Circus
When I found you
in the front hall
with two suitcases
I expected them
to simultaneously
burst open
revealing
polka-dot handkerchiefs
and coloured wigs
On your face
a painted tear
appeared
Meanwhile
I failed to hear
the punchline
Your words
forced through
a downturned smile
Joking aside
I did try
to stop you
but outside a car backfired
and you disappeared
into the ensuing confetti of smoke
My weeping
filled a bucket
and I threw it after you
only to see doves emerge
and take their freedom
just like you
Pattern Repeat
Furious scratches from high up on their side
of the adjoining wall, a giant pawing
at that hard-to-reach-spot midway
between shoulder blades.
Flock and floral, tatty and timeless
all peeled back, all stripped away
to reveal a bare wall
on which a fresh start can be hung.
Sometimes I hear the child cry in the night,
hear the mother stumble and call, as I lie
awake, ready to shed this house,
with its papered cracks and porous walls.
A hut would do. Pitch up, pass through,
keep it simple, that’s the key.
The Daith–Tree
(For Pam Aitken)
Jesus wis a jyner – lang lang syne,
In Joseph's shap, in Nazareth,
The laddie ser'd his time.
He wrocht the bonny cedarwuid, the gopherwuid, the beech,
Wis skeily wi the cheisels, wis hantie wi the eetch,
Coud fettle plous or cairt wheels, coud kirn, coud scrunt, coud snig
Cuid scutch wi the Rob Sorby, snod an squerr an trig
His faither learnt the laddie tae kerve a bonnie yock,
Tae big braw rambust raughters an no lea onie brock.
Tae ken the weys o timmer, its navis-bores its awte:
Tae kep it happ't an caller tae stey oot daise an rot.
He learnt tae dunt the stobs hame, intil aik or esh or yew;
Tae mak a stuffie fixin, strecht an strang an true.
His wrists wis slee an soupil, his airms wis sture an teuch,
His shoothers braid an canty, his hauns wis gleg bit reuch,
Wi Simon an wi Andra He fushed on Galilee,
He kent whit wey the skiff wis colfed tae cowdle on the sea.
An whan He timmed the tables owre, tae skail the nipscarts' gelt,
He kent whit wey the jints wis duin an hou the buirds wis stell't.
Sae whan He humphed His daith-tree, He kent its wecht an lenth,
Coud cairry it fell aisy gin He'd ainly hid his strenth.
An whan they drave the stobs in, He kent hoo mony dings,
Wad dunch them throu the shackle-banes, hou mony hemmer swings.
They liftit up the daith-tree, He kent its awte, its spails,
Its rouchness doun His back-bane, the bluidie skaithin nails.
The lee lang day He hung there, stechin for His braith;
His bluid weezed oot the stob stangs: fell slaw an sair cam daith.
Jesus wis sair rackit on the ruid lang syne,
The bluid weezed doon the daith-tree,
Like roset dreeps doon pine.
The Price of Petrol - Ballymena 1973
Exhausted smell from old Ford Consul
chuntering to forecourt thirsty
as always for a couple of gallons,
local paper, chat, smile, change
in sticky hand for school tomorrow.
“How’re ye Wullie?”
A good staunch name
collecting me from convent,
the seeds of ambiguity
and an open mind.
Today we queue, snail our way
to manned pump. Eyes are blank
and it is hard to understand
clipped words.“ Not an essential user.”
Lips tighten and a small vein throbs.
John Citizen ahead of us was filled,
no hesitation, although they know
he does not work for queen
and country like my father does.
But he marches,
holds a banner in his hand
and on Bonfire night
his boys laugh
as they burn
a well-stuffed pope
who cackles in the flames.
When the strike is over
we stop there only once
at the end of a tired day’s
necessity.
“How’re ye Wullie?”
“Disappointed.”
Love Affair With Mussels
They clacked, our kidnapped mussels -
barbered, bowl-bathed in strange water,
blue skins scrubbed
clean of the sea's licking -
as we tipped them into the pot
and watched them jostle in the bubbles.
On our bed the kicked sheet
was a cloth tide ebbing
while I clung to you
as our waves roughened,
as, breathless, we reached the shore,
your skin salty against my lips
and, beyond the blind,
the traffic's roaring.
We dashed the mussels'
gaping throats with wine,
doused them with parsley
which caught like cheerless
confetti on their saffron flesh
and stole from our mouths
the taste of each other.
it begins in the mist
not knowing
stumbling along
a new path
belief takes us
beyond logic
but a map
and compass help
finding
the right pace
is letting go
of arriving
FREE VERSE
Now I have done with those old madcap days
When I would dance my fill
Caught in the allurements of my opening: world,
Stammering forth a glut of indiscretions
Shy, clandestine accounts of blushful escapades
Spotting some snow-pure innocence of page.
But soon my verse soared free
Vamping the impetuous dictates of the day
Away with quatrains, rhyming, pedantry
Pull down the pillars of antiquity?
Vers libre came singing, gate-crashing through Europe
Unlocking long-silenced languages
While in the mesmeric West
Welsh Thomas beckoned me from the Boathouse.
Now barriers are down, poets wave hopeful flags.
I tremble, tottering on the brink
Between a comma and a forward slash,
Confounded by surfeit of choices in all directions: —— -
Show me the path that opens not on ruin,
Left-over garbage of wars, smothering dust of dreams.
Slowly, painfully let my frail hands move
Over these worn typefaces - I love them as old friends
Though the barriers all be down
Leave me one final fence
Within which I shall resurrect my verse,
Governed by the old strict iambics:
My words derived from those dear Latin days,
Rendering me back the sensation
Of turning those sweet, decaying pages
Of grammar, yet again.
Snowdrops
Each February you appear
your sheltering petals white and fresh
like teardrops shedding modestly
your slim new stalks all fresh and green
so full of promise; full of hope
a sign that winter’s nearly done.
Your coming minds me of a girl
I never really got to know
who once strolled past you, young and fresh
a chill wind blowing in her hair
to step the hills, crunch diamond snow
and breathe in freedom’s cold, bright air.
She knew the joy of starry skies
of tented shelters, warming stoves,
two sets of footprints stepping out
all full of promise, full of hope,
another’s hand around her waist
playful, carefree, intimate.
One February she went away
to breath in freedom’s air again.
One set of footprints tottered on,
my teardrops fell immodestly
minding the quiet, slender girl
whose winter was already done .