Three of my favourite David McKelvie poems. But there are more!
"Six South Lanarkshire Birds" is one of the most perfect (unpublished) poems that I have read in recent times.
N.
PS: These are not meant to be circulated outside the group. Thanks.
Her hair is like a metronome
It sweeps her head as she sweeps her feet
And as I follow I watch her hair
Sweeping the air in a steady beat.
It sweeps her head as she sweeps her feet
It sweeps the air as a metronome
It sweeps a smile from a half-turned face
That echoes with light from the railway dome.
And as I follow I watch her hair
I watch it sweep from right to left
And when I see it disappear
My heart is broken, ripped, bereft.
Sweeping the air in a steady beat
I watch the air; I watch her feet;
I watch until ten folk compete
For my line of sight.
Now I'm in the
Street.
Six South Lanarkshire Birds
1.
The blackbird
is a country boy alone
in the city facing a crossing and worrying.
The flicking of the green man sets
a ticking flinch staccato;
makes him flap at an angle
and fly over the road to the pavement.
2.
The sparrow
is a greyhound chasing
hares when the gate crashes up
and clicks its four legs into sprint;
sliding out the cramped darkness
and cupboard in fear
of what's in the trap behind.
3.
The magpie
is Casanova early afternoon
readying each finger for love.
Spraying some scent on cuffs
and frills, and clipping nasal hair
for his variety of fifteen discrete
women waiting
by balconies and brushes.
4.
The pigeon
is a book by a broken author;
discredited,
weeping each morning at the reviews;
and picking up a fork, spears
another rind of bacon
and chews away
through the tears.
5.
The swift
is an athlete pole-vaulting
hopscotching, steeple chasing like crazy;
tumbling on the gym floor
for a doddery ten and then hurdling
up the track for medals and for whoops
and first-placed eyes to amaze.
6.
The crow
is a monk waiting, waiting, waiting.
Always waiting for some signal;
moodily as a grump.
Each twitch of the head asks
for some explanation,
something to be said
by the clouds or the road
or the monastery wall.
The Colonialist refuses to climb the ladder
"Tell them this," he said. "That I don't do heights.
I know I've wandered this far behind you
and__ wonders aside__ for five days and nights
I lost my stomach thinking of the view
you described then from the top of this ladder.
My distance from the ground affects my head.
The thought of elevation all together
sickens me. Now tell them all that," he said.
The translator, in a rough translation,
smiled: "He is scared of Demon Grah-vi-tee
who pulls folk down in rage to crush them
and he dare not tempt this vast majesty
so let him cower in his superstition
as we climb to view this savaged nation."
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