A Right Kettle!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keirboy, hoik your mettle up, Keirboy, hoik your kettle up,
Keirboy, hoik your metal up; we all need more pay.

BoJer’s taken it down again, BoJer’s brought it down again,
BoJer’s dropped it down again. We’re done for today.

Tories slash the NHS, Tories crash the NHS,
Tories smash the NHS and doctors fall away.

As Tory education hacks, in Tory education hacks,
through Tory education hacks they show their feet of clay.

Tory social care is last, Tory social care’s a farce,
Tory social care is past; the poor’re taxed to pay.

Toxic Tories’ Brexit lies, Brexit’s Tories’ toxic lies,
Tories’ toxic Brexit lies mean shortages each day.

Hangers-on begin to spin, hangers-on will never thin,
hangers-on begin to grin at us poor sods, their prey.

On the day they’re voted out, on the day they’re booted out,
on the day they’re clean swept out we might have a say.

Don’t let hope rise up so high, best not let your hope be high
never let your hope rise high ‘cause Starmer’s on his way.

Mary’s Hill

 

 

 

 

 

 

A sonless Gairbraid Laird once lived
by bonny Kelvinside.
He had a daughter young and fair
and she was full of pride,
for on his lands there stood a hill,
the highest point in sight,
so Mary Hill the girl became,
those acres hers by right-o,
rich acres hers by right.

Many a day she climbed the slope,
looking from side to side.
Before, behind, beneath her feet
her lands were green and wide.
She married young to Graham’s son,
who once a slave had been,
and grew to love her ‘venture man,
the handsomest she’d seen-o,
most handsome, she had seen.

They worked the land her father owned,
digging deep for coal,
but it was wet and slaggy stuff;
profit was their goal.
Their gamble failed and money lost
added to her woe,
so Mary climbed the family hill
to soothe the bitter blow-o,
to heal the bitter blow.

She looked north and she looked south,
she looked both east and west;
of all the green land stretched before
she loved her own lands best.
Sad and sore, she birthed two girls;
no son was ever born
as was the Blessed Mary’s child
upon a blessed morn-o,
upon that blessed morn.

But Mary hid her griefs away,
held steady to her breath,
for her father willed her his estate
when he was close to death.
She rallied soon when she heard
a rumour out of hand -
a Forth and Clyde Canal proposed
to cross, in part, her land-o,
to pass across her land.

Plans showed the need for a viaduct
to span the River Kelvin
and public funds much land would leave
for her to toil and delve in.
Mary Hill and her husband Rob
took the compensation
because the canny two, well pleased,
could bolster up their station-o,
would bolster up their station.

And so it was and so it did:
a village soon sprang there
upon the banks of the new canal
with its locks and water fair.
It wasn’t long before trades grew
on the outskirts of the build,
boats made, glass blown and iron works,
wood neatly sawn and milled-o,
wood crisply sawn and milled.

So Mary climbed her hill once more,
she looked down south and near
and saw her lands made gainful for
both her daughters dear.
The Grahams pledged more land to aid
the township’s growth. “It will
from city’s end to bridge be called
the town of Mary Hill-o,
our town of Mary Hill.”

And so it was and so it is,
though borough now it be,
while Mary’s hill stands higher yet
with water in its lee-o,
more water in its lee.

Why I Write Poetry

I always have, even when quite small, and that’s thanks to my father who made my brothers and myself learn poems by heart, which was no chore because we loved doing it. He also read or recited poetry to us as a change from bedtime stories. I don’t know what he thought of my early written efforts, but he encouraged them. I suppose I now write because I can’t not do so.

 My method, such as it is, is founded on the fact that my poetry comes sporadically. That’s not something I wanted and was something I railed against when younger, but now accept that it happens when it happens. I know a ‘holiday’ from writing is needed when poems get word-clotted and the innovative process or theme that started off a particular writing period dies away or is beginning to stale. I don’t have a particular working method, so write randomly or when fired up by something or when ideas and images seem to associate freely, but poetry is always on my mind. If I’m not writing it, I’m reading it. I do keep notebooks, but quite often notes don’t get used or they segue into another kind of writing. These days, I mostly write on the computer, but used to hand write them and then type them up. They are always revised and that’s often the slowest part of the writing process, but I most often know when the first drafts need a lot of revision. Very rarely does a poem come almost complete at the first draft.

 My first ‘published’ poem appeared in the usual School Mag. when I was eleven. I’ve kept that one because it’s dire and keeps my feet on the ground. But about four years ago I decided that those I’d written needed a thorough weeding. Out went all the juvenilia, teenage angst stuff and early bad poems; there were about 500 that weren't up-to-scratch. After serially re-reading them and deliberating for months, I then steeled myself to bin them, telling myself that binning comes to us all in the end, in one form or another. I was left with about 200 poems, plus notes, themes and odd lines from perhaps 200 more. The latter may or may not get used in future poems. Finished poems go on my poetry blog, which acts as a kind of archive, I suppose. Even when up some are still liable to the odd tweaking session.

 As for the publishing route, I went for the usual mag. publishing, attending workshops, book launches and various gatherings, but by the late 70s/early 80s I realised that becoming known enough for book publication would mean embarking on a third career. I was already in full time work, doing a part time PhD and running a home; all that was tiring, so something had to give; it was poetry publishing that went by the board. Interest in exploring the poetry-making world, from themes to forms, continued, as did my writing then and now. I didn’t regret not publishing and still don’t, so just write, mainly for this blog, and I’m happy with that.

What There Is Now

 

Your string of pearls,
each bead knotted
for a year of your age,
three more for the hope
you’ll never reach,
stays warm
in my hand;

Your painting:
the sun above
all that black sand,
fire flecking the dunes
you never trusted,
holds to the wall,
flickering.

The house is hollow,
echoes the air
around your far bed.
I know you now
for a tired messenger,
light in the sliding shadows,
heat at my fingertips.

October - revised

 

Crisp gold, the leaves in the garden,
brittle for burning.
I choke on the musky smoke of the bonfire
and my eye sting
as warm ashes are raked over scorched ground.
Now I cannot tell
which are autumn’s leavings,

which your ambivalent letters.

The Poet’s Fate

         

 

 

 

 

We lie: with every minor beauty
buxomed up, their craggy forms
bloated by odious praise, then duty
’s done its worst; we now have norms       

buxomed up, their craggy forms
busted out on bones where dozy
’s done its worst. We now have norms
plumped up to make forms cosy,       

busted out on bones where dozy
’s deathly deeds’ve trumped art, sly,
plumped up to make forms cosy.
Besides, I haven’t an idea why

deathly deeds’ve trumped art; sly
pantoums slink across this field,
besides. I haven’t an idea why
obedience takes its place. I yield:

pantoums slink across this field
bloated by odious praise, then duty;
obedience takes its place. I yield -
we lie with every minor beauty.