William McIlvanney.

         Just heard, William McIlvanney died aged 79, they announced his death as "crime author dies", I never read any of his novels, though I'm sure they were brilliantly crafted, but loved his poetry. He seemed to be able to get into the heads of so many characters, his poetry could distil what it is to be human. I find it difficult to pick out one that stands out from the others, they, to me, are all up there on the high altar of wonderful poetry.

     My small tribute to William McIlvanney is this verse V, from "Initiation" in his book, "In Through The Head". 

My father's personal Midian was The Strike,
Say 'nineteen twenty-six' and watch his eyes
Bruise still with images of boot and pick.
Beyond the room's bright warmth he heard the cries
Of children starving and the feet of men
Subduing anguish to a measured walk,
You didn't interrupt his anger when
He brought up gouts of blood in his talk.

'Sam Harris hanged himself',''Ah've see a wean
Whose staple diet was a dummy tit.'
'The batoned bastards beat up unarmed men.'
Not an economist's view, He didn't find
The key that locks pain safely in a law.
Raw facts still looted comfort from his mind,
Broke into his indifference. He saw
Only the cold, blind heaving ranks who crushed
Into the closing justice of their time
Only to be rejected. Pictures strung
Out of his mind unbroken, newsreel rushed
Straight from the scene of an historic crime;
The pit-cage talk before fierce hopes were hung
On a slender thread of unity; the bands
That grouped lean jowls round any bone of news
To sharpen hope's teeth on it; big quiet men
Who rotted with their pockets round their hands;
The shame of looking at your children's shoes;
Soup-kitchens; five fags shared among ten;
At countless corners the spontaneous wake
Held by silk-mufflered men for self-respect.
Hearing him talk you came to realize
That history is what time leaves in men's eyes,
The shape their thinking takes. His was a fate
Coined in the twenties, already out of date
By the time the thirties ended or before,
Survivor of an unofficial war,
The scars he carried made him not quite fit
To enjoy the subsequent peace or understand
That this was all the gain their fight had brought.
He did not recognise the promised land.
You might, of course, have cited this bright room,
Full bellies, clothes, as what their guts had won.
But that was an impertinence to him,
Whose dream had seemed as certain as the sun.
Were bingo, the telly, hire purchase cars
As a measure of their sacrifice enough?
Later, in casual talk or busy bars,
You seem to hear a distant ideal sough,
Cry of a Dodo haunting the pleasant day,
Recalling the need to care, a debt to pay.

Thanks William, for your window onto humanity.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

 

A Wee Bit Late.

      Jeeesus, I've missed National Poetry Day, how did I manage that? October 8th. National Poetry Day, three days late. So I'll make up for it with three instead of one.

     First, one from an old friend from the Scotia poetry nights, Hughie Healy, sadly died of throat cancer some time ago, at the time I was going through cancer treatment of my own.

UMMEE

She brought her culture and mystique

To my city street

This Asian mother and child

The exotic colours of her shalmar-kameez

Highlighted brown skin and dark eyes

Her lips moved

In prayer perhaps

To a different god than mine

The little one spoke words

I failed to comprhend

She answered

In the universal language of mothers

I'm oot withoot any money

So shut your face

You're getting nae crisps!

And one from away back in my early years. 

Knowledge.

In learned books what do we gain,

argue Heidegger with Russell, Sartre, Berlin, 

quote Descartes, Kant, Wittgenstein,

know all the answers

to a world w never live in.

So,   richer by far a labourer be

perhaps, never to read nor write

but with a glance, a smiling eye

name each tree, each bird in flight.

Who'll stand in awe at a burning sunrise,

enjoy the cool moisture of a summer shower,

wonder at life in a woodland paradise,

marvel at the changing colour in ever hour.

Glow at the warmth in a lover's embrace,

willingly give that gentle kiss,

lovingly touch a smiling face,

relish holding hands in silent bliss.

Experience magic through a child's sight,

know how to dry its tear,

when to lift it, hold it tight,

bringing comfort, chasing fear.

Desipient book worms may shake their head,

mock his untutored state, only see a fool,

his knowledge will stand him in greater stead,

he took his learning at amore erudite school.

Now one from a man I have admired for many a year, William McIlvanney.

Everyman: A Morality Play.

"Aye, zur," Everyman said, as the Lord of the Manor

raped his wife, sons and his daughters and threw him a tenner.

"Aye, zur," Everyman said, " that be bully for 'ee."

And he pulled up his smock as he bowed from the knee

With a delicate click of obedient clogs

And a tail-wagging movement he borrowed from the dogs.

"Aye, zur," Everyman said, that be bully for 'ee. 

"Appen Maister be wantin ma bollocks for tea?"

With a father from the north and a mother from the south

He let every cliché find a home in his mouth

Being taught as a man he would never be fit,

He was skilled in the role of an identikit. 

He learned his lines well until one fateful day,

Though his mouth still remembered the things he should say,

A slight twinge in one leg made him suddenly see;

"Get a grip, Human beings can't bow from the knee."

"Ach, fuck this for a play,"every man said,

Took the lord of the manner and stove in his head.

There I hope I have made amends for missing National Poetry  Day.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk