My poetry written in English
Never sure he needed a prompter
or a ponce, Mr Honk was desperate
to play the farewells and greetings
as if they were merely exercises
in elocution or, at most, ill-equipped,
restless harbingers of piles—
just another great Scottish tragedy
of arse.
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There are no apple trees in paradise,
only tomato vines with stakes and trellises
for reclusive eccentrics’ convenience,
and how very British—counting days
or lamp posts with the awareness
that our greatest invention might be
the flushing water closet.
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Have you ever been let down
by a typewriter,
with its slugs tap-dancing
on a torn-out flyleaf,
or a fountain pen
preoccupied with the antepenult
in dissyllables?
And yet, you might still prefer that
to chalking doors.
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Caught in ungraceful ageing,
like the past imperfect
clinging to a collection of grainy photographs,
Mr Honk felt tangential
every time he was greeted by a neighbour
with the unfamiliar ‘Ay ay, fit like?’
or ‘Foos yer doos?’,
unable to muster the expected
‘Nae bad, chavin’ awa’ in response,
not because of the vernacular barrier
but for the simple fact that he’d answer the hum
of a foghorn or oystercatcher’s cry
rather than admitting that he longed for a touch
of unadulterated soma.
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Whether it’s a tourniquet or a poultice,
small talk plays its part only if both parties believe
in the magic of innocuous prattle,
even if sometimes you have to destroy
evidence to the contrary—
no wonder an old heathen remains silent.
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‘There is something about adjectives
that makes one feel rather peckish’
was an opening line for a casual conversation
whose consequences, like death by misadventure
as a raree-show, lay between two words,
whispered at midnight with Nina Simone,
when you weren’t sure
if you were greeting a new day
or mourning the past one.
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From anacoluthon through zeugma,
Mr Honk savoured his grammatical incongruity
in the omnitude of the alphabet
as if linguistic phenomena were the draught that gave him life—
even if pronounced by a Doppler shift—
with an inclination to say ‘perhaps’ rather than ‘maybe’
and ‘indeed’ instead of a blunt ‘yes’,
which earned him the well-deserved title of snob—
a negligible price to pay for a stint in the temple of solitude—
the lost consort.
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How do you feel when you see a gutter snipe
coming from Ms Woolf’s pen, and is that shiver
a sign of elevated social awareness or the fact
that we keep the sentiment while updating the vocabulary—
something with ‘challenged’ at the end, perhaps—
just as the stack of cups next to the sink
is no longer clutter but a measuring device
that marks the passage of time?
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No one writes anymore
to Poste Restante
that the billowing gloom
of fluff and puff
says more about longing
than the pristine sky—
unfortunately relaxing—
like when a handful of pages
proves more than a thousand,
whether one follows Norval
or his father on the Grampian Hills.
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hidden pilcrow 