08 Prosody

 

‘Vivendo discimus’

(‘By living we learn’)

 

Grey sunless dawn reveals cold wilderness.

Heatless light falls on broken sandstone,

Outlines sodden scorchmarked croft-bones, roofless.

Western tides rinse stony shore, slow cycle.

Straws mark currents, movement calibrated.

Smoke-free wind bears high laughter of ghost weans.

Long procession marches slow through our town,

All souls ordained to something strange, unknown.

Orthodoxies, dark warnings nailed to skulls.

Find vindication – grab some goats to ‘scape.

Bairnwraiths claw at dead wet-nurses’ dried dugs,

Elders crawl, famished, chewing at brown grass.

‘Shaman, shepherd, blacksmith, fisher, horse-man,

Midwife, hunter, carpenter. Their children.’

‘Finish all. Let their old gods sort the souls.

Hear nothing. See nothing. Write no thing down.’

‘How then, sir, might we furnish our report?’

‘You may report this. We camped. Slept. Moved on.’

 

2

Buds appear, to swell. Furred shoots skyward peep.

Seed pulses, coursing, speeding on anon.

Less life here now, but busy all the same,

Reclaiming, with moss and heather, our streets’

Sea-smoothed cobbles. They’ll not be bared again

When gorse gets to grips, cements the grassed gaps.

Tear the natal meat, let them not be born.

Spare bairns from this densest dire confusion.

On our own dear bard’s yet unsunned hillside

The fruits of yesteryear were buried well

But his nightmare springs, fully manifest.

Dark details of decay must now be scanned.

Suffocating density of horror

Shudders uphill, waving grass, scaring birds.

Man, woman, child, branded with stigmata,

Strain through shadow, yearning to feel the glow

We made, living and learning together

For more years than anyone remembers.

To yield now incurs deepest damnation:

Unceasing labour in the charnel-house;

Skies blackened by plague-bearing vermin

As our hanged chief’s last ejaculation

Embodies those cowards’ witch-dreamed secrets.

Gold jingles in his pockets when he drops.

3

The past? A crumbling colonnade of lies,

Mere havers o’ kailyard flyblown, rancid,

Spread from lowly wicks to frightened cities

Till rhyming, song and sweethearting all cease.

Whatever joy we lost we dare not mourn.

Memory become a capital crime.

How full and rich, escape from this decay.

A winter golden bright in fields of dream

Within the mind of one who remembers

But holds the vision silent, cold and dry,

To be seeded again when warmer wind

Signals thaw, blessed relief, unwrapping.

In ordered park, glorious garden great,

Reorganise the human hive anew.

Tower and cloister frame the space refreshed

As leap of arch and magic float of dome

House science, portrait, prosody and all

Evidence of folk, work, place and, aye, love.

(Acknowledgements/Sources:

The following phrases, more or less similar to some used above, were found in:

‘The Evergreen’ : ‘vevendo (sic) discimus’.

‘The Scots Renascence’ : ‘the roar of western tides’, ‘long black procession marching slow’, ‘when buds begin to swell and shoots to peep’, ‘the most dense and dire confusion’, ‘straws mark currents’, ‘old poet’s unsunned hilside’, ‘our Fruit of yesteryear lies buried’, ‘peeps and shivers some early bud’, ‘mere havers o’ kailyard’.

‘Life and its Science’ : ‘the secret of decay be told’, ‘unceasing labour in the charnel-house’, ‘till rhyming and sweethearting end’, ‘in ordered park and garden great’, ‘reorganise the human hive’, ‘to leap of arch and float of dome’.

”The Sociology of Autumn’ : ‘whence landscape, portrait, genre and the rest’, ‘harvest wind was warmed by long-sunned sea’, ‘witch-dreamed secrets of evil and good’, ‘brighten our winter with their gardens of dream’

‘The Notation of Life’ : ‘How full and rich each step might be’, ‘Place, Work, Folk’.

All of the above named essays were written by Patrick Geddes (1854 – 1932).

‘The Evergreen’ (co-written with Victor Branford) was published in the Autumn 1895 issue of The Evergreen along with ‘The Sociology of Autumn’.

‘The Scots Renascence’ and ‘Life and its Science’ were published in the spring 1895 issue of the same magazine. ‘The Notation of Life’ was written by Geddes while in India, and was quoted in The Interpreter:Geddes by A. Defries, Routledge, 1927.

All of the above material was published by the Edinburgh Review Issue 88 (Editor Murdo Macdonald) summer, 1992.

The piece was also heavily influenced by ‘Raism’, James Havoc (Creation Press, London, 1988): ‘tear the natal meat’ and ‘suffocating density of horror’ are the only intact phrases borrowed.)

 

 

MEN WI’ PENS

  

Wid memory be lost, nae history kent?

Wur lifes a huff an’ puff ay effort spent?

Nae trace remainin’ fur the bairns tae scan

When comes their time tae take or be a man?

Aye, mibbe, but for men wi’ pens.

The landed, tyrants, monied,

Aye hoarded scribes, monks, them wi’ the gift

Ay makin’ sense ay aw they wee squiggles.

Cried them shamen, blessed magic-makers

But they were jist some men wi’ pens.

An’ whit a power in thae words for sure,

Tae bind a man tae wife, or work, for life

Tae make him laugh, or dream anither’s view

Tae conjure hell or heaven at a stroke

Such power had thae men wi’ pens.

Noo, secret sacred art has spread aw ower,

Thae wee squiggles maun gie up their power

Tae uncles, nephews, papas, boys, brithers,

Grannies, mammies, sisters, aw the ithers

Aye, noo we’re aw the men wi’ pens.

Whit power we hae noo, tae tell wur tales

Ay work, an’ dreams fulfilled an dashed, an’ love.

Ay strangeness, friendship, aw the things we see,

The men we were, the men we tried tae be

Mere memories aye melt, like mist.

Breathe in, breathe out,

Forever lost and gone.

But thae wee squiggles outlast us

On paper, or on stone.

So bide lang –

Bide lang, wur scratches oan the walls ay time,

These marks we make, us men wi pens.

(Written as a thank-you for the members of ‘Men With Pens’, Airdrie. Lang may yer lum reek!)

 

 

 

Bella and the Horseman

 

Horse-man pulls with left,

Raising the right hand as if

Bestowing blessing.

The beast’s stiffened ears

Oscillate, eyes

Whiten, then twin

Blasts of steaming panic-snort

Unfurl around white

Cottoned shoulders.

The crowd oohs and aaahs

As Bella retreats,

One step by one, dank

Muddied hairs tracing

Turfmuck slow, cautious,

Hoof hovering

While her eye never leaves his.

Lowering his right

Brings her straight. A tug,

Raise left,

She shifts forth

Head now high, all hooves

Inside the corners

Of the chalked-out bay as

Claps, cheers bloom.

The man turns, smiling

Toothlessly, Bella nosing his bunnet.

No-one sees him slipping,

Palm to pocket,

Tricks of the trade.

Such and such a herb

Draws her forward.  But raw

Moleskin means stop, reverse.

Makes sense to the horse.

Last thing she needs

Is to break a leg,

Just one hefty hoof

Piling down softened earth,

Finding the molehole.

Ahab

 

Ivory thumps on deck at night. Again.

Above me, Ishmael whispers in sleep,

That peg-leg banging words into his brain.

‘Unalterable mould’ is ringed with awe,

The subject friend or fiendish? I know not.

‘Infinity of firmest fortitude’? -

Perhaps he cherishes new brotherhood

Since, lances crossed, grip and blood-oath bound us,

‘Parties to this indissoluble league’.

With every knock we close upon our fate

As he, with ‘crucifixion in his face’,

Makes of our ship and lives a fitting stage

‘Pon which to bid his farewells to this world.

We witness, aye, but audience? there’s none

Bar creatures who will tear us down to bone.

So who will tell of that man’s insane quest?

These words he taps in darkness must find light

As keepsakes for our bairns and waiting wives.

Mere words, dictated in such evil code,

Maun hover o’er the sea like landlost birds

Forever, lest some carrier be found.

The messenger, above me, sways in sleep,

His whispering has melded into snore.

The signs – from he whose name I dare not think -

Have ceased for now. Tonight he writes no more?

But valedictory be incomplete

Without due thanks to those who served ye well –

We fools maun prove that loyalty with life,

Escorting this dark vessel down to Hell.

Accursed vast blackness ‘pon which we bob –

We wretched microbes in this nut’s thin shell -

Has sucked all reason from our broken minds.

What e’er remains of all our dreams and love

May God speed home, farewell through Ishmael.

A Character Right Enough

 

He’s a character?

A character for sure, I’ll give you that.

The perfect life, the nice wee wife, the weans.

That string of fancy letters on his name.

You’ve seen that big clematis round their door?

It only came to bloom when they moved in.

Fucking typical.

Never hear a bad word about him eh?

Pillar of the community my arse.

I know what he gets up to after dark.

There’s no need for curtains as thick as that.

He’d steal the coins off a dead bastard’s eyes.

Aye, just fill it up.

No respect for roots, just airs and graces.

He takes that midden to the opera,

Treated the in-laws to the Ayr races.

Cock ‘o the walk with his gentleman’s brood,

And this one’s the dux, and nothing’s too good.

You got a light there?

That wee column in The Advertiser?

Your Local Legal Eagle’s On The Case?

The editor’s his brother-in-law’s Da!

Absolute power corrupts and all that.

Makes you sick to the pit of your stomach,

The way these scum look after just their own.

Saved the football field?

Malky Parnie, all his mental brothers?

They’re the ones made sure that never went through.

Stop a supermarket? Get a lawyer.

So that’s what they did, and that’s who they got.

He never gave a fuck about football.

Only thing he ever kicked was my arse.

Aw, give us a break.

Don’t hit me with that nature nurture pish.

Chicken and egg, or a catch-twenty-two?

A wee bit education’s a bad thing?

Getting big ideas above your station?

Swings or roundabouts, try polishing a

Shite. As long as you like. It’s still a shite.

Restraining order?

Here we go again. You know the story?

After the funeral they all went back.

If that’s not a family-do, what is?

Popped in here, had a couple, headed up.

His boy came to the door, gave me some lip.

Times like that you want your folks about you.

He was well bigger than me anyway.

Bigger than his Da, same about the eyes.

Only slapped him once. Made a meal of it.

Went down in a heap, squealing like a pig.

His mammy shows-up then, screaming the odds,

Had me on the nice lawn, nails at my eyes.

She was ever the prick-tease back in school,

Half the town was up her, you’ve heard that, yeah?

Got the glad-eye off her at their wedding,

Just a glance, but enough to make it click.

Makes out it never happened to this day.

The nomination?

Oh aye, he’ll get it. Just par for the course.

Duly elected representative.

Praise from all his peers, all his big buddies.

Up smiling on the stage, with her and them,

All the cheers, and flashes on News at Ten.

That’s the time to show him for what he is.

Not want another?

They call it closure. Tying up loose ends.

We were free once, running with the Cumby,

Taking on all-comers, watching our patch.

That was him then, real, with me behind him.

He couldn’t have done it without me there.

Bastard doesn’t realise I’m still there.

He’s a character right enough,

Oh aye.

But he’s no brother of mine.