Sinister: Monday Poem (No biscuit content)

[poetryplace2]

Anyone see Before Sunrise last night? As I blubbed into my chrysanthemum of
kleenex I realised I’d completely forgotten the scene where the Julie and
Ethan are in the record shop and she picks up a record which they take to
the listening booth. It’s a small masterpiece of embarrassment as this
beautiful beautiful record plays and neither of them knows where to look. I
squinted up at my tiny tv as the credits rolled and discovered that the song
was ‘Come Here’ by someone called Kath Bloom, but there were no label
details or anything. Does anyone know anything about her? I would sell my
left leg for a whole LP of that stuff.

Continuing on a cinematic note, I was intrigued to read the other day that,
in a Travoltaesque career resurrection, Robert Forster has landed a role in
the new Tarantino film, Jackie Brown. What next? Lindy Morrison to have a
cameo in Godzilla? Grant McLennan to oust George Clooney as the new Batman?

Oh yeah
 the Monday poem
 WN Herbert hails from that hotbed of contemporary
poetic talent, Dundee. Introducing himself to readers of Poetry Review, he
wrote:

Picture this: the Picts were not absorbed into the general population of
Scotland, but remained tribal and ran the chip shops. Their enigmatic
symbols now mean ‘Frying tonite’. The Scots did not abandon their language,
and in any pub in Dundee men say ‘Aye, Eh wiz at thi dirrye dantoun yesteern
richt eneuch’. And are not beaten up. Aliens landed last Wednesday and
implanted the concept of capitalism in everyone’s brains. Just before Star
Trek last week we were living in a moneyless society. Captain Beefheart went
to my school; Iggy Pop is in telepathic contact with the bottlenose dolphins
in the Moray Firth. And Mark E Smith is the editor of Poetry Review
. This
is world I attempt to create in my poems


WN Herbert
Independence Blues

So ye were born in New Cumnock
and went tae thi skail
and learnt hoo tae parse and talk proper,
there wiz Burns and his spider
and Bruce wi thi moose
and Watt thi inventor of porridge,
and ye played fur thi Rangers
each playtime or plunked
but wid ye no like tae be Scottish?

So ye went tae thi college
tho yir parents were puir
and yir best freends aa cleaned fur thi Cooncil,
there wiz apeshit Monboddo
and auld Burke and Hume
and MacDiarmid that lived in a cottage,
and ye learnt that oor learnin
wiz pure sceptical
but wid ye no like tae be Scottish?

So ye warked in thi Borders
in a sma legal firm
and mairriet a maik hailed fae Melrose,
there wiz bairns and thi Ridins
and rugby and bools
there wiz agein if ready or not-ish,
there wiz one thing not proven
in all of yir deeds
sic: wid ye no like tae be Scottish?

So ye early-retireit
and bocht a wee croft
and tried tae dig peats and speak Gaelic,
there wiz Duncan Ban Dorain
Big Moog o thi Sangs
and midges tae nip at yir dotage,
and ye bagged aa thi islands
yir yacht could swing by
but wid ye no like tae be Scottish?

So ye voted “Yes Yes” when
Sean Connery asked
like thae lassies that geed in tae Bondage,
there wiz Pussy McFlora
and Folly-a-Bloom
and Jean Mon Amour of the Forest,
and yir parliament sang
“So we anely live twice”
but wid ye no like tae be Scottish?

So ye died and were buried
richt next tae yir dug
and went tae thi place God expectit,
there wiz Knox and his trumpet
and plenty Wee Frees
and MacKellar Watt’s meatiest sausage,
but Saint Andrew strolled over
and said “are ye dead
or could ye instead jist be Scottish?”

-----------------------------------------------------

Stephen

Poetry Society: http://www.poetrysoc.com



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