Titus the dog

Rabbie Rousing

2012-01-25T22:30:00.000-08:00

Today is Robert Burns' birthday, which means that tonight is Burns Night, which is the night that Burns Suppers happen. And that's as much as I know.

True Scots Hugh Bryden and David Borthwick, however, know far more and have conceived and delivered a wonderful project to celebrate the Bard's birthday.

It's Windows on Burns Night, which in essence involved loads of poets writing loads of poems on acetates which then got placed in four venues in Dumfries. Two are public houses - The Globe and The Coach and Horses - one is Burns House (where the poet spent the last years of his life) and one is a new arts venue, The Stove. Lots of poets played - Jen Hadfield, Jean Sprackland, Andrew Grieg, Tom Pow, Hugh McMillan, Jean Atkin, Vivien Jones, Graham Fulton, Betty Tindal and probably fifty others. Plus five local primary schools!

Burns drank at The Globe, and famously inscribed poems on its window panes using a diamond ring. Or possibly stylus.

Anyway, so far I've only managed to peruse those at The Stove and The Globe. Here's a taste. Don't expect to be able to read all the poems - I found it incredibly difficult to photograph windows.

So Happy Birthday Mr Burns, and thank you for restoring Scotland's pride after the IPYPIASM drubbing.

Because that's

Scotland, 200 : Ireland and the Rest of the World, 0

In other less exalted news, I'm afraid Mr T was rushed to hospital in an ambulance yesterday, and what's worse, he's still there. Not in pain and not in danger, but rather unwell. Who's going to do the ironing?

Hooray! Women in Wimples

2012-01-24T00:05:00.000-08:00

We're not big television watchers in this house; the only exceptions seem to be programmes about single males with some otherworldly powers (namely Merlin, Dr Who and Sherlock). The iplayer gets hammered a little more, but I am prone to only ever looking at the 'Factual' category and then watching something about illuminated manuscripts or dark matter until way past midnight.

However, as Mr T had been away testing his mettle against Scottish mountains and Scottish weather all weekend, I decided some r 'n' r was required on Sunday night. Birdsong was recommended (and good it was), but because I flopped in front of the tele early, when I turned on BBC1 I found myself watching Call The Midwife.

The programme could have made for me. Set in Poplar (an area of dockland London I have known for over forty years), it's all centred around the nuns of Nonnatus House, who are an Anglican order and serve through midwifery. And what nuns! There's the wise, patient Sister Jenny Agutter, the irascible, always practical Sister Pam Ferris and best of all the mad-as-a-box-of-frogs-but-makes-gnomic-utterances-so-listen-hard Sister Judy Parfitt.
Then we have the non-nun midwifes who also live and work at Nonnatus House: the glamorous one who talks about fashion and 'chaps', the swotty one who quotes Shakespeare a bit, the posh, clumsy giant who has a 'calling' and the central character, Nurse Jenny Lee, who brilliantly stalks the whole programme as a cipher, so that we can see through her eyes.

Is it all cock-er-knee-gor-blimey-hearts-of-gold guff? Definitely not entirely. The series is based on the memoirs of Jennifer Worth, and the BBC has shirked no production values in reproducing the docks, the men and the women of the era and the realities of childbirth at that time. Episode 2 concluded with a breech delivery by a woman of 42 who actually looked at least ten years older.

There are beautiful, quiet moments as the dramatic (truly) stories progress - the nuns at Compline contrasted with street girls; a wonderful Miranda Hart (the posh midwife) hunched over a sewing machine late at night making herself a uniform that fits, looking to fit in; the rescued prostitute stroking her swelling stomach, and in a clean bed for the first time in her short life.

The shock is that all this takes place in 1957. It feels like I imagine the thirties were, but by this very year my own mother had two children with 'another on the way'. I was born just six years later. I actually, unmetaphorically, shook my head a few times as I re-pondered this fact whilst watching.

So, Call The Midwife. Great stories, great births, great nuns. Watch it if you can.

Other nun-related posts here:

http://titusthedog.blogspot.com/2009/07/weavers-inspiration-meme.html

http://titusthedog.blogspot.com/2010/08/news-bits-bobs-launches-to-come-prizes.html

Geek points: Saint Raymond Nonnatus is a Spanish saint, and the patron saint of childbirth and midwives. His name means 'not born', as he was delivered by caesarean section back in 1240.

Pamphlet Power!

2012-01-23T16:20:00.000-08:00

Did I smile when the entry brochure for The Callum Macdonald Memorial Award 2012 came in the post on Saturday? Er, pathetically, yes, because the cover of Venti was part of the front page design.

My unfounded pride beside, the competition is now open for entries. The award is for the publisher of an outstanding example of pamphlet poetry; the pamphlet, poet or publisher will have a connection with Scotland or Scottish culture.

The prize-giving takes place at the National Library of Scotland in the middle of the year, and all the entries are on display on the night, which is a fabulous opportunity to see close-up the range (and depth) of pamphlet production in Scotland. Short-listees also get a slap-up meal afterwards, and the winning publisher a cheque for £800 plus the Callum Macdonald Quaich to hold for 12 months. The poet of the winning pamphlet becomes the Michael Marks Poet in Residence at the Harvard Centre for Hellenic Studies in Greece for 2 weeks in July 2012.

So if you published a pamphlet in 2011 and have ever worn tartan trousers, do have a crack. It's a great competition that takes the support of pamphlet poetry seriously.

Full details here: http://www.nls.uk/about-us/awards/2012-callum-macdonald-memorial-award

Let's Tanaga with The Toads!

2012-01-19T02:10:00.000-08:00

Whilst not quite a crazy firestarter, I must confess to getting some deep pleasure from watching fires, and particularly poking around at them and seeing what happens. Luckily, we have a real fire in the house (though bonfires are another source of amusement) and when the children are in bed and Mr T is working lates or nights I can quite happily play with the fire all night. I like letting it almost die, then trying some strange configuration of not-quite-dry logs to see if they'll burn, and how, or else how little coal I have to put on, and where, to make things burn. Coal dust, which gathers at the bottom of the scuttle, is a real delight - it will completely smother a fire, but get it just right and after a while it ignites explosively as if it is a single entity. Newsprint burns with different colours depending, I deduce, on the inks used. I could go on ad infinitum actually, as the permutations are endless but fairly boring unless you are an arsonist. And I've met a few.

All of which is no introduction whatsoever to Grace O'Malley's challenge over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - to write a tanaga.

A tanaga is a short poem of four lines, each line seven syllables with a single rhyme. Today, other rhyme schemes are used, including freestyle rhyme, but for the purpose of this exercise, let's try to stick with couplets.

So, here's our form:

XXXXXXA
XXXXXXA
XXXXXXB
XXXXXXB

The tanaga is traditionally presented without a title, has an extreme reliance on metaphor, should be emotionally charged and ask a question that begs an answer.

Which is a lot for four lines, so I doubled it and have come up with what might be an ambahan. There is a lot more detail, and other tanaga tries, here: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2012/01/tuloy-po-kayo.html

Caught logs will burn their brothers,
coal dust pure fuel that smothers
till critical heat ignites
fossil thought on hoar frost nights.

Some little warmth for pleasure,
such surface lacks the pressure;
would I drop a world tonight
to make carbon facet light.

Animalia, at last

2012-01-14T13:30:00.000-08:00

As blogger is messing me about almost malevolently at the moment (can't read comments on my own blog, can't leave comments on a lot of others) it's an ideal opportunity to do this catch-up post. A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away I asked people to write animal poems so that I could make a one-off book, which was subsequently raffled for charity.

The raffle was held during a reading event at Glasgow University early last year. I'm afraid to say I had much too much wine that night, and took these photos fairly near the end. Hence the quality, and the fact that only about half the pages were photographed. Forgot to get a shot of the brilliant cover too.

But thank you again to all the contributors, some of whose work appears below. A bit blurred.

The omens...

2012-01-13T12:45:00.000-08:00

...are not good.

Fiery skies last night.

And some Steely Dan.

And apologies all, blogger is not my friend at the moment. Can't even read comments, let alone add to them. Friday 13th indeed.

Toads, Geese

2012-01-08T13:45:00.000-08:00

I'm joining in with the toads this Sunday, who had the fabulous picture prompt below. All details, and other more natural responses, here: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2012/01/photography-challenge-for-sunday.html

The Lonely Cry, by Ken Simm
http://www.kenart.co.uk/index.html

Me? Too many pantomimes this year for sure.

Mother Goose

They will come, the painted ones
to steal your sons with curving tongues,
murmur of meanders, subtle valleys
and that rare peak where air
may only be had with a gasp.
Such ones will spirit your sons,
feather them to fly
in one direction only: away.
No magic, mere apple pie
all you have to lure them
home to graze momentarily.

Though your dough hands
have pressed endless starwort shirts,
you bit your lip
in the face of piercings,
they will migrate again.
Such is nature: let them soar.

Sales Shopping

2012-01-07T10:50:00.000-08:00

Yes Mum, this is definitely the one.

Torque, Torque, Torque

2011-12-27T23:25:00.000-08:00

Fields of Torques! I got a metal detector called a Treasure Seeker 3 for Christmas. Oh, the joy. However, no chance to trial it during the next week as I'm off with the bairns to drier and warmer climes.

Meanwhile, a Christmas miracle occurred.

Crystal Christmas tree, 22:00 hrs, 27/12/2011. 100 hours.

So I'll see you in 2012, and I wish you all the very best for the coming year.

PS. Small conundrum too. If I IPYPIASM in Essex, which country gets the points? And where do they bury the survivors?

Ageing Hippy Christmas

2011-12-25T00:45:00.000-08:00

Love and peace to you all.

Crystal Christmas Tree, and other fun

2011-12-24T02:00:00.000-08:00

I present the incredible Crystal Christmas Tree, free with today's National Geographic Kids. Simply place the provided crystals into the small circular tray, add water, stir till dissolved and then assemble Christmas tree and place therein. Instructions state 'crystals will begin to form within 15 minutes, and the tree will be fully grown in one hour.'

Above shows tree after 1 hour (18.00hrs, 23/12/11)

Meanhile, I have finally got the Christmas decorations up.

I have Yule Logged.

Lovely things have arrived in the post.

From angryparsnip.

From Rachel Fenton.

And, unaware of the controversial new IPYPIASM points system, I persuaded a couple of small poets to engage in the second-greatest December festival ever because we, er, needed the points.

Rather sorry I did so now. You may gather, from their heartfelt outpourings, that I am not a mother who believes in Wiis, Nintendos, X-Boxes, i-Pods or i-Pads for eight-year olds. Of course, everybody else has them.

No idea what's so great about the swimming pool. Except they can't hear me when they're in there...
As I still have to do the Christmas Shopping tomorrow, I'm feeling a bit this. Again.

And look! Crystal Christmas tree, 01:00 hrs, 24/12/2011. 8 hours.

Something Fishy...

2011-12-23T00:10:00.000-08:00

What with Ireland fielding a new player and all that (here: http://domesticoubliette.blogspot.com/2011/12/ive-put-bloody-poem-in-bloody-shop.html ) it was time to get supersub Vivien Jones back on the pitch. Well, Tesco's anyway.

For your delectation.

Now come on, the MacClans! They're non-competitively trouncing us.

A New Bench

2011-12-21T00:20:00.000-08:00

Sunshine Corner, the origin of which name is lost in the mists of the mist that lurks there for at least 8 months of the year, is at a bend of the Scaur river just outside the village. It is a place of popular resort, possessing as it does a little sandy beach and a very large stony beach.

And now it possesses a bench. The bench just arrived, and though I can make a very educated guess as to both the source of the wood and the creator, I don't think there was any formal planning, or payment involved. The bench has come because it would be nice.

Yesterday I was at the interment of a very gracious, interesting man. It was sad, as burials are, but the memory that I am sure will stay the longest is that of eight adult grandchildren holding the cords to lower the coffin containing their grandfather into the grave.

Small Place: Big Society

Do Not Tell Me How Many Days... and IPYPIASM Love

2011-12-19T23:30:00.000-08:00

Christmas is hopefully going to start on Thursday here, but I have at least got the cards that need posting done. Somewhat cheered by the thought that shops will be open on Christmas Eve. Things are a little crazy here, without even being particularly Christmas crazy.

I was up in Glasgow on Thursday and, unwilling to drive out of the city at 4.30pm, went for a little wander instead. And look what George Square is up to!

Meanwhile, Peter Goulding is being rather nice here: http://stammeringpoet.blogspot.com/2011/12/grave-with-lights.html

But did it stop me? No. Non-competitive or not, I still make this the equaliser.

More IPYPIASM love here: http://hope-theroadlesstraveled.blogspot.com/2011/12/friday-55_15.html

IPYPIASM: Mothers of Invention

2011-12-14T00:10:00.000-08:00

Who?

In case you've yet to embrace the phenomenon that is International Put Your Poem In A Shop Month, it was the brainchild of Various Cushions (here: http://variouscushions.blogspot.com/ )

And here's her why:

I think December is possibly the most hassly month of the year in terms of time spent in shops, queuing in said shops, and the amount of money handed over in said shops, making it overall a kind of stressful experience, thought it would be nice to have a little pressie for shop goers, and reason to make your own visit to the shop more artistically satisfying not to mention more exciting.

2011 is IPYPIASM's fourth year, it has now achieved festival status, and poems are appearing in shops across two continents. It must be emphasized that is it not, repeat not, a competition.

Well, I was wandering about today and who should I bump into? Only three poets of some renown.

Under a Christmas tree, bizarrely enough.

From the left we have
Jean Atkin (here: http://thedogdaysofdumfriesshire.blogspot.com/ )
Carolyn Yates
Vivien Jones (here: http://www.vivienjones.info/ )

Even more bizarrely, they happened to have some poems on them.

Well, it would have been churlish not to utilise them for the good of the shoppers of Dumfriesshire...

From Vivien:

Also from Vivien:

From Carolyn:

And oh ho ho ho so seasonal from Jean:

Toads in the Poetry Jam!

2011-12-12T12:50:00.000-08:00

Ah, the evolution of man. If you could be anywhere, see anything, surely we'd all pick that God or gene moment when modern man, Homo sapiens sapiens, appeared? The past, and the path, are still muddy here; the fossil record vanishingly rare; any new discoveries necessarily change, sometimes seismically, the theories posited before. And there are a plethora of theories.

Popular Western culture has given us cavemen with pronounced foreheads saying 'Ug' as our ancestor image, but this only bears the vaguest resemblance to Homo neanderthalensis, who is a relation, but no forebear. Adam, and perhaps more crucially, Eve, were black and lived in Africa. I veer towards the theory that their true emergence occurred just before the last great migration of the Homo species out of Africa, which is only around 60,000 years ago. That's a skinny 3,000 generations.

It is also my view that by this point language had been developing through our predecessor hominins, and it is inconceivable to me that culture had not developed too. Homo erectus may have had art, and religion - yes, Mother Goddesses! - if the Venus of Tan-Tan and the Venus of Berekhat Ram can conclusively be shown to be produced artefacts. Their current dating? Between 300,000 and 500,000 years old. Or of course, it could have been archaic sapiens in the cave. And archaic sapiens may actually be a distinct a species, like helmei. Which shows how clear we are.

One thing is for certain. We are the last standing ape standing.

All of which preamble is merely to show my fascination for our earliest past, and why I'd choose to hang about in mainly Africa for around 3 million years. And Peggy at the Poetry Jam said I could!
For other time travellers, go here:
http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/12/past-and-future.html

I'm also open linking with the Monday Toads on this one, because I like them. They live here: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2011/12/open-link-monday_12.html

The Birth of Shiva

Wishing I would be present at his first
words, rich click redolent with real belief
about the whys of the world, not just whats,
whens, wheres. In the geological rift
observe, keen, transitional man of species
indeterminate. I need not imagine.
To stand beside australopithecines
(we did for them, one way or another)
with habilis, handy, then ergaster,
then heidelbergensia in that place.
Step time, step pace; erectus in Asia,
we did for them, one way or another;
neanderthalensis we did for too.
You know the rest. Not just skulls, skulls, skulls
and syllables, but carving flesh man,
these ones that went before, the ones that bore
familiar stuff, unusual nonsense.
All that requires is several million years:
I would attend until the moment when,
precisely when, the canny man became.
There is no shade between us; his sun ours,
his needs, wants, lusts and his unsettling tongue
ours. I could press flat forehead against his,
he would press and penetrate, dark, fertile.
He is the sole survivor, sapiens, and we
not luck, strength or size of brain but wisdom
which means drive, cunning and a will to kill.

IPYPIASM: From New York to LA, From Montrose to Dumfries

2011-12-10T23:30:00.000-08:00

Well, isn't 2011 providing an IPYPIASM to remember? It's now a Festival! A non-competitive Festival! Read all about it here, where the scores are: http://variouscushions.blogspot.com/
So far it's Ireland vs Scotland vs USA. Where's the rest of Europe? Canada? Antipodes? Etc.

Anyway, in a non-competitive spirit, I was out with the children today doing very non-Christmas things - Victor's picture to be framed, new trainers to replace the ones purchased, ooh, all of three months ago.

In the gallery, all attempts at subterfuge were to no avail due to my unsilent accomplices. Hence the gallery owner insisted the poem be displayed next to a picture that actually contained the paints referred to.

Slightly more success in TK Maxx (trainers going cheap!) as the toy area was sufficient distraction for the compadres. I have to say that at the time I was placing and photographing this, the manager was rearranging the displays no more than ten feet from me. The store was unbelievably busy.

Finally, la Fox of Slow Lane Shuffle had PIS'ed, but not put, here: http://slowlaneshuffle.blogspot.com/2011/12/no-time-to-shop.html
Well, I had a copy with me, as you do, so I made my way through the throng to the perfume section, which was even more heaving. Astonishingly, the requisite perfumes were displayed next to each other. Whilst doing the deed, the two ladies rummaging next to me asked, "Shall we move? Is this a protest?" and we proceeded to have a protest conversation.

So there, you really never know where IPYPIASM may lead you...

That's 3 more for Scotland, by the way.

Grave with Lights Result: The Spiderpick Chronicles

2011-12-09T21:30:00.000-08:00

I realise that the quality of the video is such that we may as well have been doing it with blank pieces of paper, but all the contenders really were written on the white squares that you can observe.
To celebrate, we finish with the gaiety of Penpont Church Teas (Saturday afternoons, 1pm to 4pm).

Congratulations to the winner!

School's Out!

2011-12-08T13:35:00.000-08:00

Fierce headache yesterday has been followed by fierce winds for South West Scotland and the Central Belt. They've only gone and shut the schools!

Which may have been a blessing in disguise really, as the boys were late to bed tonight, having attended this:

I had been asked to perform a (long) Pam Ayres poem - Merry Christmas - Give Us Your Money. I couldn't quite channel the Berkshire accent, and ended up a bit Somerset crossed with Wiltshire, but it went well.

The concert itself was wonderful - a mixture of carols, vocal solos, violin solos, poetry readings (even managed to get a Canadian to read Robert Frost)(I know, but it sounds similar to us) and there was a video of adventurer and explorer Jock Wishart reading Captain Scott's last letter to J.M. Barrie. I think Jock himself was off getting an OBE.

All was in aid of the Peter Pan Moat Brae Trust. The website's here: http://peterpanmoatbrae.org/

Meanwhile, here's a little of Pam herself. One of her finest, I think.

And what with the children being home, the Grave with Lights draw will be taking place later today. With a tarantula. You've got to be in it to win it! See a few posts down.

Maximus IPYPIASM!

2011-12-06T17:15:00.000-08:00

For those of you that may be new to this, there's a full rundown of just what IPYPIASM is, and perhaps more importantly, why it is, here: http://variouscushions.blogspot.com/2009/12/international-put-your-poem-in-shop_14.html

Meanwhile, I have computer problems at the moment so I'm afraid I can't crop the pictures for a better view.

Gladiator

Twenty is plenty.
Eighteen? Eighteen?
I am Johanimus Rubimus McKayius,
Commander of the Housewives of the North,
General of the Decorating Legions,
Loyal servant to the true emperor, Conspicuous Consumption.
Mother to an acquisitive son,
Wife of a sockandpantless husband
And I will have my shopping
In this place or the next.
Hell.

At my signal
Unleash Visa.

Not A Shop...

2011-12-04T13:00:00.000-08:00

I'm Available Here and Now

2011-12-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

Yes, Grave with Lights is now available to purchase online (see button on the sidebar). Like Venti, it's a handmade pamphlet with some glorious art, this time kindly lent by the artist Victor Henderson.

I'll quote from the introduction, by the poet Hugh McMillan:

McKay specializes in small, beautifully constructed handmade pamphlets. I'm sure you will agree that the poetry here is in every way as striking and carefully crafted.

and from the writer and editor, Alan Gillespie:

... a sickening brilliant poet, JoAnne handcrafts all the pamphlets herself and they boast gorgeous artwork and typography.

Though that quote actually begins, My friend, JoAnne McKay...

The pamphlet comes with its own fabby material slipcase (designs may vary).

These are all handmade by the Nithsdale Design Collective, pictured below. The baby doesn't sew.

There is also a choice of covers:

All this for just £10, plus £1.50 postage and packing.

You can read Rachel Fox on Grave with Lights, Marion McCready's Vintage Sea and Ross Wilson's The Heavy Bag here: http://slowlaneshuffle.blogspot.com/2011/12/pamphlet-power.html

Fight!

Meanwhile, here's the shortest poem in the pamphlet, with Victor's image.

Romford Handfasting

I will love you
black and blue.
I will.
I will.
I do.
I do.

And guess who got an original?

Victor's here: http://www.victorhendersonwatercolours.com/

A giveaway is definitely in order, so there will be a draw involving a dog for a copy of the pamphlet. If you want to be in it, leave a comment.

And if you order and want your choice of cover, could you also let me know in the comments.

That's it!

Is it December? Is it, is it, is it...

2011-12-01T00:15:00.000-08:00

IPYPIASM. It' s here!

Look, I really did have to go to the shoe shop yesterday to buy Gore-tex nuclear-proof boots for T1 that really did cost £57. Really.

P.S. Blogger's not letting me comment on my own blog at the moment, so excuse lack of replies.

Made for Sharing

2011-11-30T02:00:00.000-08:00

A very kind, generous and talented woman from Dumfries knitted all these so that I could use them to raise money for the charity I work for.

Cinderella doll. Sad this way up...

... ready for the ball this way up

Royalty

Don't do it!

Meanwhile, we have been reviewed

And a final reminder that yes, it's that time of year again.

Sick Squid

2011-11-24T23:00:00.000-08:00

I'm a bit peely-wally at the moment. And I'm leaving for the Highlands tomorrow, but only for three days.

Unless it snows.

Happy Birthday!

2011-11-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

Second biggest brother is 60 today. Just over a year younger than John, he mortified my mother during his babyhood because of his skinny legs (she had to keep them covered with a blanket at all times when out with the pram). Incredibly hardworking, uncomplaining and one of those people who was put on earth satisfied with his lot, he is undoubtedly the best of us.

Husband to one, father of three and grandad to five. I'm proud to be his only sister.

On the far right here, in his youth

At his daughter's wedding, with Mum and some of mine
Happy Birthday Roger! Solid.

Wish You Were Here

2011-11-20T21:00:00.000-08:00

The boys are not too interested in most of the blogs I follow; I try to ignore their possibly unhealthy interest in what TFE stands for.
They are, however, relentless in their demands to see the latest posts from two blogs, Pink Rabbit Abroad and A Splotch Monster a Day.
You can see why here: http://pinkrabbitabroad.blogspot.com/
and here: http://asplotchmonsteraday.blogspot.com/

Splotch Monsters are the creation of Steve Loya, a rather marvellous artist who also blogs here: http://goflyingtrtl.blogspot.com/

Steve was asked to contribute to an exhibition at The George Orwell in Islington, the brief being "Think of your perfect place and re-create it". Remarkably fortuitously, the exhibition was running while I was up in London last week, and Islington is walking distance from Euston. So I walked to the Essex Road, ignored the urge to keep on till I hit home, and I found the George Orwell.
The place (which is a pub) was full of wonderful work by a large selection of artists, and I really enjoyed the exhibition. Unfortunately, it was 7pm by the time I got there, and it was dark, dark, dark and evening-pub atmospheric. So the photos aren't brilliant (sorry Steve!)
But I was there. Wish you were.

3, 2, 1... Launch!

2011-11-17T11:20:00.000-08:00

There were some points on Tuesday that I thought the launch was not going to actually be a launch, more a reading, as getting pamphlets ready is a lengthy and laborious process. Not just on my part either.

These are not my hands

However, approaching the hour and Mr T was ready to collect Alan Gillespie from Sanquhar station. I was putting a pizza in the oven for small boys whilst putting covers on the pamphlets and make-up on myself. Then I flooded the bathroom. However, by 7pm we were at Thomas Tosh awaiting an audience.

Luckily, one came.

Some of the audience, from a distance, in the dark

MC Paul, of Thomas Tosh, opened the evening

Hugh McMillan was up first. One of the things about Hugh is that it always feels an absolute pleasure to be in his company when he's reading. He is a master of 'professional relaxed'. You are, above all, entertained, often educated, sometimes provoked and frequently made to laugh out loud. His gift is far beyond comedic though - as Tessa Ransford has said, "we laugh and laugh but are left well aware that life isn’t funny.”

And he read new poems! His New and Selected, or possibly Collected, Poems will be out in 2012.

Alan Gillespie then read his story from A Thousand Cranes (you can see the book just underneath the desk lamp in the photo below). It was called 'When I was a Ninja Turtle', and, now I'm reflecting, there are congruities between Alan's and Hugh's work. The emotional scars of a boy's life are very finely revealed and embroidered around with humour in the story. Plus he got the 'best reader on the night' vote from T1 and T2, which means we're never inviting him back again.

I closed the first half, and was dark, dark, dark, a bit Romford, and made a lot of a faces. I didn't actually realise I made quite so many faces.

Then we had a break for wine and Bessie's Platters, which were whole cake-stands full of homemade nibbly things, and I opened the second half with more Grave with Lights. Grave, with more faces, no doubt.
Alan read his seagull story, Wrath of a Gull, which you can find here: http://glasgowtosaturn.com/latest-issue/fiction/

And Hugh finished us off.

For a quick visual representation of how the evening went, here is the face of an audience member.

It really was that good.

Grave with Lights is obviously available to purchase at Thomas Tosh, but I'm not putting it on sale online until Poetry Bus 3 is funded. So go here now!

http://www.fundit.ie/project/pb3-the-poetry-bus-mag-issue-three

Random Dinosaurs

2011-11-14T23:10:00.000-08:00

In Clydebank! How random is that.

Meanwhile, if I ever mention doing another pamphlet, remind me not to.

And don't forget now...

Aye Aye

2011-11-11T01:40:00.000-08:00

Sat in Camden Passage yesterday evening I realised my eyeballs looked remarkably like the one in the shop window I was staring absently at:

In other news, for three voices hopefully in

next Tuesday night, go here: http://thecommonty.blogspot.com/2011/11/salon-thomas-tosh-tuesday-nov-15th-2011.html

Up to Glasgow tomorrow for 3 days. Work. Normal service etc.

And because

The Bitter Dead

So seeming solemn still, because I lie
in garden of remembrance, formally
you have forgotten me, and would I be
these cold, carved capitals just one inch high?
It was not your fault. Here your comfort lies,
they are not my words. Grave, I have no voice,
as grave, that shaded day, I had no choice.
I died. I would it had been otherwise.
A silence is forgetting, what I want
is my roar in a red-haired great grandchild;
the captain, his patrician nose punched again
at public school, real tears, and petulance.
A small life. From such we have been exiled,
dying young. You do not carry my name.

All Quiet on the Western Front...

2011-11-08T15:00:00.000-08:00

...well, after 50 seconds at least. Don't you wish all fireworks displays were like this:
http://youtu.be/L6QtigLJD_4 Go and have a look - it doesn't take long...

Unfortunately, not so quiet here as I'm caught in the perfect storm of work and poet-ing. Yesterday I was in a gloriously dank and foggy Wigtown, I'm off to London for two days tomorrow and upon return re-pack my case for three days in Glasgow. Good job I taught the children how to cook and clean. In between I'm getting copies of Grave with Lights ready for a launch at Thomas Tosh next Tuesday. Yes, The Salon evenings are returning, with a feast of literary talent (Hugh McMillan and Alan Gillespie) and me. Proper post later. Three cover designs so far, plus a ground-breaking material slip-case. I hope.

Meanwhile, a quickie on a Poetry Jam theme. I have wheels!

New Wheels

What's that out your window? A Twingo? Berlingo?
No, Doblo.
Bad name. Makes you sound like a knoblo.
I know. Bit exciting though. And back to status quo.
Rockin' all over the world?
Actually, it's quite stable when cornering.

Back with something slightly more sensible soon.

Pumpkin Post

2011-11-01T10:20:00.000-07:00

Hardly rivalling Kim Ayres' incredible pumpkins, here: http://kimayres.blogspot.com/2011/10/pumpkin-carving.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+RamblingsOfTheBeardedOne+%28Ramblings+of+the+Bearded+One%29

but a couple of our Pumpkin Munchkins the day after the night before.

That's it. It's all Bonfire Night from here on. Promise.

Toad Jam! And Eye of Bat etc...

2011-10-30T15:45:00.000-07:00

Happy Hallowe'en to you all! Nearly.
We have, of course, had two Hallowe'en parties already and I'm a little Halloverloaded with costumes and pumpkins already.
But luckily Nanu's Poetry Jam challenge coincided nicely with Imaginary Garden with Toads Sunday challenge, here:
http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2011/10/mini-challenge-for-sunday_30.html

I have thus merged the Waltz Wave Form with Nanu's direction: I don't want a spooky scary Halloween-as-usual poem. Give us a day-before poem. Something coming up to an event, after which all is different.

I'm sure the Jammers will be here soon, but at the moment the linky thing has rather spookily disappeared...
http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/10/hallows-eve.html

Anyway, here we go.

Long Gone

On
leaving
two
children
at his door
I felt
free,
thinking
him better
than I to raise
young spirits.
Next day
I
grew up
and took steps
to fetch
them.
They were
ghosts.

Not the Antarctic...

2011-10-27T21:30:00.000-07:00

...hence the hanging head, I presume.

Monday was Monifieth, and Monifieth meant that after work I was able to have dinner with More About the Song Rachel, now of Slow Lane Shuffle, here: http://slowlaneshuffle.blogspot.com/ Dinner and company both very good.

I then spent the night in Dundee. The fourth largest city in Scotland, Dundee's growth and prosperity in the 19th Century was based, famously, on Jute, Jam and Journalism. A significant whaling industry was also based in Dundee, largely existing to supply the jute mills with whale oil.
I like Dundee, it is one of those post-industrial cities that hasn't yet got the resources to obliterate the not-so-tourist-friendly aspects of its heritage.

Dundee also has Discovery Point, where a purpose-built dock houses the RSS Discovery. There is a super-duper museum detailing the three main Antarctic expeditions the ship was used for, as well as Scott's subsequent Terra Nova expedition and Shackleton's Endurance expedition.

It is rather wonderful on board the ship - in the Wardroom all the officers' cabins have the names of their occupants painted outside. My heart, of course, belongs to Shackleton.

RSS Discovery was one of the last 3-masted wooden ships to be built in Britain. Though based on the template of the great Dundee whalers, it was designed specifically for Antarctic research. The cost, with engines and all the scientific specifications? In today's money (don't you love that phrase), just over £4 million. Here's to greenheart wood.

Poetry Jam Shock

2011-10-24T00:30:00.000-07:00

Bad blogger at the moment I know. I seem to be stuck in a too-much-to-do place. Apologies all, and I'm off to Monifieth in the morning.

I did think I'd stir up some jam prior to departure, however. Here's Briarcat's prompt:

Does fighting Chaos work for you? Do you like to take the random and make it see a connection?
Go to the Times Best Seller list,(or the new tunes in iTunes,new movies, some place with unfamiliar titles) and pick three.
This is your beginning, middle, end. Or your box. Or door.
You can use the words themselves, or some image or concept they suggest,
but write a poem that, in some way, connects the three.

Full pompt and all the poems are here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/10/connect-dots-does-fighting-chaos-work.html

I went to the Times Best Seller list. Worth a visit whether you're jamming or not - who knew there was a Manga list? Or a Graphic Novel list?
Anyway, I nicked more than 3 titles in what has been a very shocking week. Here's the result.

Rock art in the Western Gilf Kebir, Libya

Hush, Hush Saga

Hark! A vagrant is lost in the garden of beasts,
he wandered injudiciously between
the plinths where once two gatekeepers stood,
fabulous creatures of temperate stone, now gone.
Time has let the beasts multiply:
I fear for the vagrant. The hot wind is a roar
that will lift scales and the beasts, unbalanced,
will want sating. Bad blood is the worst blood:
taints remain long after rough tongues have licked
all traces clean. Watch how we, who choose
forks over knives, shy away from standing
on those splashed plinths, shy away from verticality.

Farewell, My Lovely

2011-10-21T22:15:00.000-07:00

Where have I been? Mostly, Happendon Services. Travelling back from Stirling after a pretty hectic couple of days, the car started running a little hot. About 4 miles from the Services, the water light came on. So I turned off, thinking a little top-up would do the job. Er, no. Basically, the engine caught fire.

Having solicited the aid of a succession of men to help me push the smoking vehicle into a safe position (thank you, Great British Public), did I panic? Oh no, for I have been a member of the AA for about five years. I have Roadside Recovery.

OK, I didn't have my membership number on me, but I knew my own name, address and the car registration number so thought all would be fine. I rang the emergency number, gave the nice lady all my details and she said,
'We have no membership details for you.'

I said,
'You must. I only paid my annual membership a couple of months ago. Could you check again please?'

She did, and said she had no record of me. After a bit more to-ing and fro-ing she finally admitted she did have details of a member at that address, a Mr. C. McKay. I rather reasonably said that yes, that would be my husband. Remained calm.

Until she asked me if my husband was with me. By now, I think I could tell what was coming, but my disbelief was such that I told the truth. 'No, I'm on my own.'

'Then we don't come out.'

Having foolishly thought (small print! read the small print!) that we had joined the car to the AA, it turned out I have merely been paying for my husband to be a member of the AA. At this point I wanted to kill the AA. Still do, actually.

So help had to come from home, and upon its arrival another Great British Family helped me and my AA member husband push the car up into the car park, where we left it to its own devices overnight. The next day we went back and towed it to a garage. Two days later the garage rang to say the car was dead.

This made me sad for more than the obvious reason that we now have to rob a bank in order to buy a new car. The Fiat Ulysse was bought on the hurry-up when the boys were born and we needed a car that could take 6 people. I didn't like it much; it was grey and, to be frank, a bit ugly. But good golly I came to love it. Those sliding back doors - genius. Why don't all cars have sliding back doors? So much easier when de-bussing children. That utterly capacious boot! Which you could make even bigger by taking the 2 rear seats out. This car was made for Ikea-impulse-purchases! It was a fair drive too, and ate up the miles. 200,000 miles and counting. Until now. So farewell, lovely Fiat, I'll miss you.

In other news, the school holidays have continued. We have made a junkyard phoenix

and a junkyard Pegasus

and whilst I have mainly been working, one lucky AA member, two boys and a dog got to go on holiday.

I'm off to Glasgow tomorrow to run a workshop, whilst the holiday heads have been detailed to search Dumfries for a new car. Then drive it away while no one's looking.

The Joy of Power Tools

2011-10-13T22:15:00.000-07:00

Happy.

Not. He got the wire brush.

Meanwhile, look what dropped through my letterbox this morning.

You can find them here: http://www.themothmagazine.com/a1-page.asp?ID=3035&page=19

Work, school holidays and night shifts (his) taking their toll at the moment. See you after the (working) weekend. And I missed the Willow Ball! Feel like a pumpkin.

Wedding and Wild Life

2011-10-08T19:15:00.000-07:00

A very nice part of rural life in this corner of Scotland is that whenever there's a wedding in the village, it is perfectly acceptable to go the ceremony, or wait outside to admire the wedding party. On the only dry day this week (and the wet ones have been very, very wet) there was a rather lovely event, with an antipodean twist as the groom was Australian.

There were some rather spectacular horses too.

I loved the bridesmaids' shawls .

And though dry, it was breezy. OK, windy.

The whole thing put a smile on my face for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile, T2 brought this home from school and I was a bit gob-smacked, to be honest with you. In real life it's A3! You'll have to re-assemble it in your head.

In other news, I spent National Poetry Day dodging tree branches and jack-knifed lorries on flooded roads, but did eventually make it to two different primary schools, where I did writing stuff with some of the pupils. Which was really, really nice.

So was this. I'm a Contemporary Scottish Poet! Here: http://www.nls.uk/collections/scottish/modern/national-poetry-day/2011

Full Colour Therapy

2011-10-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

Living RoomEverything RoomGardenMess CornerParty this eveningReading in Callendar
I found the one above on Facebook courtesy of Sally Evans, and rather brilliantly it's labelled 'Joanne Mackay detective poems'. I'm a sub-genre!

Room for much more on the thorny issue of surname spelling, but I'm away with work for a few days. See you at the weekend.

A Perfect Storm

2011-10-03T15:15:00.000-07:00

On Friday I had the photo taken by Wigtown Book Festival artist-in-residence Kim Ayres. The process was incredibly easy, and Kim is a really nice man. The result is not quite so easy to deal with...

On Friday I was launching the new pamphlet containing this poem (amongst others, I should add) which, whilst it wasn't exactly childhood, was young enough. So it's one for the Jam, here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/09/baby-got-back.html)

And today imaginary garden with real toads is asking for a poem which 'explores a social or humanist theme, or contains a message you feel is important enough to voice to the four winds.' That old ego's joining in: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2011/10/calling-all-toads.html

On Looking

I am a badly-peeled grape of girl,
having lost my good face at twenty-one.
I lived, briefly, as a smooth-skin lustre pearl,
then my flirtation with beauty was done.
The face that replaced it I choose to forget,
except it appears the choice is not mine;
I see it in every reflected glance yet,
the veiled pity eyes that cloud me unblind.
But distorted as any fairground mirror,
truth lies like a gypsy fortune teller
searching pockets to see the future clearer:
people look not at, but in. So do tell her,
the world is not as cruel as we can be;
be kinder to what mirrors what you see.

Pictures and Poems on Paper

2011-10-02T00:50:00.000-07:00

The postman had quite a job today, as a seriously weighty parcel arrived this morning. Earlier than expected (and promised) Matt Kish's epic art book. Moby-Dick in Pictures, was safe and sound and inside. And it's glorious. I opted for the hardback. It's beautifully produced and is going to be an absolute joy to own. My plan is to read Moby-Dick as I work my way through the illustrations.

The Kish originals (how cool is saying that!) are now framed as a triptych and hanging above the campaign chest in my bedroom.

What's more, the same postman was also carrying an extreme-sports-sealed envelope which, when I finally managed to get it open, contained the Poetry Bus 2. I haven't given it proper attention yet, but the A4 format is great, the illustrations fantastic and the absolute highspot for me is the CD. Not only is there is something very special about hearing poets read their own work, but I loved the variety and sheer internationalism of the voices.

Rachel Fox has a good review of PB2 here: http://slowlaneshuffle.blogspot.com/2011/09/points-of-interest-on-bus-route.html

Meanwhile, at Wigtown yesterday I got my hands on another fine A4 format magazine, Southlight. I had three poems in it - Barnet Fair, Once A Doll and A Book of Common Prayer - yay! - but rather more importantly it had the Wigtown Poetry Competition winning poems inside, which you can also read here: http://www.wigtownbookfestival.com/poetrycomp/

Southlight is the region's literary magazine, and was largely funded by dgArts. In a rather sad turn of events, dgArts has become insolvent, and simply shut up shop on Saturday. This was sudden, if not completely unexpected. The liquidators have been called in.

As recently as May this year Pat Smith, chairman of dgArts said: “The last year has been very challenging for the staff and board of dgArts and the board have put a significant amount of time into creating a new business plan and structure to best utilise the funding currently available. We look forward to working with artists, community organisations and partners across the region as well as our national stakeholders, to continue delivering more great arts experiences and cultural events in Dumfries and Galloway.”

That won't be happening now, which is all a bit pants really. And, of course, people who had a job this week don't have one on Monday.

But from the sublime, and the sad, to the deliciously ridiculous. Fankle 7 is out. Great fun, at a great price, the magazine is a sheet of A3 printed all over, and then cunningly folded to make a little book. Which you have to play with to get to all the poems and stories. This edition's theme was 'over a barrel'.

Next edition's theme: sex and drugs and bacon rolls.
Fankle is available here: http://thefankle.net/

If It's Nearly Friday...

2011-09-29T10:10:00.000-07:00

...it must be nearly Wigtown.

I've been mainly making pamphlets this week in preparation for an appearance at the Wigtown Book Festival. It's a joint reading with Vivien Jones, called Bloodlines. 4.30pm in the Wigtown Ink marquee, which is in the Bookshop Garden.

I have copies of Grave with Lights nearing readiness. Choice of two covers at the moment - the London one (nice), and the vaguely S+M rubber-effect black one. Be interesting to see which proves more popular.

What I'm really looking forward to is having my picture taken by Kim Ayres, who is the Wigtown artist-in-residence. His portraits, in black and white, are uncompromising and I'm interested to see how closely my mental vision of what I look like matches Kim's reality.

Kim is keeping a blog of his work. I'd recommend a peek: faces are fascinating. He's here: http://kimayreswigtown.blogspot.com/

I'd show you some pictures, but blogger doesn't want to play with me this morning.

Update: ha ha, it's working again! Covers below.

Say Hello to Victor Henderson

2011-09-23T20:30:00.000-07:00

So, back to Monday night.

Dinner was a farewell affair to our first Masters degree holder (with distinction), Ms. Lauren McKay, who has now jetted off for a new life as a teaching assistant in Vienna. That's Vienna. With Distinction!
Goodbye gift-giving was handled by T1, whilst T2 was in charge of the speech. Highlight was probably when he congratulated her on 'her retirement to Asia'.

Having then raced the boys to Cubs, husband and I went knocking on doors in the nearby village of Carronbridge. Why? I was searching for an artist, and a friend had given me a hot tip, though not entirely reliable directions.

But good golly, did we find one! All the images in this post are the work of watercolourist Victor Henderson.

There's a 2-day exhibition featuring his paintings this very weekend, at Ferndale Studio in Durisdeer. Details here: http://www.ferndalestudio.co.uk/events.html

I was incredibly taken with his work, and in one of those rare and lucky moments, very taken with Mr Henderson himself. One of those people you know when you meet them is just... decent. A good guy. The kind, in fact, that would open his door to two complete, bedraggled strangers (it was raining by then) one of whom is wittering nonsense about poetry pamphlets, and then invite them to look around his house and studio to see his work.

Upshot: works of art to lust after, and images that I am going to use in my new pamphlet. Launching at Wigtown Book Festival next Friday. Going to be a busy weekend

Here's Victor's website; do go browsing. He's got some beautiful works. http://www.victorhendersonwatercolours.com/index.php

That Was A Weekend That Was

2011-09-21T01:30:00.000-07:00

Well, OK, it started on Friday evening. Roncadora Press exhibition at A' the Airts in Sanquhar.

Mr Roncadora, Hugh Bryden

With readings by Roncadora Poets Hugh McMillan, Rab Wilson, Jean Atkin and Rebecca Sharp.

You can find Roncadora Press, home of exceedingly fine poetry pamphlets, here: http://www.hughbryden.com/?page_id=14

Saturday meant work in Ayr. My terrier had to battle an albatross.

Whilst they got to fire a cannon.

On Sunday, the Aston Hotel's fifth birthday party. First birthday party for a hotel I've ever been to. I was the Peter Pan Storyteller for the Moat Brae Trust, and didn't have to dress up.

On Sunday night, with six friends, a gourmet quiz night at a Dumfries restaurant, Hullabaloo. Three courses of locally-sourced food, a different wine with each course, and about 25 questions on each course. Rather unbelievably, we tied for first place and had to nominate one team-member to play the tie-break for us. The tie-break being to drink four different wines and identify the grape of each.

Three cheers for Kirsty! She wiped the floor with the Galloway Gourmand. Here she is, a little blurry.

And Monday was busy too.

Imaginary Garden: Glory

2011-09-19T00:30:00.000-07:00

I think this came from here: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2011/09/friday-picture-prompt-legacies-and.html

The prompt was Legacies and Archaeology.

Where is Glory

The Ark of the Covenant is ablaze
five gardens away; there is papal smoke
at my wall and I can smell
the burning shittim-wood.
Tonight our rheumatics will be eased,
but what is lost for this fever relief?
They said the tablets were long gone,
I do not disbelieve them.
The smoke is a snake in the back gardens.
There are rules, I had said, they cried, No more.
The voice of God is no more.
I watch the white smoke and wonder
these ashes, what shall we do
with these ashes.

Moby-Dick In Pictures!

2011-09-16T17:20:00.000-07:00

The truly inestimable Matt Kish, artist and librarian, is building up to the publication date of his book Moby-Dick in Pictures: One Drawing for Every Page both in real life and over at his blog, here: http://everypageofmobydick.blogspot.com/

In case this is news to you, these are Matt's words back in August 2009:
Because I honestly consider Moby-Dick to be the greatest novel ever written, I am now going to create one illustration for every single one of the 552 pages in the Signet Classic paperback edition...

And he did, getting picked up on the way by a publisher, Tin House. Last year Matt, his agent and his publisher let me use some of his artwork in my pamphlet, Venti. Now that the illustrating is over, Matt is starting to release the original artwork for sale. I really had to have some, and so bought a couple that I loved.

Page 147. Of modern standers-of-mast-heads we have but a lifeless set; mere stone, iron, and bronze men...

Page 208. High aloft in the cross-trees was that mad Gay-Header, Tashtego. His body was reaching eagerly forward, his hand stretched out like a wand, and at brief sudden intervals he continued his cries.

When they arrived all the way from the USA they were not alone, for Matt had kindly sent me the original of one of the works I used in Venti.

Page 322 But far more terrible is it to behold, when fathoms down in the sea, you see some sulky whale, floating there suspended, with his prodigious jaw, some fifteen feet long, hanging straight down at right-angles with his body, for all the world like a ship's jib-boom.

And at long last I've managed to get to Mr Girdwood's for the framing. I wasn't thinking a triptych, but that's where we've ended up.

On Mr Girdwood's counterMount test. Nope.Mount test. Yep.Costings. Eek

And in the parcel were other Matt goodies too, including this:

If you're in the UK, you can find the book at Amazon here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Moby-Dick-Pictures-Drawing-Every-Page/dp/1935639137/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1316187465&sr=8-1
Matt's original art is to purchase here: http://www.etsy.com/shop/spuddsixtyfour?ga_search_query=spuddsixtyfour&ga_search_type=seller_usernames
And look! Matt talks! Here: http://everypageofmobydick.blogspot.com/2011/09/first-advance-copies-of-moby-dick-in.html

Matt Kish: artist and sweetheart. Official.

Imaginary Garden Rondeau... Redouble

2011-09-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

There's a poets-get-together-prompt-and-write here: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2011/09/x-marks-spot.html
which I stumbled on via the incredible and prolific Peter Goulding. They've been looking at rondeaus. I've got one. Kind of. Maybe you have to know Gretna...

Star of Caledonia

symbol afoot in this passed place
to draw rich dreams for such low land
fields wide road cell block shops blank face
form flat spare stage for cosmos planned

scotlandthebravescotlandthebrand
raise a faceted astral brace
to firm the last dropped shaking hand
symbol afoot in this passed place

cecil and charles the grand biface
appointed jointed on command
lucullan visions interlace
to draw rich dreams for such low land

thistle cross starburst sarabande
supposed from waveforms light line grace
debatable as shifting land
fields wide road cell block shops blank face

narrowing border to showcase
this telling place sleight underhand
throwing arts ambsace to terrace
form flat spare stage for cosmos planned

shine division on solway sand
your meta-themes cannot displace
what sadder faces understand
fixed steel smiles closer to grimace
symbol afoot

Prescription Poetry Jam!

2011-09-13T01:30:00.000-07:00

Ah, I've cheated a bit with this one, because the prompt from Lilu was 'prescription drugs'. My poem's on desomorphine, which was a prescription drug in Switzerland once (Permonid).
Desomorphine can be synthesized from over-the-counter codeine. In Russia this home-made desomorphine is injected, and called Krokodil because of the effects on the user.

For more stringent interpretations, go here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/09/drug-induced-world.html

And here's the poem.

Krokodil

Life is not so great in the gulag towns,
can I tell you of the bones I saw?
Belonging to bodies with beating hearts,
craving beating hearts, feeling pain again.
They make the drug, take the drug,
knowing all that while the little peace
obtained ends with shining, white, bone.
You cannot graft that they lack.

Mad Men

2011-09-12T11:20:00.000-07:00

It is three-cheers-for-husband day, as 10 miles of harsh terrain with 35lb on his back did not daunt him, or hold him up for any longer than 1 hour, 50 minutes and 10 seconds.
He came a mighty 451st out of the 1,045 that attemped the Para's 'P' Company Challenge. And got a medal and a T-shirt.

Finish line. Note scary soldiers waiting to re-weigh your backpack to check you haven't cheated.
After the race. Man on left not called 'Big Tony' for nothing.
The T-shirt

The event.
Should you fancy it next year.

And huge thanks to those who sponsored Craig. Good grief he's worth it.

9/11

2011-09-11T00:30:00.000-07:00

Kazimir Malevich: Black Square, 1915

Kazimir Malevich: Suprematist Composition: White on White, 1918

A Theme is Emerging...

2011-09-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

The Parachute Regiment challenges you to attempt the 10 Mile 'P' Company Cross Country Route, carrying a bergen (rucksack) weighing 35lb (excluding food water) and wearing long trousers with ‘military style’ boots. Competitors rucksacks will be weighed before and after the race, by race officials.

He's doing it.
20 hours and 17mins till the race begins.

And yes, you can sponsor him here: http://www.justgiving.com/Craig-McKay

Cavewoman Like Shelter

2011-09-08T22:00:00.000-07:00

Whilst I was out yesterday, celebrity-lookalike stalking, my husband was engaged in mantasks. He did not tell me upon my return, having obvious difficulties interjecting during my Brad Pitt ramblings and online research. What, you think I knew about the wedding ring thing?

But in the bright sun of this afternoon (very wet morning), I noticed. More of the shed faced with eco-friendly recycled pallets.

With which he had previously made the new shed door.

Now, this made me smile and feel rather warm inside. I do not smile and feel warm inside when he makes dinner, or does the ironing. Here I am, a 21st century working mother, with a 21st century share-the-housework-husband, feeling pleased in a really visceral way when my husband does manstuff.

Earlier this summer he won a competition where the challenge was to identify actual parts taken out of a car's internal workings. There were bits of brake mechanism, engine, electrics, suspension etc. Not, obviously, that I knew this at the time. A lot of people entered this competition. Craig won. Again, I was really delighted because he succeeded at such a... manly task.

Now I grew up in a virtually all-male environment, and my first career (at the time I was in it) was male-dominated. I never once felt weaker, inferior or less able. I am a feminist. So why, why, this insane delight at my husband's ability with a hammer and saw?

And here's a close-up of the graffiti. It's a male thing, isn't it?

Where is Brad Pitt right now?

2011-09-07T23:45:00.000-07:00

Because between 20.17hrs and 21.00hrs I reckon he was in Glasgow Central Station.

My covert surveillance operation lasted the whole time. I observed him walk into the station, eventually sit down (photographic opportunity) and finally walk back out of the station.
He had headphones on, was using an i-phone (I tried to observe the screen but failing eyesight means I only ascertained the kind of screen he was looking at) and scrupulously avoided all eye-contact with anyone else in the station. He didn't even stare at the bonkers man with the burnt face like the rest of us did.

Basically, the man pictured below was acting weird. My suspicions were alerted the second I saw him (initially standing just outside the station) because of the fact he looked exactly like Brad Pitt. Further, continuous observation revealed strange behaviour (no interest in the trains - he never looked at the departures board once - why?), the very expensive looking boots and that ring on the right hand. Why a wedding band on the right hand?

Anyway, I hope Hello or OK get in touch and offer me a Bridport Prize Moneys-worth at least.

The evidence. Not too shaky, eh?

In A Meeting...

2011-09-05T17:00:00.000-07:00

...seems to be where I've been for the past week or so. But I escaped to the Callander Poetry Weekend on Saturday.

There were hairy men...

...and smooth ones. Ross Wilson I think, and his work was rather to my liking.

Fine books in the bookshop...

...and frightening things behind the gladioli.

Run!
No wallflowers but this one.

A very friendly poetry festival, featuring more poets than I've ever seen before in my life. And Callander serves High Teas! Result.

Thanks to Sally Evans for organising it all (and that includes provisions for the poets).
More details here: http://www.desktopsallye.com/page22.htm

Prose, Poetry, Paras and Prayers

2011-08-27T05:01:00.000-07:00

Good gracious, I have some catching up to do.

I had the flashest of flash fictions published online in Spilling Ink Review,
here: http://spillinginkreview.com/issue-5/flash-fiction/joanne-mckay/

I am alleged to have a poem currently residing in the Biggar Poetry Garden, but not having made it over there this summer I can't confirm with a visual sighting. More about the Garden and getting your poems in it (really!) here:
http://biggarpoetrygarden.weebly.com/index.html

And I kept up my Gutter record by getting into no. 5 with The M8 Gantry's Lament, a concrete poem.

And a strange thing happened. The magazine printed it wrong. Now, that's actually quite an interesting experience. One's first response is, obviously, "Oh no, they've fucked up my poem." Then you ponder what to do. Magazine's out already. Upon sober reflection, you realise that no one else knows it's wrong, probably no one else cares or would have actually realised that the pattern of the letters was meant to exactly reproduce the failing original gantry messages, and finally that even considering complaining about it is prima donna plus.
So I did nothing. Except mention it here...
All that said, it's still a brilliant magazine and the equally brilliant Marion McCready is in this issue too. Plus lots of other folk.
To purchase or submit, see here: http://www.guttermag.co.uk/

And for the live experience you can hear me next Saturday! I'm reading at the Callender Poetry Weekend. Catch me in the Kirk Hall opposite the shop (that's what it says) at some point between 10.15am and 12noon this September 3rd.
Full details here: http://www.desktopsallye.com/page22.htm

Next, in 15 days time my husband (over 50) is going to run 10 miles over difficult terrain near Catterick wearing army boots and trousers whilst carrying a 35lb rucksack.

Why? Because I told him to. No, actually because he wanted to. It's the P Company Challenge, he's doing it for the charity I work for, and if anyone would like to sponsor him you can do so here: http://www.justgiving.com/Craig-McKay

And the prayers are for those of you on the East Coast of America. God protect you all.

A Star Descended in Dumfriesshire

2011-08-25T09:50:00.000-07:00

Angelina Jolie was in Thornhill on Saturday! That's ANGELINA JOLIE and Thornhill 2 miles away. I would have stood in the rain for hours...

Newsworthy bit here: http://www.mirror.co.uk/celebs/news/2011/08/23/angelina-jolie-visits-halo-trust-mine-clearing-charity-during-scotland-stay-115875-23366181/

Flurry...

2011-08-24T12:20:00.000-07:00

... of activity.

During the recent French visit we went to Edinburgh and visited three Parliament buildings in one day. Who knew?!

Before 1707, the Kingdom of Scotland was a sovereign independent state which had its own legislature, the Parliament of Scotland,which met from 1640 until 1707 at Parliament House on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh.

Old Parliament

The Act of Union, passed in 1707, created an incorporating political union between the Kingdoms of Scotland and England. The Union merged the Parliament of Scotland and the Parliament of England into the Parliament of Great Britain which was housed in the Palace of Westminster in London. As a consequence, Scotland was directly governed from London for the next 292 years without a legislature or a Parliament building of its own.

Pressure for an independent parliament grew in the 1970s with the growth of the Scottish National Party and monies were invested into the conversion of the former Royal High School on Calton Hill into an official parliament. Whilst much of this conversion was completed (including creation of the main debating hall) and the building was renamed New Parliament House it was determined that the facility was too small for its stated purpose (as and when that purpose arose). Failure to create an independent parliament, following the rather onerous conditions of the 1979 devolution referendum, led a campaign group to set up adjacent to the Royal High School at the foot of the access road to Calton Hill. Starting informally this became a permanently manned "vigil" to keep the concept in the public mind. This led to the Royal High School being the "popular" choice of site in the public (and particularly SNP) mindset.

Parliament that never was

A referendum of the Scottish electorate, held on 11 September 1997, approved the establishment of a directly-elected Scottish Parliament to legislate on most domestic affairs. Following this, the Scottish Office, led by the then Secretary of State for Scotland, Donald Dewar, decided that a new purpose-built facility would be constructed in Edinburgh, to house the Scottish Parliament.

New Parliament

We pique-niqued in Princes Street Gardens and fought valiantly with the hordes of street performers.

On Saturday we held a ceilidh, in a place called Speddoch Hall which is on no map.

And rather bizarrely, I found myself at an outdoor performance of The Fantastic Mr Fox last night, having spent all day throwing £20 notes at various shopkeepers in Dumfries in an attempt to secure some of the vanishingly small stocks of school shoes, plimsoles and anoraks. Somehow, saying 'We've been very busy' when they know the date the schools go back just as well as I do didn't cut it with me come the end. I think I growled at a few shop assistants.

School tomorrow!

What a Difference the Poetry Jam Makes!

2011-08-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

Of course, in my mind, this makes sense. Though it is possibly the antithesis of what Brian Miller was looking for in his call to action prompt for The Poetry Jam.
Ah well.

The prompt, and the poets, can be found here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/08/will-write-for.html

Grave with Lights

When the sky is great,
such night as this, and not sky
but heavens to ask
why do I feel
this thing, that thing
is child’s why.
Because I said so.
Because why not.
Because you are so
very, very

small.

With thanks to Mother Thekla, John Tavener and Rachel Fox

Aujourd'hui, Allanton

2011-08-18T23:50:00.000-07:00

Vive Le Jumelage!
Demain, Edinburgh.

Mostly We Have Been...

2011-08-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

...here,
here (with my only cousin),

here,and here.
Also made it to the Billy Elliot auditions.

Yes, the big trip South is over and no one set us on fire in London. The riots made it to Romford, and I was intrigued by the conviction of an eleven-year boy for theft from Debenhams on the marketplace. What did he steal? A £30 pedal bin. Given the opportunity to loot a department store, he chose a Brabantia. Obviously didn't know how hard it is to get the right bin bags.
Alex Salmond says that the Scots don't riot because they're different. My personal suspicion is that the Scots don't riot because it's always bloody raining. Three dry days so far this summer, and technically they were in Spring.
Meanwhile, I am frantically cleaning the house prior to the arrival of French people we have never met before. Alors! Then four days of Auld Alliance fun. Luckily most of our French guests can't distinguish between an English and a Scottish accent...

Feed The Pixies!

2011-07-24T10:10:00.000-07:00

Blue by You
Artist: Sirei Hovell

Which by my reckoning makes DFTP the winner! Congratulations.

Meanwhile, http://youtu.be/EfK-WX2pa8c

Back in a week.

Exhibition! Competition!

2011-07-19T21:41:00.000-07:00

The annual Thornhill Arts Competition has come around once more, and all the entries are now hung in the ubiquitous Thomas Tosh. The competition is open to professional artists, amateurs and absolute beginners, and the results will be announced this Saturday.

With this in mind, here's a fairly comprehensive series of photographs of the entries.
All you have to do is Pick the Winner!
And there's a prize if you do. Probably a copy of a poetry pamphlet or two.
Good luck and good choosing...

There's also a competition for the 5 - 11 year olds. Here's T1's entries.

And T2's.

Calling All Blog Botanists!

2011-07-17T14:40:00.000-07:00

In a neglected area of the back garden, where some water experiments took place sometime last summer, this has seeded and grown in no discernable soil.

I rather excitedly thought it might be an orchid, until I researched British orchids. Does anyone know what it might be?

Meanwhile, it prompted a little paranoid ditty.

They Come

What grows unknown in low places,
raw streets we never turn faces
to; comforts conspire, keep us blind
folded away from not our kind,
taut beneath polished surfaces.

Wild things fill the missing spaces;
amidst bricks, one root displaces
ruin unseen, for who will bind
what grows unknown?

Come night, come dreams: sharp, sly faces
peer from cracked glass at fine traces
of moon silver that have outlined
the wet street whose children will find
what grows unknown.

Poetry Jam: 2012

2011-07-14T00:45:00.000-07:00

Apologies for absence and tardiness, nursing a chest infection and the school holidays simultaneously. Cigarettes or children have to go.

So, to the Jeanne Iris' Sporting Jam. Yes, I know, summer sports, but it is a sport they excel at in hot countries.

Others here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/07/poetry-jam-new-challenge-for-11-july.html

2012

Weightlifting?
Weightlifting.
You like weightlifting?
I like weightlifting.

I like weightlifting.

I like weightlifting.

For yes, after applying for eighteen different sports and various ceremonies, I am proud to have secured four tickets for the Men's 105kg (Group B) weightlifting, and two tickets for the Men's 85kg (Group B) PLUS Women's 75kg (Group B) weightlifting. At a total cost of £276. Yes, £276.
Lord Coe, I have a stake here for your dark heart.

Gee Mr Tracey... It's Gala Day!

2011-07-09T12:30:00.000-07:00

Well, Gala Week has come has gone once more, and I'm delighted to report that this year Team McKay won the Car Treasure Hunt (no mean feat: the teachers play dirty). And the changeable weather finally did the decent thing: on Saturday the sun shone.

The Queen was out in full regalia again to reign over the parade.

And the Fancy Dress was as good as ever.
Great Hardy. Laurel skedaddled.

Do you recognise this Friar?

Our gang were James and the Giant Peach.

On wheels.

I then drank lager shandy all afternoon at the party in the park, and failed miserably to cook the dinner.

It's Come Round Again...

2011-07-06T09:25:00.000-07:00

**Please note** the post below contains very offensive language.

Don't read if that's not for you.

Smear

Every third year I think,
what cunt invented the speculum?

Kat's Jammin': Flowery Fashion

2011-07-03T11:15:00.000-07:00

Much of moment going on in the past week, both at Essex home and here in the village (Gala Week: the denouement!), but that will have to come later as today we're Poetry Jamming with Kat. Her prompt:

As it’s summertime and the flowers are in bloom, all around us, I want you to write about flowers, BUT as it’s me who’s directing this “jam”, I want you to write something dark.
Use your imagination and write about flowers that are used for ill-will, or a funeral, or that conjure up sad memories, or are ragged and dirty and war-torn.
I don’t want anything pretty … or flowery, if you get my meaning.

OK, mine's loose, but tighter, darker pieces can be found here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/07/im-in-bit-of-jam.html

A Book of Common Prayer

In her hand, a small ivory book.
One broad ribbon, laced with freesias,
hangs from it: a bookmark
flourishing under holy orders.

The Order for Morning Prayer.
The Order for Evening Prayer.
A prayer for our most gracious Sovereign Lord,
King George; replenish him.

In my hand it is inscribed
To Mother
Thanking her for all she’s done,
on the occasion of their wedding
Richard and Paddy
April 9th 1950.

I do not know if the Mother
is her own, that’s alcoholic Nan,
or Grandma Palmer
who dropped down dead

at the kitchen sink one night,
a sudden, catastrophic, haemorrhage.

We buried both before I was ten; I part-remember them.
Nan gave me money if the horses were good;
Grandma, chocolate, if we were good.

Inscribed opposite, the following:
To JoAnne
On her wedding day
23rd May 1992.

That would be my first wedding,
which I can remember in some fine detail.
What followed I have let become
London Clay in summer, blown away
to lie in a distant, infertile land.

Pressed between the pages for
The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony,
a sprig of myrtle: dull, brown, friable.
It sheds two leaves as I lift it.

Eyre and Spottiswoode (His Majesty’s Printers)
solid edge gilded, ruby 32mo.
How many women have held this book
and to what daughter
would I wish to leave it?

Let the Gala Commence!

2011-06-26T13:28:00.000-07:00

All go at the moment. It was the Church Fete on Saturday, and hot on the heels (and laid down by ancient village law) the next day is the first day of the Gala. Penpont Gala is a little unusual in that it does not comprise a single Gala Day, but a whole Gala Week. Sunday is Crowning of the Queen.

The Queen officially opens the Gala.

The Scroll Reader recounts the history of Penpont.

Then it's the children's It's a Knockout, and it all goes Lord of the Flies...

Roll Up! Roll Up! Read All About Me

2011-06-24T10:35:00.000-07:00

Having risen at 5.30am (my second chance application for Olympic tickets - ooh, wrestling or Taekwondo?) it is with no little delight that today I can redirect all visitors to the fabulous blog, Robert Frost's Banjo.

John Hayes, its progenitor, asked me to participate in his series Writer's Talk, and I agreed, little realising how hard the interview was going to be. But I did my best, and the results have been beautifully put together here:

http://robertfrostsbanjo.blogspot.com/2011/06/writers-talk-with-joanne-mckay.html

My thanks to John.

You Want Lighthouses...

2011-06-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

...I got lighthouses. Well, one anyway.

Portpatrick (Scottish Gaelic: Port Phàdraig) is a village hanging on to the extreme south-westerly tip of mainland Scotland, cut into a cleft in steep cliffs.

Dating back historically some 500 years, and built adjacent to the ruins of nearby Dunskey Castle, its position on the Rhins of Galloway affords visitors views of the Northern Irish coast to the west, with clifftop walks and beaches both north and south. The Gulf Stream, flowing in from the north, gives the coastline a pleasant climate, in which subtropical plant life can flourish.

Industrially, the village was founded on fishing origins, with construction of the crescent shaped harbour that remains the focal point of the village today.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, Portpatrick was important as a ferry port for passengers, postal mail and freight between Ireland and Scotland. During this period (1759–1826) Portpatrick was described as the Gretna Green for Ireland. There was a daily packet boat from Donaghadee, and marriages for couples from Ireland were conducted by the Church of Scotland minister in Portpatrick, although he often overlooked the rules about the publication of banns or the required period of residence.

Ye olde pictures be here:
http://www.portpatrick.co.uk/index.html

Poetry Jam: Chillin' with Margaret.

2011-06-20T00:50:00.000-07:00

Which is, to my ears, a name which rather juxtaposes with the chillin'. I can imagine Chillin' with Mags, but not Margaret, even though she has provided us with wonderful images of staring into a campfire or lying in a hammock on lazy summer days.

Why is that? Perhaps my best friend at primary school, Margaret Crocker, a rather formal little Scottish girl. Or Saint Margaret of Scotland, the English princess who became a queen? Ooh, Thatcher has just occurred to me too.
Anyway, this is just as well, as having really thought about this week's prompt I realise I don't relax, and have no secret activity which helps me relax. If I am in the same country as my house, my family and my job there is always too much to do, even though most of the time I am just thinking about doing it rather than doing it. I only truly relax on holiday, and as my kind of outdoors involves historic streets and pavement cafes, it is cities, not beaches, which are my big thing.

Long intro for a short poem this week, apologies.
The rest of the Poetry Jammers can be found here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/06/for-20th-of-june.html

Dolce Vita

La Bionda and her flat-foot friend.
Isn’t that the way of these things?
I craved the Laocoön,
ever drawn to supposed original.
The queue meant suffering such beauty.
We wanted sights, fights, dodgy boys,
dropped down to the forum
buzzing vespa bellicosa,
ice-cream lips, snakish hips.
A whistle of rare tune, and pinches.
Warm culture stone of the Colosseum
beneath one hand, so many dead
Titus said, in another.
Exhaust-hazed sightline to the Senate.
Curia, comitum, rostra. Proclaim!
Empire virgins, learning foreign cities.
Care is something for home!

Hot Off The Press!

2011-06-18T11:50:00.000-07:00

Here's Marion McCready (clue: not the one with the beard).

Here's where you can find her: http://sorlily.blogspot.com/

Here's her new pamphlet, Vintage Sea.

Here's where you can find it: http://www.calderwoodpress.co.uk/

Here's Marion reading at the Calderwood Press launch last night at the CCA in Glasgow.

Here's what Hugh McMillan says: "Marion McCready lives on an island that seems to be one giant metaphor. From seascapes and landscapes she creates dreamy, often startling, images, sometimes making a pithy point, sometimes nudging the reader beyond the here and now to a place more mythological and elemental. This is the first collection from a very individual voice."

Here's my advice: buy it now.

C'mon! Let's Learn French.

2011-06-15T00:40:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of T2

NanU's Cherry Jam: A Bicycle but no Prop Forward

2011-06-13T16:50:00.000-07:00

NanU's stirring the jam this week, and it was an eclectic pick and mix of three photographs. I went for the cold bicycles with a little cherry dashed in.

The rest of the Jam Gang (usual suspects and more besides!) can be found here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/06/what-you-will.html

I Would Be Fast

Dreaming being that cherry bicycle,
hot crossbar reflecting covetous eyes
that linger on lustre like shine-poor spies;
dynamic frame, magnetic pull
drawing every needle, they push
push against casing to ride alongside
racing lines. Circling pedals hypnotise
on passing, moving air, rush, moving air, rush.
Awake. Chained wheels have no velocity,
stone chips flake, reveal rust on base metal.
I oxidise away, aged, unridden.
Those that could use me are passing me by
unmoved by a cracked leather saddle,
a basket unfilled, and shamelessly open.

Do excuse any lack of reply to comments; Blogger is doing that thing again...

Camp Freedom!

2011-06-12T13:20:00.000-07:00

Well, now we are 8 and the birthday party theme was 'survival adventure'. All the children survived. Not entirely sure I did.

Grandpa was on hand to offer Team Survivor some encouragement.

Success!

Team Survival took a far more professional approach.

And Team Water Raiders were the creatives.

Then it was off to the river to send distress messages by boat, raft or twig.

Toasting marshmallows whilst, er, awaiting rescue.

Then home, and clean once more.

Phew. Good job it's only one a year these days.

Spring Fling #3: Sarah Keast and Whale Worlds

2011-06-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

As for the sign-painters' whales seen in the streets hanging over the shops of oil-dealers, what shall be said of them? They are generally Richard III. whales, with dromedary humps, and very savage; breakfasting on three or four sailor tarts, that is whaleboats full of mariners: their deformities floundering in seas of blood and blue paint.

Which was not the case for Sarah Keast's exhibition of work focusing on the whaling industry. It is no secret that my favourite novel is Moby-Dick, and Sarah's studio was the find of the whole Spring Fling for me. I had failed to spot her in the brochure, but luckily Mr T did.

Now the various species of whales need some sort of popular comprehensive classification, if only an easy outline one for the present, hereafter to be filled in all its departments by subsequent laborers. As no better man advances to take this matter in hand, I hereupon offer my own poor endeavors. I promise nothing complete; because any human thing supposed to be complete, must for that very reason infallibly be faulty. I shall not pretend to a minute anatomical description of the various species, or -- in this place at least -- to much of any description. My object here is simply to project the draught of a systematization of cetology. I am the architect, not the builder.

But it is a ponderous task; no ordinary letter-sorter in the Post-office is equal to it. To grope down into the bottom of the sea after them; to have one's hands among the unspeakable foundations, ribs, and very pelvis of the world; this is a fearful thing. What am I that I should essay to hook the nose of this Leviathan! The awful tauntings in Job might well appal me. 'Will he (the Leviathan) make a covenant with thee? Behold the hope of him is vain!' But I have swam through libraries and sailed through oceans; I have had to do with whales with these visible hands; I am in earnest; and I will try.

Throughout the Pacific, and also in Nantucket, and New Bedford, and Sag Harbor, you will come across lively sketches of whales and whaling-scenes, graven by the fishermen themselves on Sperm Whale-teeth, or ladies' busks wrought out of the Right Whale-bone, and other like skrimshander articles, as the whalemen call the numerous little ingenious contrivances they elaborately carve out of the rough material, in their hours of ocean leisure. Some of them have little boxes of dentistical-looking implements, specially intended for the skrimshandering business. But, in general, they toil with their jack-knives alone; and, with that almost omnipotent tool of the sailor, they will turn you out anything you please, in the way of a mariner's fancy.

And the work I would have bought if I had the money. It is a whole - it took 3 photographs to get it all in.

'Pull up -- pull up!' he now cried to the bowsman, as the waning whale relaxed in his wrath. 'Pull up! -- close to!' and the boat ranged along the fish's flank. When reaching far over the bow, Stubb slowly churned his long sharp lance into the fish, and kept it there, carefully churning and churning, as if cautiously seeking to feel after some gold watch that the whale might have swallowed, and which he was fearful of breaking ere he could hook it out. But that gold watch he sought was the innermost life of the fish. And now it is struck; for, starting from his trance into that unspeakable thing called his 'flurry,' the monster horribly wallowed in his blood, over-wrapped himself in impenetrable, mad, boiling spray, so that the imperilled craft, instantly dropping astern, had much ado blindly to struggle out from that phrensied twilight into the clear air of the day.

And now abating in his flurry, the whale once more rolled out into view; surging from side to side; spasmodically dilating and contracting his spout-hole, with sharp, cracking, agonized respirations. At last, gush after gush of clotted red gore, as if it had been the purple lees of red wine, shot into the frighted air; and falling back again, ran dripping down his motionless flanks into the sea. His heart had burst!

'He's dead, Mr. Stubb,' said Daggoo.

'Yes; both pipes smoked out!' and withdrawing his own from his mouth, Stubb scattered the dead ashes over the water; and, for a moment, stood thoughtfully eyeing the vast corpse he had made.

All quotations from Moby-Dick by Herman Melville.

For a fantastic synthesis of Melville and art, don't forget Matt Kish's blog, here: http://everypageofmobydick.blogspot.com/
And his book is available to pre-order on Amazon! Here (for the UK anyway): http://www.amazon.co.uk/Moby-Dick-Pictures-Drawing-Every-Page/dp/1935639137/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1307443701&sr=8-1

Poetry Jam: Water Words with The Bug

2011-06-06T14:55:00.000-07:00

Poetry Jamming is with The Bug this week, and she wants something on swimming. Now I love the water. But I know a man...

Everyone else is here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/06/swim-swam-swum.html

On Taking Him to Water

It’s evolution. Trees.
We climbed down and out
roamed the savannah,
the walking apes.
Ever seen a gorilla,
a gorilla in a river?

Well, technically the sea, yes,
but that’s eons ago,
Precambrian, hard shells, flicky bits.
Hardly mammals.
And all the ones that went back
stayed in. Do they have gills?
Whales, do they have gills?
Stayed there. Not diving in and out.

Well, yes, your seal.
Technically, your seal.
But once on land,
hardly fleet. Blubbery.

Well, yes,
technically your otter.

No.

No I’m not coming in.

Spring Fling #2: Jennifer Watt

2011-06-04T10:05:00.000-07:00

It still seems incredibly cool to me that we have a fine artist in the family; Jennifer Watt is Mr T's aunt. She lives just up the road from us and was therefore the natural start point for last Sunday's Spring Flinging. Plus you always get a cup of coffee and cake.

Her website is here: http://www.jenniferwatt.co.uk/index.htm

We left with two prints. Very cool.

Spring Fling! Open Studios A-Go-Go!

2011-06-01T16:50:00.000-07:00

For three days at the end of May, Dumfries and Galloway hosts the most successful open studios event of its kind in Scotland. OK, that's from the super-glossy brochure, and quite what of its kind means is anyone's guess. All I know is there were 84 artists participating, in an area of around 2,400 square miles. We got to see 12 of them over the weekend and reckoned that was pretty good going.

On Saturday we took the red route, starting at Gracefield Arts Centre in Dumfries.
By a rather brilliant stroke of scheduling luck, a major exhibition of the work of Vija Celmins was being staged.

Of the Open Studios artists at Gracefield, I particularly liked Ewan McClure (here: http://ewanmcclure.wordpress.com/ ). The work I photographed is not really that representative of his pictures, but I loved it. And T2 spent close on an hour copying it into his sketchbook while I was meditating on the Celmins.

It's called Here's Looking at Euclid.

Finally, I was rather taken with this series of plaques by the potter Andrew Adair.

I'll feature some more artists over the rest of the week. The brilliant Great Aunt Jennifer yet to come!

Forgetting: The Poetry Jam

2011-05-30T09:30:00.000-07:00

The Jam is upon us, and NanU has asked us to muse on forgetting. So I mused, and of course, there is that central paradox in the question. I think I remember everything, for I cannot remember what I have forgotten.
So I went elsewhere.

And the Jam has the links, and the gang's all here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/05/for-30th.html

The Bitter Dead

So seeming solemn still, because I lie
a garden of remembrance, formally
you have forgotten me, and should I be
these cold, carved capitals just one inch high?
It was not your fault. Here your comfort lies,
they are not my words. Grave, I have no voice,
as grave, that shaded day, I had no choice.
I died. I would it had been otherwise.
A silence is forgetting, what I want
is my roar in a red-haired great grandchild;
the captain, his patrician nose punched again
at public school, real tears, and petulance.
A small life. From such we have been exiled,
dying young. You do not carry my name.

Egypt Lives!

2011-05-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

Well, blogger still doesn't want to play with me; although I can post, I can't comment anywhere. Even on my own blog. So let's celebrate ancient technologies instead, and travel back in time to Egypt. Welcome to the Egyptian Museum, class project for T1 and T2. All artwork is theirs, or by a group they were a part of.

Wall paintings

SarcophagiWarning messages. I think.Cartouche. Guess the name.Canopic jars (organ stores)Junk AnubisAnubis maskInfo on mummificationKhufu (alias Cheops)Illustration from an adventure story Tour guide 1 with GrandpaTour guide 1 with GrandmaTour guides 1 and 2 with Mr T. He was on the way to work.And I had to make a cartouche! Got more of a ring to it than 'JoAnne', I thought.

If you have enjoyed this tour, do consider supporting that vehicular museum of modern poetry, The Poetry Bus, here: http://www.fundit.ie/project/the-poetry-bus-magazine-1

You get a copy of it too! Plus DVD!

Down and Out, Bits and Bobs

2011-05-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

45,000 homes in Scotland lost their electricity last night, and we were amongst them, as were all the nearby villages. Bye-bye dinner and every other electric-based activity. Hello book, until the headtorch gave up the ghost (finished it by firelight though). You'll be glad to hear Baron Venous was defeated, the Grotesquery dismembered and Skulduggery Pleasant lives to fight another day. As much as a skelton can.

After an unseasonably warm and dry April, May in most of Scotland has been relentlessly wet and cold, cluminating in last night's extremely high winds which laid low a lot of trees, taking the power lines with them.

And poor old Dumfries chose last Saturday to hold a Street Festival, to be followed by a hog roast and live bands in Dock Park. We braved the Street Festival.

Orchestra Del Sol. They tried!

Circus skills with Circus Sally in strong winds

The rain was on by trapeze time

And it got wetter, and wetter, so we decided against the hog roast.

Finally, official photos of the Award Ceremony have been released. Here is my hair meeting Lady Marks.

Wind's back and lights are flickering...

Good grief! Now hailstorms of biblical proportion. Maybe it really is the end of days. Blogger will also not let me comment anywhere. What does it all mean?

Chris is stirring The Jam!

2011-05-23T00:45:00.000-07:00

My cottonwool brain has not yet abated (two weeks now!), but who can resist the sweet, sticky stuff?
For Chris of Enchanted Oak is stirring the jam, and the theme was father. Or father afield, the notion of father. Or even father afield, a honky-tonk song that didn't have to have anything to do with fathers. I do hope someone has chosen that one.

Anyway, I went with the notion, and it's all happening right here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/05/hello-all-erstwhile-bus-riders-and.html

The Absent Father

Terminator
Governator
Impregnator.
At what point
have you said to the boy,
I’ll be back.
More
Hasta la vista, baby,
that flat ironic tone
once conception confirmed.

Good Golly Gosh #2

2011-05-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

It was the Callum Macdonald Memorial Award Ceremony 2011 last night, and it took place at the National Library of Scotland.
The Award is for the publisher of an outstanding example of pamphlet poetry. The pamphlet or its publisher will have a connection with Scotland or Scottish culture.

More details here: http://www.nls.uk/about-us/awards/callum-macdonald-memorial-award
and here: http://www.scottish-pamphlet-poetry.com/index.cgi?id=11

The winner was Figure in Landscape by Anna Crowe, published by Mariscat Press and the runner-up was... Venti by JoAnne McKay, published by JoAnne McKay. I got my prize (a cheque) from Lady Marks herself.

Here are a few unprofessional photographs from the evening, there will undoubtedly be some professional photographs to follow.

All 43 entrants were on display for the Ceremony, the shortlisted entries got the black tablecloth.
Here's someone looking at Venti.

And here's some poetry folk gathered.

Hugh Bryden from Roncadora Press (also shortlisted) and me.

Just a great hair shot.

The winners, runner-up, judges and Lady Marks. On a staircase.

Jean Atkin, poet of the shortlisted Lost at Sea by Roncadora Press and me after consuming 6,000 calories each at the celebration dinner after.

And a top tip for British readers. The black trousers I am wearing are the Marks and Spencer buy of the season, being beautifully cut, immensely flattering and costing a skinny £19.50. Available in black, navy and brown. I have not been sponsored to say this.

Finally, thanks to Tessa Ransford and all the judges, to the National Library of Scotland and to the Michael Marks Charitable Trust for making it such a nice night for me. Yay!

Introducing...

2011-05-19T13:20:00.000-07:00

...the animal art of the rather fabulous Caitlin Wooll. Who's a writer. So, not only a great name, also multi-talented.

Anyway, here's her drawing of William, with a small poem it inspired in me.

The Sheep God

The Sheep God
attends sheep weddings
wearing a Slash hat
as reminder.
The sheep of Soay,
being brown,
do not worship Him.
The Sheep God, benign,
frets not, nonchalant
in Slash hat, rare indeed.

Caitlin takes commissions and would like to make a bigger deal of her drawing, which is understandable. I can put anyone in touch with her if they leave a comment.

In other news, I have a bug (not The Bug) and must rely on Dr. Footlights as it's the Callum Macdonald Award Ceremony in Edinburgh tonight and I have to read. Remember to cross everything for me, Jean Atkin and Hugh Bryden at round about 6.30pm BST.

Do You Not Wish...

2011-05-14T12:02:00.000-07:00

...you were going?

Who's That Poet?

2011-05-12T00:35:00.000-07:00

Rule #1. Do not consider yourself a competent photographer after drinking a bottle of Rose Cava unaided.

Rule #2. Go and listen to this smokin' podcast: Ryan Van Winkle interviews Hugh McMillan at StAnza (after a jazz intro).
Here: http://scottishpoetrylibrary.podomatic.com/entry/2011-05-06T06_08_30-07_00

Natal Days! Jammin' with Vick!

2011-05-09T00:30:00.000-07:00

It has not been an easy month; however, rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.
And though the Bus has reached its final terminus, now we can Jam each week instead. Hooray for NanU!

Everyone else is here now, with a Linky Widget: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/05/and-so-it-begins.html

Unbelievably, today really is my birthday. Let's get fruity...

May 9th, 1963

My fecund mother has a single story of my birth.
Familiar to the obstetrician, his first three words
on my appearance, ‘It’s a girl,’ were greeted by her
‘Thank God for that.’ No blood, pain or drama, my father
knee-deep in such back at the yard. He’d visit after dinner.
She tells me this every year and I want to say, why?
Why, if you were so pleased, relieved,
delighted, did you not pink and preen me?
You raised another boy, discarded half my first name,
left me to the slaughtermen, or all day with Dad
on the lorries, off to market, hair barbered never dressed.
Tantrum at five meeting my first skirt, you have to wear it,
then those kilts, those bloody kilts, that were deemed
up-to-London wear for best shopping days:
everyone called me Jock. ‘My name is Jo and I am a girl,’
no one ever heard, the latest Orlando (The Marmalade Cat)
purchased to placate me. I can tell the stories still.
At 48, I wear my hair long to provoke her,
ponder past midnight the high definition of those times.
I shouted at a son last night. That, I may not remember.

When It All Gets Too Much...

2011-04-27T00:30:00.000-07:00

...may I recommend 'Chair Wars'.

You can only be on chair
You have to have a slipper on your head.
The slipper must STAY ON:
You must throw the jacket of Death at each other!

In other news, if you're anywhere near Glasgow on May 3rd this is well worth a look: http://glasgowtosaturn.com/2011/04/26/live-writing-writers-live/

Poetry Bus: NanU's Wild Drive

2011-04-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

NanU says 'Excess' here: http://sciencegirltraveler.blogspot.com/2011/04/just-too-too-far-too-bussy.html

I say 'Festival' below. It was a good while ago...

Glestingaburg

Hark! Hark! Each Spartan hound, music fills the air. Spring, Savage, Hunter, Woodman. In the moonlight, by torchlight, by flame. Greedigut, Blab, Ruffler, Snatch. Die Wilde Jagt. The cry ‘Halloo’, reply ‘Oi’ in own tongue: do not touch the White Lady. Men with horns, hide unto the huntsman, body to the hounds. Leaves whirl round, hair is unbound. ‘Hot Knives! Hot Knives!’ for a pound: the bottomless bottle, crystal crazed, stained. Suck not, and wipe the rim. Did you see him! Decline everything in fairy light: pills, tabs, potions, weed; else you will not return. The ground already unsteady, the music a constant throb. The music will never stop. It’s Dr John. People rent their garments, weep, wail. Beware that hoodoo moon. Dr John will never end and that’s a fact. The night is fun, and I am young. Tomorrow shall be as this day, and much more abundant.

Unexpected Treat On Easter Day!

2011-04-24T13:55:00.000-07:00

Fast Men on Fast Bikes!

And after an hour-and-a-half they all came back again.

Why? Who? Where? Lord knows. It was pretty cool though.

Good Golly Gosh!

2011-04-21T22:30:00.000-07:00

Venti has been shortlisted for the Callum Macdonald Memorial Award. Really. You can read about it here: http://www.nls.uk/news/press/2011/04/callum-macdonald-competition-shortlist

In other news, I got up two mountains this week and then helped out at the Launch Party for Spilling Ink: Volume I (here: http://spillinginkreview.com/2011/04/05/spilling-ink-volume-1/)

And look! Despite only being asked to man the sales table, I still managed to get in front of the microphone. Then started praying, for some reason.

Report from Base Camp

2011-04-18T00:30:00.000-07:00

Phew, Base Camp of Summit #1 achieved with the help of good pals just up the road. Journey there was interrupted by a weaving workshop at Dumfries Museum which was so fabulous we all now want to be weavers.

From T1

From T2

And mine

Children happy.
Bear restless.
Hopefully more on Wednesday, by which time I have to have made two summits. Cheerie!

Excuse Me...

2011-04-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

...but I have four of these to scale in the next three weeks, so my visits may be infrequent. Bear with me.

Bug Bus!

2011-04-12T00:35:00.000-07:00

Bug's driving, here: http://danabugseyeview.blogspot.com/2011/04/look-out-poetry-bus-is-all-over-road.html

Which is where you can find all the riders too. I'm scarcely riding this week, but the photos are OK!

Capital

I am a crooked line
I am the Royal Mile
For all the kilts
The crap
The kitsch
My buildings still beguile

Talking Trees!

2011-04-08T00:10:00.000-07:00

Day 4 of the school holidays! Is that all? Anyway, today we got out and about with Tom the tree ranger, on a trail through the grounds of Allanton House, the peace sanctuary. It really is.

'Allanton World Peace Sanctuary is the European sanctuary of the World Peace Prayer Society, an international organisation with NGO status, supporting the United Nations mission for realising world peace. Our mission is to spread the message 'May Peace Prevail on Earth', to help achieve harmony within the individual, in society, and with our environment, where peace is seen as the highest aspiration of humanity.'

The trail...

Beech

Beech mast Identifying Cherry by the cluster buds Difference between hawthorn and blackthorn? Hawthorn comes into leaf before it flowers:Blackthorn comes into flower before it leaves:Silver BirchTapping the Silver Birch for sapSap tastingAllanton HouseScots PineScots Pine and the skyMany benches on the route200-year old LimeWillow tunnelVery Silver BirchAsh tips Lichen on a Walnut And just the one paying attention...

The Bus! The Links!

2011-04-03T12:10:00.000-07:00

The prompts are down there in the post below, but it's getting unwieldy so we're up here for the links!

Doing a test-run mock-up of the book as the poems arrive and are released for use. Photo above is the panther page, photo below a test cover. Not sure about the multi-coloured title...

And here are the riders:

Pure song from Karen, at Keeping Secrets: http://keepingsecrets-karen.blogspot.com/2011/03/what-is-beauty-more.html

Kingfisher and legend from The Bug, at Bug's Eye View: http://danabugseyeview.blogspot.com/2011/03/poetry-bus-boundless-sea.html

I done her wrong! She's really written a poem, and that doesn't happen very often. Welcome to the Bus, hope of The Road Less Traveled: http://hope-theroadlesstraveled.blogspot.com/2011/04/bus-ride.html

What this? A voice from across the water? Yes, Rachel is back at her original rambling place for one nite only with this: http://crowd-pleasers.blogspot.com/2011/04/titus-bus.html

And here's Dave, from Pics and Poems, with a voice from beneath the water. Here: http://picsandpoems.blogspot.com/2011/04/i-delphinus.html

First in a flurry of arrivals, here's Dominic from ...made out of words, with a poignant memory: http://dominicrivron.blogspot.com/2011/04/thats-life.html

Next it's izzy, of conversing, who's first with the lemur. Mischief and more, here: http://izzy-conversing.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-bus-4411.html

And here's Argent! With a trifle! Delusions of Adequacy? I think not, here: http://argent-delusionsofadequacy.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-bus-animal-magic-special.html

Yay! It's the middle of Mothering Sunday here, I've had the flowers, the chocolates, the fancy-dancy Baylis and Harding toiletries and the handmade cards, and now I've got poems!

From parsnip, at angryparsnip, we have javelinas. If you don't know, you better go: http://twosquaredogs.blogspot.com/2011/04/for-titus-and-poetry-bus.html

And a hoot from Doctor FTSE, here: http://thedocspoems.blogspot.com/2011/04/animal-magic-for-poetry-bus-april-4th.html

And finally, Lord be praised, we have a fabled hunter from Chris at Enchanted Oak, here: http://chrisalba-enchantedoak.blogspot.com/

Now I'm being taken out for lunch...

...and now I can hardly move. Opting for both puddings possibly not my best idea.

But to cheer, here's Jinksy from Alias Jinksy, who went for the bushbaby. And the zebra, and the penguin and the camel... oh, go and see yourself! Limerick heaven, here: http://pens-poems.blogspot.com/2011/04/bushbaby-or-baby-bush.html

Now, who would have written about cats? She's a scientist, she's read the list of options, and she's gone for... cats. She really tried not to. It has to be the one and only NanU, here: http://sciencegirltraveler.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-ark.html

Beware: the stuff of nightmares, and something deeper, at Emerging Writer's, here: http://emergingwriter.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-managerie-bus.html

And here's Helen, from Poetry Matters, with the first gecko! It might be one you know... Here: http://woonietest.blogspot.com/2011/04/gordy-gecko-on-bus.html

And Niamh hasn't told me, but I've found her anyway. Might be a secret. See Various Cushions, here: http://variouscushions.blogspot.com/2011/04/tituss-animal-bus.html

Hooray! Peter Goulding's here, from The Stammering Poet. Shortlisted for Strokestown. I needed a hawk. He gave me a dog. And yet, and yet... Here: http://stammeringpoet.blogspot.com/2011/04/titus-animal-magic-poetry-bus.html

And where would we be without 120 Socks! A silent shadow, here: http://120socks.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-bus-poem-black-panther.html

Move up at the back there! Here's Lucy, from Lucy by Lucy, with a gecko. Who's called... Here: http://luciewestenra.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-bus-4th-april.html

DRUM ROLL PLEASE! HERE'S D'OUB, from her Domestic Oubliette: http://domesticoubliette.blogspot.com/2011/04/beastly-bus.html

Room on top! Watch out Wizards! Here's new move Kat, of Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes. Go find her at the new place, here: http://poetikat-km.blogspot.com/2011/04/animal-busand-were-late-again.html

And a new kid! On this block, at least. Welcome Bubba, who appears to have been born to be wild, here: http://thisisbubbasplace.blogspot.com/2010/08/mechanimal.html

All Rise! Here comes the King! Our esteemed leader, and ruler of the unknown universe, is here. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you... TFE: http://totalfeckineejit.blogspot.com/2011/04/its-wrong-trousers.html

And now, with a Carmen Miranda feel, we have rallentanda. Welcome to the Bus! Here: http://rallentanda.blogspot.com/2011/04/mad-dog.html

Look! Here's Lolamouse. A lemur, but possibly not the one you were expecting... Here: http://lolamousedroppings.blogspot.com/2011/04/ring-tailed-lemur-speaks.html#comment-form

Is this the last? The fabulous Muse Swings! I used to think these were baby eagles. Here: http://muse-swings.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-bus-has-egret-perched-on-seat.html

And here's me: http://titusthedog.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-bus-geckos-of-aleppo.html

TFE's Poetry Bus: It's An Ark This Week!

2011-03-31T12:30:00.000-07:00

Eschewing this week's obvious prompt (I love you Mum! But no poem for you this week.) I have a prompt and a masterplan.

Prompt first:

I want a poem, any sort of poem, about an animal. More specifically, any one of these animals:

1) The Dolphin

2) The Gecko

3) The Panther

4) The Bushbaby

5) The Archerfish

6) The Kingfisher

7) The Harrier

8) The Ring-tailed Lemur

But if none of these take your fancy, any animal will be just fine.

Now, the Masterplan.

I know that this is the Bus, but it's Arthritis Care Week (UK) at the start of May, and I work for Arthritis Care. In order to get the week off to a strangely literary start, I am in the process of planning a reading party at the University of Glasgow involving students on the various Creative Writing degree courses. In order to make the party a bit of a fundraiser too, I'm also planning to have a making pamphlets/artist's books workshop-py day beforehand, with what's produced going to raffle or auction on the night. I'm getting very into altered books at the moment (when you take an existing book/brochure/paper thing and change it), and I have a fantastic brochure with pictures of the above listed animals in it. My intention is to produce a one-off pamphlet for the big night, and to use some Bus contributions as the text. It's not like being published - this is an objet d'art.

Anyway, I do not intend to use anyone's poem without their permission, so if you ride the Bus this week I'll get in touch about using your poem.

Is that clear? I hope that's clear.

I'll do the links post on Monday. Which is the school holidays. Do you realise Scottish children are only at school for eight days in the whole of April? Pity me. And ride The Bus!

All the links to the poems are in the post above. Up top. There!

Conan The Barbarian!

2011-03-30T00:50:00.000-07:00

Somewhat addicted to Robert E. Howard books before my teens - especially Conan and King Kull. There were vast numbers in each series, especially as L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter carried on where Howard had left off. Thus the first dog that was all my own was named after Conan the Barbarian, long before Mr Schwarzenegger assumed the role

I shall give you a great dog of Ireland...

Here he is when we were first settling into the new house, with 40 tons of topsoil needed to turn what was a London Clay field into a garden. That's all turf.

And the new pond that needed the yellow irises

That's me in the car dealer's anorak

And in the same series of faded photographs, I found out where...

...an American cartoon artist got the inspiration for Chuckie (from Rugrats).

Brother #3 with Mum, smoking.

Poetry Bus: The Poem

2011-03-28T02:01:00.001-07:00

I Shall Give You

The great dog was a good gift for twelve years life
Though he did not arrive the actual day
But somewhat premature, and precarious
On beanpole limbs, but his plate paws
Reassured that he was, indeed, the good seed
Of great dogs who had hunted alongside kings
In bog lands where brave men bested fell giants.
This was after I had broken my first leg,
The nine months standing on the train I endured,
And it was after I had kissed my first boy
On the holiday I had broken my first leg.
At last I had before me, touching distance,
My great dog, though he wobbled and vomited
On our drive after the long drive across the water
After being terrorised by the black dog
That was my father’s dog, whose rightful place
He had usurped in the back of the strawed cattle truck.
I thought he was broken, or the runt
And toyed rejection, but because he was mine
For the first time and I had wanted him for so long,
I had wanted him to just this conformation,
I took him, fed him minced meat, one egg a day
And milk. I did not overwalk him
As he grew, as he grew, as he grew.
I came to love him for he was more mine
Than anyone’s and ran to my pursed lips alone.
At a year he could take down a horse
Should we choose, though we did not,
And we had no fear of any living thing
Even after dark. The big house had not long been built
And my mother, who did not want common things
Desired irises to put in the water
Of the pool beyond the kitchen’s bullseyed window,
But not blue ones, for blue ones were common things.
I had seen yellow irises from the woods
The great dog and I ranged and hunted within,
The woods where the wild creatures hid
Stock still at our imagined stealth, yet the dog
Though a sighthound, could still smell and I could flush.
We found that most creatures do scream
When they are dying. The yellow irises
Were far beyond the untended trespassed woods,
Beyond the straggler trees, beyond the iron gates
Where the formal garden of the rich woman
Was laid out to lawn splendour, interrupted
Only by specimens and a formal lake.
She was rich because her grandfather made his fortune
In cheap groceries, and she had never married,
Though she was old now, preferring, they said, to retain
The name that was still lettered above the shops.
We were grave thieves and her wealth no match for us.
The dog would kill on command, I bad him stay
At the point where coarse seedheaded grass
Became short and smooth and grass greener.
I walked slowly, for I had no fear
In plain sight to the edge of her lake
Then walked straight in, and the bottom was yielding
To my hard feet and the world was very bright
Under a high sun. The irises were stretched upwards
Taller than I had thought. I reached, held and pulled
Three stems, my eyes on the half-timbered manor
Where a rich woman was watching my brazenness.
It was a wrench but the root fractured
With a rifle crack and I felt the dog rise
At the single sound on the still long day
And looked to him, and he obeyed me.
I left the garden more slowly than I had entered
Waving three great yellow flags on stalks as tall
As I, with a brown root anchor dry, gashed white
At the place I had torn it from the original.
I carried the good gift home that hot day, through deep woods
And desert fields, while the great dog showed teeth and tongue
And thought of water in his panting.
We gave the yellow irises to my mother,
Planted them in a silver metal basket
In the shallows of the pool beyond the bullseyed window.
They flourished year on year and they flower yet.
My father told tales of our daring
To the men at market that year and the one after.