Artists at Lanark Loch
Across the dark reflections of the loch
the sun has ruled art deco lines of light
through which the cooly critical swans swim,
rococoing them into swirls of sky as if to say,
That's how it should be done.
The tartan moiré ripples lip the shore,
bounce off, cross and recross themselves and stir
white birch trunks into marbled ebru shapes
like the end papers of Victorian books.
Modestly, no artist has signed their work.
I took a copy with my camera.
It won me first prize, and a thusand pounds.
I made damn sure they had my name spelled right.
One kind of ending
... and sealed up safe in an ivory box
a living engine hums,
running with morning thoughts.
The taste of coffee, the smell of bread
linger, and a song
dances around his head.
The sun is warm on his denim sleeve.
He buys a paper, runs
onto the train, and they’ve
come out of nowhere. Guns point. He thinks
there’s a bomb. A bear hugs
him. His thoughts lock. He blinks.
Seven shots burst the ivory box:
coffee, the bread, the song,
splash on the floor, and that’s
... one kind of ending
The Writers Group that met on 14th February
Because they were writers, not lovers,
They abandoned their loved ones on Valentine’s night
to sit in a pub and talk about writing.
Because they were writers and also lovers,
they wrote poems and stories about love
to read out on Valentine’s night to others
and fobbed off their lovers with easy gifts.
Because they were more writers than lovers,
they lavished their energy on words and paper
and arrived home late muttering,
Not tonight I’m too tired.
Because they were firstly writers and then lovers,
they told lies, like
What matters is what you do the other 364 days.
Another word for this is Fiction.
If they had been better lovers than writers,
the meeting would have been on the15th.
You better not cry
Santa Claus is busy
his boots don’t make a noise
big fat and red he’s coming soon
for little girls and boys.
White rabbit peelings trim his coat
his beard hides a surprise
he laughs ho ho like a maniac
he’s somebody in disguise.
He’ll stuff you in his hairy sack
and tie you in a bow,
he’ll toss you to his helpers
– In the dark their noses glow –
and you’ll hear the slay bell ringing
as o’er the hills you go.
