Matlock, Tosh, Brent and Ladies

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.

The Aspirational Target icon

My National Poetry Day poem is a teeches only, I'm afraid, or at least they'll understand it best if they've ever filled in a report using a system called Seemis, where you're asked to choose from an range of icons, unlock the padlock, and launch your information. My favourite icon's the Aspirational Target Icon.





The Aspirational Target Icon



The Aspirational Target Icon
is nineteenth from the left.
It’s a long way off, like Madagascar.
Unlike the Initial Target Football Icon
which sits smugly waiting to be struck
into the corner of some other metaphor,
it seems like will o wisp, as intangible
as a shaft of pure green light from clouds.
Through the shrouds of blind
the last of summer sets fire to stone
and roads open up to roads, worlds to worlds,
but here in cells we tap and scratch
arcane vocabularies, each one more removed
from real life than the last. I do not want
to be the last monk standing when language
breaks on the rocks like the sea.
If I could find my Aspirational Target Icon
I would Open the Padlock,
Click Lunch,
Open the Door
Click Launch.

Not Actually Being in Dumfries last Weekend


When I am walking up Queensberry St in low cloud
and tread on chips floating in an oily puddle,
I am actually on the Cierro Del Sol, staring through trees
at ponds like pearl, the roses and myrtle.

When I turn onto the High Street at seven o’clock at night
and neds are stoned out of their brains and jeering,
I am hearing the sound of nightingales in gardens
with the heat still singing and the sun setting on fire.

At midnight I am not leaving the Hole in the Wa,
fumbling my way through a huddle of strange dwarves,
but moving statuesquely through the lush blooms
of my imagination, heavy and sweet as jacaranda,

and the night will not end here, in light to heavy drizzle,
and a taxi that fines you a hundred quid for being sick,
it will not end here in damp sandstone and shadows
but surely with a last long kiss below an orange moon.