but when I grow up I’ll know. When I grow up
I’ll pluck at my bedclothes to collect lost thoughts.
I’ll roll them into balls and swallow them.
HUGO WILLIAMS
New Year Behind the Asylum
There was the noise like when the men in droves
Are hurrying to the match only this noise was
Everybody hurrying to see the New Year in
In town under the clock but we, that once,
He said would I come our usual Saturday walk
And see it in out there in the open fields
Behind the asylum. Even on sunny days
How it troubled me more and more the nearer we got
And he went quiet and as if he was ashamed
For what he must always do, which was
Go and grip the bars of the iron gates and stand
Staring into the garden until they saw him.
They were like the animals, so glad and shy
Like overgrown children dressed in things
Handed down too big or small and they came in a crowd
And said hello with funny chunnering noises
And through the bars, looking so serious,
He put his empty hand out. But that night
We crept past quickly and only stopped
In the middle of the empty fields and there
While the clock in the square where the normal people stood
And all the clocks in England were striking twelve
We heard the rejoicings for the New Year
From works and churches and the big ships in the docks
So faint I wished we were hearing nothing at all
We were so far away in our black fields
I felt we might not ever get back again
Where the people were and it was warm, and then
Came up their sort of rejoicing out of the asylum,
Singing or sobbing I don’t know what it was
Like nothing on earth, their sort of welcoming in
Another New Year and it was only then
When the bells and the cheerful hooters couldn’t be heard
But only the inmates, only the poor mad people
Singing or sobbing their hearts out for the New Year
That he gripped me fast and kissed my hair
And held me in against him and clung on tight to me
Under a terrible number of bare stars
So far from town and the lights and house and home
And shut my ears against the big children crying
But listened himself, listened and listened
That one time. And I’ve thought since and now
He’s dead I’m sure that what he meant was this:
That I should know how much love would be needed.
DAVID CONSTANTINE
Tullynoe: Tête-à-Tête in the Parish Priest’s Parlour
‘Ah, he was a grand man.’
‘He was: he fell out of the train going to Sligo.’
‘He did: he thought he was going to the lavatory.’
‘He did: in fact he stepped out the rear door of the train.’
‘He did: God, he must have got an awful fright.’
‘He did: he saw that it wasn’t the lavatory at all.’
‘He did: he saw that it was the railway tracks going away from him.’
‘He did: I wonder if… but he was a grand man.’
‘He was: he had the most expensive Toyota you can buy.’
‘He had: well, it was only beautiful.’
‘It was: he used to have an Audi.’
‘He had: as a matter of fact he used to have two Audis.’
‘He had: and then he had an Avenger.’
‘He had: and then he had a Volvo.’
‘He had: in the beginning he had a lot of Volkses.’
‘He had: he was a great man for the Volkses.’
‘He was: did he once have Escort?’
‘He had not: he had a son a doctor.’
‘He had: he had a Morris Minor too.’
‘He had: and he had a sister a hairdresser in Kilmallock.’
‘He had: he had another sister a hairdresser in Ballybunion.’
‘He had: he was put in a coffin which was put in his father’s cart.’
‘He was: his lady wife sat on top of the coffin driving the donkey.’
‘She did: Ah, but he was a grand man.’
‘He was: he was a grand man …’
‘Good night, Father.’
‘Good night, Mary.’
PAUL DURCAN
The Achill Woman
She came up the hill carrying water.
She wore a half-buttoned, wool cardigan,
a tea-towel round her waist.
She pushed the hair out of her eyes with
her free hand and put the bucket down.
The zinc-music of the handle on the rim
tuned the evening. An Easter moon rose.
In the next-door field a stream was
a fluid sunset; and then, stars.
I remember the cold rosiness of her hands.
She bent down and blew on them like broth.
And round her waist, on a white background,
in coarse, woven letters, the words ‘glass cloth.’
And she was nearly finished for the day.
And I was all talk, raw from college-
week-ending at a friend’s cottage
with one suitcase and the set text
of the Court poets of the Silver Age.
We stayed putting down time until
the evening turned cold without warning.
She said goodnight and started down the hill.
The grass changed from lavender to black.
The trees turned back to cold outlines.
You could taste frost
but nothing now can change the way I went
indoors, chilled by the wind
and made a fire
and took down my book
and opened it and failed to comprehend
the harmonies of servitude,
the grace music gives to flattery
and language borrows from ambition –
and how I fell asleep
oblivious to
the planets clouding over in the skies,
the slow decline of the Spring moon,
the songs crying out their ironies.
EAVAN BOLAND
How the Wild South East was Lost
for Robert Maclean
See, I was raised on the wild side, border country,
Kent ’n’ Surrey, a spit from the country line,
An’ they bring me up in a prep school over the canyon:
Weren’t no irregular verb I couldn’t call mine.
Them days, I seen oldtimers set in the ranch-house
(Talkin’ ’bout J. ‘Boy’ Hobbs and Pat C. Hendren)
Blow a man clean away with a Greek optative.
Scripture test, or a sprig o’ that rho-do-dendron.
Hard pedallin’ country, stranger, flint ’n’ chalkface,
Evergreen needles, acorns an’ beechmast shells,
But stop that old lone pine you could squint clean over
To the dome o’ the Chamber o’ Commerce in Tunbridge Wells.
Yep, I was raised in them changeable weather conditions:
I seen ’em, afternoon of a sunny dawn,
Clack up the deck chairs, bolt for the back French windows
When they bin drinkin’ that strong tea on the lawn.
In a cloud o’ pipesmoke rollin’ there over the canyon,
Book-larned me up that Minor Scholarship stuff:
Bent my back to that in-between innings light roller
And life weren’t easy. And that’s why I’m so tough.
KIT WRIGHT
‘Unrelated Incidents’ – No. 3
this is thi
six a clock
news t
hi
man said n
thi reason
a talk wia
BBC accent
iz coz yi
widny wahnt
mi ti talk
aboot thi
trooth wia
voice lik
wanna yoo
scruff. if
a toktaboot
thi trooth
lik wanna yoo
scruff yi
widny thingk
it wuz troo.
jist wanna yoo
scruff tokn.
thirza right
way ti spell
ana right way
ti tok it. this
is me tokn yir
right way a
spellin. this
is ma trooth.
yooz doant no
thi trooth
yirsellz cawz
yi canny talk
right. this is
the six a clock
nyooz. belt up.
TOM LEONARD
Shakespeare at School
Forty boys on benches with their quills,
Six days a week through almost all the year,
Long hours of Latin with relentless drills
And repetition, all enforced by fear.
I picture Shakespeare sitting near the back,
Indulging in a risky bit of fun
By exercising his prodigious knack
Of thinking up an idiotic pun,
And whispering his gem to other boys,
Some of whom could not suppress their mirth –
Behaviour that unfailingly annoys
Any teacher anywhere on earth.
The fun was over when the master spoke:
Will Shakespeare, come up here and share the joke.
WENDY COPE
Bagpipe Muzak, Glasgow 1990
When A. and R. men hit the street
To sign up every second band they meet
Then marketing men will spill out spiel
About how us Glesca folk are really real
(Where once they used to fear and pity
These days they glamorise and patronise our city –
Accentwise once they could hear bugger all
That was not low, glottal or guttural,
Now we’ve ‘kudos’ incident’ly
And the Patter’s street-smart, strictly state-of-the-art
And our oaths are user-friendly).
It’s all go the sandblaster, it’s all go Tutti Frutti,
All we want is a wally close with Rennie Mackintosh putti
Malkie Machismo invented a gismo for making whisky oot o’ girders
He tasted it, came back for mair, and soon he was on to his thirders.
Rabbie Burns turned in his grave and dunted Hugh MacDiarmid,
Said: It’s oor National Thorn, John Barleycorn, but I doot we’ll ever learn it …
It’s all go the Rotary Club, it’s all go ‘The Toast Tae The Lassies’,
It’s all go Holy Willie’s Prayer and plunging your dirk in the haggis.
Robbie Coltrane flew Caledonian MacBrayne
To Lewis … on a Sunday!
Protesting Wee Frees fed him antifreeze
(Why God knows) till he was comatose
And didnae wake up till the Monday.
Aye it’s Retro Time for Northern Soul and the whoop and the skirl o’ the saxes.
All they’ll score’s more groundglass heroin and venison filofaxes.
The rent-boys preen on Buchanan Street, their boas are made of vulture,
It’s all go the January sales in the Metropolis of Culture.
It’s all go the PR campaign and a radical change of image –
Write Saatchi and Saatchi a blank cheque to pay them for the damage.
Tam o’Shanter fell asleep
To the sound of fairy laughter
Woke up on the cold-heather hillside
To find it was ten years after
And it’s all go (again) the Devolution Debate and pro … pro … proportional representation.
Over pasta and pesto in a Byres Road bistro, Scotland declares hersel’ a nation.
Margo McDonald spruced up her spouse for thon Govan By-Election
The voters they selectit him in a sideyways left defection,
The Labour man was awfy hurt, he’d dependit on the X-fillers
And the so-and-sos had betrayed him for thirty pieces of Sillars!
Once it was no go the SNP, they were sneered at as ‘Tory’ and tartan
And thought to be very little to do with the price of Spam in Dumbarton.
Now it’s all go to the Nationalists, the toast of the folk and the famous
– Of Billy Connolly, Muriel Gray and the Auchtermuchty Proclaimers.
It’s all go L.A. lager, it’s all go the Campaign for an Assembly
It’s all go Suas Alba and winning ten–nil at Wembley.
Are there separatist dreams in the glens and the schemes?
Well … it doesny take Taggart to detect it!
Or to jalouse we hate the Government
And we patently didnae elect it.
So – watch out Margaret Thatcher, and tak’ tent Neil Kinnock
Or we’ll tak’ the United Kingdom and brekk it like a bannock.
LIZ LOCHHEAD
Belfast Confetti
Suddenly as the riot squad moved in, it was raining exclamation marks,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the explosion
Itself – an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst of rapid fire …
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept stuttering,
All the alleyways and side-streets blocked with stops and colons.
I know this labyrinth so well – Balaclava, Raglan, Inkerman, Odessa Street –
Why can’t I escape? Every move is punctuated. Crimea Street. Dead end again.
A Saracen, Kremlin-2 mesh. Makrolon face-shields. Walkie-talkies. What is
My name? Where am I coming from? Where am I going? A fusillade of question-marks.
CIARAN CARSON
Poor Snow
The violet
light of snow falling.
Its tiny darts
make eye stripes.
Dark flakes
rapid, upwards.
It’s restless, it can’t
find whiteness.
Its grey and violet
trillion souls.
DENISE RILEY
Listen Mr Oxford Don
Me not no Oxford don
me a simple immigrant
from Clapham Common
I didn’t graduate
I immigrate
But listen Mr Oxford don
I’m a man on de run
and a man on de run
is a dangerous one
I ent have no gun
I ent have no knife
but mugging de Queen’s English
is the story of my life
I dont need no axe
to split/ up yu syntax
I dont need no hammer
to mash/ up yu grammar
I warning you Mr Oxford don
I’m a wanted man
and a wanted man
is a dangerous one
Dem accuse me of assault
on de Oxford dictionary/
imagine a concise peaceful man like me/
dem want me serve time
for inciting rhyme to riot
but I tekking it quiet
down here in Clapham Common
I’m not a violent man Mr Oxford don
I only armed wit mih human breath
but human breath
is a dangerous weapon
So mek dem send one big word after me
I ent serving no jail sentence
I slashing suffix in self-defence
I bashing future wit present tense
and if necessary
> I making de Queen’s English accessory/to my offence
JOHN AGARD
Alien
… as a woman I have no country.
– VIRGINIA WOOLF
I have never returned
wounded, to the white cliffs
of Dover, knowing I rule –
though a bit of shrapnel
is my heart –
over and over singing
Elizabeth and England
in the bottom of
a gunboat.
No. I walk these streets
already beautifully paved
with bones of enemies
and women. I am subject
to a proud succession,
brave and noble sons
in mufti, bowler hats.
Who point to our great poets
with their walking sticks
of oak. Who will not bury
my heart in Westminster Abbey,
singing God the Father God
the Son and God the Holy Ghost,
this morning the serving maid
burned the toast.
Eliza sits below stairs to mend
the linen here in England’s
green and pleasant –
and this land is my land
to which I have never returned.
GILLIAN ALLNUTT
To a Cuckoo at Coolanlough
Driving the perfect length of Ireland,
The Map and the Clock Page 40
