndrum
a man ate it. He had been drinking

packs of organic oatmeal stout,
the kind you get in tartan shops,

and had grown unnerved, increasingly,
about the timberline, often leaving

the train to stare distraught
at distant mountain tops. When he ate

the poem he seemed calm for a bit,
but then was violently sick.

I suppose that was a metaphor too,
but not the one I wished for you.


Stooshie said...

I was NOT sick, you lying twat.

Hugh McMillan said...

God, you're so literal.

Anonymous said...

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Stooshie said...

No, I am not literate. You lying twat.

Home broker? Is that like Estate Agent, or Home Breaker, or Stevie Kneel, or A Home Less Broke?

What kind of sick & listless fans do you attract, 'Shug'?

Incidentally, Kendal has a hostel, & cheap. May 3rd? Bring camera & poem-fodder. Er.....

Hugh McMillan said...

sounds good. i'll bring a side salad this time.