Summer
feet enter
hover at varying heights
above stone chippings
__the murmur of children
__building bird boxes
hearing aid feedback
cymbal sounds
go on and on
__the cat’s and the dog’s noses twitch
__reading each others minds
a lunar eclipse
draws a russet curtain
on summer’s plans
__viewing the apple orchard’s
__transient constellations
why try so hard when
our words fall into silences
and so will the leaves?
__starting to speak at the same time
__eyes glance down
it doesn’t matter
yet truly I did think
he would be interested
__a bouquet of crocuses
__on balance, a bad idea
so a blue tree
there in the top corner
en plein air au Barbizon
__Paris in Springtime without
__loneliness
across the table
the children exchange
arguments and kisses
__there’s a face you’d leave home
for
__he says of the waitress
pulling her mink tighter
fur buttons too fat
for their holes
__bored by the long break in play
__they throw snowballs at the spectators
teeth gritted
then the song that gets everyone
up on the floor
__dazzled by the glitter ball
__over silent fields
a famished wasp
charges its ring tone
on the last bramble
__that waterdrop sparkling web
__invisible? anything but
ignoring the blind spot
and pulling out, the passenger’s
right foot twitches
__smoke, wrote Brecht, while you drive –
__if it goes out, something’s wrong
in late summer
closing the door of her mother’s house
for the last time
__a flat palm
__smashes open the garlic
an angled lemon
outshines
the chopping board
__green tea and Qigong on the long haul
__prevent jet lag
in the quiet
the monk offers the traveller
a blow-job
__after the ceremony
__there’s nothing to do but eat
early potatoes
already sprouting
but there’s lead in the soil
__salt ‘n’ sauce? both hesitate
__unsure of the others tastes
forgetting herself
a mother on day release
cuts up her lover’s meat
__after breakfast they send out
__for more oysters
whether with or without
our noticing
the sun’s almost gone
__the night was made by Provost MacTavish
__and his good lady
boxes crammed
with bread, vegetables
and cans of mixed fruit salad
__floating amongst it all
__a big dollop of vanilla
the Lismore ferry –
vehicles, and fattened calves
heading for market
__stuff your bloody correctness
__you’ll lick arse if you have to
sixteen shirts every week
they don’t iron themselves
you know
__flat white drifts
__crunched in footprints
dog shit melts
a hole
in fresh snow
__his paintings emptied
__till they were all sky
two stars
tell us the night is cleared
for darkness
__some theorists forget
__that thinking is a bodily function
he throws the beach ball higher
so she’s forced
to stretch
__the lines of labour
__written on her belly
in the loft
the last train to Partick
runs all night
__fumbling through his euros
__at the Skye Bridge toll
at Sligachan we trace
the first and last of the snow
on Sgurr nan Gillean
__Meg asks can she see Sorley’s room
__the window that looked to the west
now the weather’s warmer
she shortens her skirts
for Blythswood Square
__after the demo paper everywhere –
__another man’s job
hosing down the corpses
pale human flesh –
Che, Marat, Christ
__I am the lamp
__which guides me
even when you can’t see
beyond your nose
follow the smell of smoke
__lighting cigarettes in the rain
__hunched together
the callgirl’s nickname
for Henri Tolouse-Lautrec
was teapot
__reading the leaves
__marriage, briefly
an out of tune piper
lamenting the dead
at the gates
__marked Private
__she can just see bluebells
Spring Bank Holiday
everyone hits the road
signposted Solitude
__too many cooks
__spoil the pancake race
in the evening
nodding off on the sofa
startled by the phone
__father in Australia
__talks mostly of cricket
dew freezes the outback
radar is ranging
the moon
__commuter’s day –
__leave before sunrise return after dark
casting
catch nothing
casting
__The Waterfall of the Maiden
__icy in June
damp patches on her blouse
a mother’s surprise
supply on demand
__we’ve come to expect
__food, fuel, gratified desire
the leaves come off
a glut of green
tomato chutney
__mulch under wellies
__kicked into the porch
the cats hope to impress us
with small overnight deaths
left on the mat
__from the oak a candle
__falls down and out
we’ve brought a nightlight
for the little one’s
next visit
__leave the frogspawn alone
__you’ll get all sticky
the tadpole succumbs
to a carp –
so much for evolution
__picking the samphire
__at low tide
a selkie you say?
already wondering
how she’ll taste
__her past lovers lie
__heavily on his side of the bed
a torrid night
in the attic the moon
slips through the panes
__sweating up The Rest and Be Thankful
__wishing for a flat tyre
let down once too often
from now on the failures
will be beheaded
__clear-cutting the rainforest
__the whole tribe gets whooping-cough
from under their shrouds
feet of men, feet of women
feet of children
__at the school nativity
__the angel kicks the donkey
tempers rising
Ted slaps
Sylvia back
__even in the silly season
__poets don’t make the headlines
you miss one week
and the recycling box
takes over the hallway
__pungent wood smoke from next door
__they say he saves the ash
shrivelled little figs
that never made it
to the table
__swirling a late cup of milky tea
__what she’d like is sunshine
wedding day breakfast
coffee with whisky
then whisky
__eggs over easy
__on rye
like sprinkled pepper
these moles on your back
or stars
__after weeks of deciding
__they named her Cassiopeia
now she sets ablaze
the horizon
of his eightieth year
__new clothes for Easter
__dancing in the street
all mouth this spring
lots of flounce
but nowt left hanging
__allotments flourish
__all the way to the summit.
a
hyakuin renga in Summer
(night of the full blue moon)
the hidden gardens (nva), tramway, Glasgow
(noon) 31 July – (noon) 1 August, 2004
Renga schema: Paul Conneally
nine poets
Larry Butler
Ken Cockburn
David Connearn
Gerrie Fellows
Alec Finlay
Peter Manson
Dick Pettit
Beth Rowson
Colin WillWith thanks to Anne-Marie Culhane,
Morven Gregor & Linda MacDonald.
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