2012

The new year finds me in reflective mood, as the screams of sleepover weans recede into the distance and a long term of wage slavery beckons with the mornings as dark still as the evenings and the wind rattling the windowpanes all down the Glen.

I hope we all have a good year, folks, all the best to you. Here are some christmas downloads and a newish poem.










Starcat



Every Saturday morning
we meet, my daughter and I,
to study form. She has a plain scone,
sometimes an empire biscuit.
I have coffee. I used to have an egg roll
but she didn’t like the way it ran
yellow onto the napkin.
After a moment or two she’ll
put on her latest pair of glasses
give a slight frown and get to it.
Stars are good, Elektra Star, Mystery Star,
but cats are best, Kenya Cat, Lightning Cat,
Son of Cat. How the pair of us rejoiced
when Starcat was on the card at Ascot,
an alchemy just for us it seemed,
a totemic and irresistible blend
of the cosmic and the cute.
Stars are usually eighth, cats more spry
but still well down the field.
Starcat lost, its life in fact.
I say it has retired and today is eating grass
in the verdant field of our imagining,
a place where people of differing ages come,
to watch horses take wing,
and two bob make a thousand pounds.

The Big Burns Supper

Interesting that this collection of events commemorating, supposedly, our National Poet has no input from any contemporary writers in Dumfries and Galloway. I suppose we shouldn't be surprised at this. Burns Suppers have always been the preserve of people who imagine a love of literature when their real interest is in perpetuating myth, or a particular view of history, or a sentimentalised idea of what it means to be Scottish once a year, or in this case, trying to make some money and attract some visitors. Writers just write though, don't they? Other people do the gimmicks.

Hmmm bit jaundiced that, now I read it in the cold light of a snowy Friday morning. Nothing wrong with different ways of celebrating Burns who was a great and courageous writer, after all. And nothing wrong with a bit of entrepreunerial ambition. Nevertheless poor Rabbie always provides a carcass to feed on, doesn't he?
And if the annual Burns hooh-hah proves anything he proves that we have a long and great tradition of poetry in Scotland. And that poets are still ignored, as they were then.

"once a year within a phantom nation
they shrink your head to fit a social occasion"

Willie Neill

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.