Strange Grace

for Marina Tsveteyeva

It seems this is the life
I was born to,
no money to speak of, but
conversations with friends
that jangle like new coins
in my pocket.
In the fish queue,
I notice the hem of my skirt
is coming apart,
my careful stitching unravelling
like the threads of a life.
This is how it is,
bad days followed by one
that is good.
And how to understand the difference?
But slowly I think,
and by some strange grace
something changes within me, allowing
the small hard knot
of fate to open,
admitting a half-light
to warm this small patch
of earth so that,
even as my blue hand turns
another potato for the knife
something unspoken
is illuminated

Poetry Ya Bass

Andrew Motion?
He's loco

Philip Larkin?
N’aubade

Sylvia Plath?
A pure gas, man

Seamus Heaney?
A jist don’t dig him

Jackie Kay?
No as black as she’s paintit

Edwin Morgan?
Whit planet is he oan?

Kathleen Jamie?
Wild!

Tom Gunn?
Am wi Goebbels

cul-de-sac

We stayed in a small hotel,
ate croissants, went out
early. Love was about
to fall somewhere, the bell
of notre dame was dumb,
invalides hidden in fog.
Metro-museum-metro, dog
days, the rain that had to come,
your blue cup sat, still life
on a side street, as we
watched an evening slowly fade.
The pavement artist with his knife
scraped out a miniature of you for me,
love at times requires a sharper blade.

To An Unknown Iraqi

I am a little cluster bomb
You must be wondering where I’m from

I’m from your dear friends in the west
For you must know that they know best

I’ll liberate you and your kin
Take Saddam out, put George Bush in

I’ve come to bring you peace at last
Please just ignore the odd bomb blast

I’ve come to make you proud and free
With Big Macs, Coke and MTV

I’ll try not to blow you clean apart
The truth is though, I’m not that smart

I’ll sort out access to your gas
For those good old boys back in Tex-ass

I hope you’re pleased to see me landing
Collateral damage notwithstanding

We’ll take the nerve gas from Saddam
(you know, like what we used in Vietnam)

Its not that I like to maim and kill
But if I don’t get you the sanctions will

‘course we’ll have to meet in secrecy
For I’m not allowed on the BBC

But I’ll be there, no ifs or buts
For doing this job takes lots of guts

And think, your death won’t be in vain
You’ll never have to fear again

And if wild sounds should reach your ears
It’ll be the White House saying “Cheers!”

And Mr Blair and Mr Straw
Will say, “Oh, What A Lovely War!”

Well, here I come, hey! – all the best!
And remember, dulce et decorum est!

Ballad O' Holyrood

It stertit wi a’ guid intent
Tae build a Scottish parliament
Whaur MSPs could a’ gie vent
Tae oor concerns
An cause the odd richt stoor anent
Jock Tamson’s bairns

But wha could mak a place sae braw
Wha widny dither, hum or haw
Could sic a chiel be fun’ at a’
At this late ‘oor
Step furrit noo, the nation’s pa’
Big Donald Dewar

Big Donald got yon chiel Miralles
Tae draw a Zanadu-lik palace
tho’ it turned oot a bit poisoned chalice
For Scottish folk
Wha, gin they think thirsells richt gallus
Thocht it a joke!

But Don an’ Enric c’ad the shots
Tied a’ the oppo up in knots
Sayin’, pick ony site ye like, there's lots
That fit the bill,
Foreby yon shibboleth o’ the Scots
On Calton Hill

The Tories said it made nae sense
The Libdems sat upon the fence
The Nats blew hot and cold and thence
They took the huff
Big Margo coontit up the pence
And said “Enough!”

Noo, wha’d a thocht some upturned boats
Wid cost near hauf a billion notes
That’s quite a lot a porridge oats
Fur oor wee clan
An’ nixt time that the nation votes
Wha’ll haud the can?

Bit noo its done, we’ve had the pain
We’ll learn to love it lik a wean
This child o’ Scotland and o’ Spain
Is aff the ropes
It kerries thru sun, snaw and rain
Oor nation’s hopes