The Childhood of Bertrand Russell

I cannot grieve for newly shattered crockery

nor shed a tear for shards of splintered glass.

To simulate distress were hollow mockery.

They are of dust. Once more to dust they pass.

How wise your words, my son, for every platter,

composed of ordered particles of dust,

assumes again the natural state of matter,

and entropy increases, as it must.

Birdsong

Between birdsong and dawn

night slipped away

barefoot across the lawn.

Between birdsong and dawn

her perfume lingered on

to fade before the day. 

Between birdsong and dawn

night slipped away.

lightly

lightly and lightly adorned in a ripple of never

passing invisible out of the now we have known

into another redemption, another forever

 

lightly and lightly dismissing a burden of sorrow

slipping inviolate into a deeper beyond

softly to follow a dream of unending tomorrow

 

lightly and lightly begun what can never be ended

lost in a filigree universe spiralling free

free as the balm of a moment we never intended

Looking Out

beyond the rowan

(lime green fronds, musician's hands awakening)

an olive-yellow poplar

(lighthouse-proud, this slow slow dancer)

yearns for the hill

  

two figures walking

(silhouettes, fleas on a rabbit's ear)

closeness a hard won summit

(Hereford and all of Wales below)

and you, the other 

Death, you is my woman now

Death, you is my woman now.

You is all that's left for me

since you snaffled Laura-Lee

leaving me to wonder how

life goes on. OK I bow

to your every whim, but gee

Death

we is cruising for a row

if you dawdle aimlessly.

Shift your ass! What's it to be?

Chicken flu or crazy cow,

Death? 

(after François Villon, 'Mort, j'appelle de ta rigueur')

Helga's Chickens

Helga's Chickens take the floor

around eight thirty every night.

Could anybody ask for more?

Perhaps some spotty troglodyte

would rather hide away and write

his C-plus-plus, but that's a bore

and hardly likely to delight

Helga's Chickens. Take the floor

for instance – even if it wore

a carpet of a lurid white

our eyes would still be on the door

around eight thirty. Every night

the Paranormal's heaving. Quite

a crowd prepares for what's in store

and brightens as they dim the light.

Could anybody ask for more

than Helga and her brood? Before

you rush to call her 'parasite'

or breathe the appellation 'whore',

perhaps some spotty troglodyte

will rush to her defence and cite

an evening back in '94

when he succumbed, gave up the fight

and sang – O come let us adore

Helga's Chickens! 

In Hope

There will be time to take your hand, one day,

time not to talk, not to know urgency.

There will be walking times, watching the sea,

our faces turned towards the wind-borne spray.

Then there will be no need for us to say

is this forever - ours the certainty

of something understood. The he and she

of half-forgotten stories . . .

We have seen war and death. We have seen fire

and tempest. We have seen disease and pain.

These times have tried us hard and may again

crash rude upon our lives. We stand aware,

while through it all our human hearts aspire

to love. We are not blind. We have this power.

Three Gallus Brithers

Three gallus brithers hit the toon
Big Wullie, Shoo an Sauny Broon
rarin tae coup the bevvy doon
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Sauny wis mairrit years langsyne
(Jessie McGuire fae Ochtertyne)
When he wis canned he liked her fine
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Wullie wis guid at the boaxin yince
till he got fat oan tatties an mince.
Sundays he'll gie his physog a wee rinse
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Shoo wis a genius (ask his maw)
micht o been mair than naethin at aa
but the lassies aye caad his heid fae the baa
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Doon tae the harbour, therr's the plan
a hauf dizen bars in a hauf mile span -
three gallus brithers agreed tae a man
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Stert wi the Anchor, tip a jaur,
twa in the Ship, and the Harbour Bar,
stoatin an happy as pigs in glaur
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Efter the Harbour, the Steamboat Inn
whaur the whusky flows when the fleet comes in
an they caa ye a poof if ye esk fur gin
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Efter the Steamboat, shoot the craw.
Jessie'd be waitin, an Shuggie's maw.
But Wullie jist gawpt at the harbour waa
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

"See thoan wee door, it wisna therr"
says Wullie, "Ah've spent ma life in Ayr
'n it's new. Gaunny keek inside furra dare?"
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

So they opened the door in the harbour waa -
Guid alane kens whit they thocht they saw
but they grinned tae their lugs an said "this is braw!"
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Wullie jouks in the ring wi his fists in the air
an the punters aa gien it "Wullie the berr!"
but the bogle sune plants him flat oan the flerr
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Sauny walks doon the aisle wi his Jessie again
but the meenister says "Geeza brek, Jessie hen
ye've hud me an ma faithur an twal' ither men"
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

An a carlin gied wee Shuggie a kiss.
"Ye're a helluva lad when ye're oot on the piss"
she says, "See in the moarn, ye'll be mindin aa this?"
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Noo the waa's still therr but thur's nae wee door
jist the harbour lichts affa Newton shore
an three gallus brithers as bold as before
     an the nicht wiz Halloween.

Year End Ballade

Make the best of Hogmanay!
It's never easy, but we try.
Should we drink the night away
or count the seconds as they fly
towards the bells that signify
the moment we've been waiting for
when we can raise the age-old cry -
another year, another war.

Send your sons into the fray.
No need to worry. We apply
elastic combat rules that say
only civilians have to die.
Geneva's dead and buried. Why
pretend to love the rule of law?
The cynic heart can justify
another year, another war.

Refugees are tedious. They
fade from the papers by and by.
If thousands die along the way
we never asked the fools to fly.
Our bombs are clean, our alibi
is ignorance, our metaphor
for death is damage; so, we buy
another year, another war.

Girls and boys, come out to ply
the evil trade we so abhor.
Our actions give our words the lie -
another year, another war.

speak

of fables turning around
in the mind  taking the place
of promise  pulling today
far away from reason   face

tomorrow  though you know why
it is shy  hidden behind
grey pillars  keen to conceal
the unreal unready   find

another movement of time
in the mime played for your eye
by memory   stretch to accept
your inept redemption   try

denial   everyone knows
how it shows gold for a spell
in sunlight  then disappears
in a drear november   tell

your children all you recall
of the fall of strong and weak
together  how there was no-
where to go  no need to speak

Agnes on Karaoke

Thon wiz a magic evenin aff -

went intae Ingrams doon oan the squerr

ken, whaur the gaffer's a right wee nyaff

but the karaoke - aw it's rerr.

We'd a coarner table, Ina an me

an we wisny gauny sing at aa

but efter a malibu or three

weel ye canny help yersel. It's braw

wi the flashy lights an the great big screen

an aa the wurds gaun by like yon

an big fat Tammy, ken wha ah mean

wi the plukes, that does Roy Orbison

tae a T, when he's hud a dacent bevvy.

Ina wiz near tae havin a greet.

Ah like the wan aboot drove ma chevvy

an thon yin dancin in the street.

So me an Ina gets up thegither

the gaffer gies ye an extra mike.

Done he ain't heavy he's mabrither.

Gied it a load o welly like.

The Fatted Porker

I liked the lad. He always had a smile,
a whistle on his lips, and used to wait
and watch us eat. Oh, you can call it swill
but I'm not proud. For if it comes to that
I've cracked the windfall, fresher from the moss
than all your snow-cooled fare. I've savoured shoots
that daylight never blessed. But let it pass -
I liked him. He was generous with the oats.
Not like his brother there, a walking blight
on man and pig alike, his only care
is his inheritance. I saw the hate
spark in his eye. The young one's travelled far
to find cold comfort from his kin. But still
they'll come for me. I know which one I'd kill.

Travellers

No crash, no broken glass, no injury.
A mild derailment, quiet loss of power
or small mechanical catastrophe,
enough to leave us stranded for an hour,
is all I ask. The driver will explain
politely to three hundred fretting souls
how trivial the loss, how rare the gain
in marking time by Mirton-under-Moles,
at which we acquiesce, and one by one
find friends behind each dull commuting stare -
fierce devotees of Guardian and Sun
in temporary comradeship. Aware
of precious company and circumstance,
we talk, we two. There is no room to dance.

voices

our voices know each other in a tongue
we barely understand   words follow words
through turns of everyday   what we have done
what we have said   to whom   things we have heard
ephemeral meanings floated on a stream
like paper galleys   these   the stuff of sense
of caveats   when in a doubting time
we question why and find the answer less
than reason   still   an echo of the sound
prevails   an intertwining of your tone
and mine   your cadences   my counterpoint
our rise and fall   a sweeter music than
we care to name is ours   our voices have
learned to transcend the dull taboos of love

Lemon-Scented

Still they come, the lemon-scented

philistines, their faces glum,

their arms upraised, their temples dented,

still they come.

Theirs, the only hymn to hum,

the only virtues unrepented.

Theirs, the trumpet, theirs, the drum,

the heralds of the self-contented.

Theirs, the mindless tedium

of brilliance quashed before it’s vented.

Still they come.

Thropping

The planets are irrelevant. We're talking about life,

a euphemism for the road to death.

You know it when it chokes you or when someone plants a knife

between your epiglottis and your breath.

It doesn't hide in crystals or in interstellar space.

It isn't made of Plasticine or lead.

I met a guy who reckoned we were warts on heaven's face

until he took up tapestry instead.

They put him in a Lancia (the tumbrils were employed

in lending colour to a flagging verse)

and drove him to Croatia (I temporarily toyed

with Macedonia, but the metre's worse).

We'll leave him there. We're talking about life. Before you go

concluding I've got nothing more to say,

I'll wax anthropomorphic and endeavour to bestow

its qualities on something everyday -

The moon will do. I asked it, "What's it like to live alone

reflecting since the days of Genesis?"

It didn't say, "Don't ask me, I'm a lifeless lump of stone".

It would've, but it couldn't, 'cause it is.

Blind Pew

There is a formula for life, a bill
of quantities - one gross assorted bones,
one bag of nerves, one epidermis, black
or white, a skein of fur if you're a dog,
no eyes if you're a golden mole (they're blind),
two Presbyterian buttocks for the pew.

(Fat ones are better suited to the pew).
Assembly is prenatal, and the bill
is topped by birth. The cells divide in blind
obedience to their DNA, form bones,
muscles, organs, sinews, whether dog
or man it's all the same. It's down in black

and white, the double helix. You can black
your face or bleach it. You can shun the pew
and claim to be the Son of Man. Your dog
will never see the change. You are the bill
of fare that's printed deeper than your bones
as Long John Milton saw, and he was blind.

Predestination says - you're on a blind
adventure, never sure of when the black
spot will be thrust upon you. Though the bones
themselves rebel, it's best to grace the pew
and make believe your name is on the bill
of entry, till you're turned out like a dog.

Who knows? You might do well to be a dog.
Awake, a sensual beast; asleep, a blind
unconscious lump. Not worried by the bill
the taxman brings, you needn't fear the black
great-coated killjoy prophets from the pew,
content to crunch on liberated bones.

If Calvin built his sermons on the bones
of truth, he little knew how they would dog
with guilt his followers' lives, until the pew
seemed almost comfortable. He was blind
to niceties. His world was white or black -
a tick or cross, scribed on the heavenly bill.

So, beat your bones until your eyes are blind
or thrash your dog until your hands turn black.
Then take a pew. Your god will send the bill.

The Traveller

Long ago upon a hilltop (let me finish then I will stop)
I espied a curious traveller where no traveller was before.
As I raised an arm in greeting all at once he took to beating
at the air like one entreating passing boats to come ashore
like a castaway repeating empty movements from the shore
  or an over-eager whore.

Never one to wonder blindly I demanded not unkindly
"Are you waving, or behaving in a manner heretofore
generally unexpected, or perhaps you have neglected
to observe the mien affected by humanity before?"
(For he seemed to have elected to gesticulate some more.)
  Quoth the traveller "Semaphore"

Sea Child

I shall return alone and let the tide,
risen again, embrace you for its own.
You are the boy who numbered clouds as friends,
saw soldiers in the waves, tigers in spray.

Awakened by the sea, you need not sleep
again in one who cloistered you so long,
prisoner to a promise unfulfilled.
Your sad ordeal is over; here is peace.

I am the coat of mail that you put on
to face a harder world at childhood's end.
Colleagues invented me. I called them friends
at your expense, you had to hide away.
 
Here is a place for you to gaze and play.
See how the sunlight gleams on Greenan sands
where once you left small footprints. Only you
can find their path again. My child, goodbye.

Tusitala

Kirstie spoke your final words,
abandoned, by the Weaver's stone.
Tonight, chiefs walk the road they built for you.
 
You cannot see the gifts they bring,
or feel rough lips against your hand;
still, you will share their silent vigil. They
 
will carry you, their Loving Heart,
their Tusitala, high above
Vailima to the place you wished to lie.
 
But will you rest under that sky,
defiant as your requiem,
or will you rise and walk the low road home?