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poem
Whisky Tour
This poem was written to be performed. Fast, like rap. It's a tour driving north up the west coast of Scotland, across the top and down the other side, visiting the whisky distilleries in roughly the right order. Let's go!
WHISKY TOUR
Kinclaith, Moidart,
Oban, Knoydart,
Inchmurrin and Nevis and Long.
Where Dornoch in the east no match
For the sheer-cliff-faced Liathach
And deep Loch Torridon.
Campbeltown’s bell-end of Kintyre
Hangs low along the coast
From Scotia and Springbank in the shade
To Tobermoray to drink Ledaig.
Glen Shira supped by Rob Roy’s ghost
Where the Crow Road’s winding higher.
The breeze blows peat smoke over the hills
Of Ellen and Bowmore,
Fans wicker man flames on Summer Isle,
The sun sets gold beyond the Kyles
Of Bute, Lochalsh and Connalmore.
The A9 up Speyside to Aberlour
Stop in Knockando for a dram or four -
Balvenie, Benrhinnes and Cragganmore.
Albyne and Goyne, Skiag Bridge,
Stac Pollaidh’s crusty, spiky ridge.
The A894 to Calbha Mor
Craighouse on Jura and Barnhill Shore
Where Orwell wrote 1984.
Eddrachillis Bay at Drumbeg;
‘Of a thousand islands’ it is said
(Clouds of midges swarming round your head).
Caol Ila distils in a beautiful spot
Eagles cause Lochranza to stop
Cause they nest almost on top of the pots.
Back to the beaten track:
The A90 to distilleries
Benriach, Rothes and Balmenach
And south-south-west from Stoer;
Glenfiddich and Glen Grant.
Trotternish and Vaternish,
Corkeval and Healaval,
Allt-a-Vane and Daluaine,
Lochy, Lossie, Lant.
For Lowland try Bladnoch,
Rosebank and Garioch.
Macallan and Moray,
Scalpay and Islay,
Talisker for more whisky;
Glen Ord and Askaig,
Strathmill and Laphroaig,
Tomatin and Tomintoul
Nearby on the Spey.
Longmorn and Mortlach
The Inshore Road to Wrath
Where underground at Durness;
Smoo, Dhu, Eriboll and the rest
And east again to John O’Groats:
Clynelish and Pulteney with the wildcats and the boats.
The water of life tastes more tame
In Brora and Brackla,
Morangie and Tain.
Sip Scapa by the Lingro Burn
Where Orphir Orkney pecks the sea;
Last but not least, it’s Highland Park’s turn
Have a dram, you deserve it – slainte – on me!
Performed at Glasgow Worldcon, 2005
Trip
I was dipped in ink and into nightmares
He was my windburnt darling
Who lived in a customised ambulance
Played the atlas as a game of chance.
We were driving fast off the motorway onto country lanes
Where anything has happened
And I thought: shit, someone's stolen half the moon.
But it was only clouds
I think
So now I am very careful what I drink.
Tags:
Happy Hallowe'en everyone.
When the banshees wail
And the werewolves howl
And the dead in the churchyard sigh
When the witches scream
And their daemons hiss
When you hear the song of the Lorelei
When the goblins shout
And the boggarts yell
And the shades call out
From the depths of Hell!
When the phantom drummer
Drums his drum
And the midnight wraith
Whispers 'Come... oh, come...'
Then who will go?
...Not I.
This is a poem we used to recite when trick-or-treating - with yells and screams which left us quite hoarse, but rich in the way of sweets and filthy lucre. I don't know who wrote it, but if anyone does, I'd be grateful to know.
Tags:
Motorway poems II
Time for a poem. This one is the second in my 'Motorway Poems' sequence:
II: DISTANCE DRIVER
stars
fast cars
a lass too far
at the coming of night
and the dawn of day
a roofless flight
along the motorway
amber strobe light
and white street lines
to the vanishing point
in parallel times
the flat horizon
can’t check our speed
or slow our haste
an oil slicked greed
a lust for waste
a taste of grace
and chromed-up steel
do you feel alarmed?
charmed
by fast cars
and stars
Days of a Life
1: CAMBRIDGE ON A FRIDAY
Beating feet in fantasy,
I turn; he slips away
My body and my bike both conspire against me:
What shall I do today?
The sleet fell loud in Market Square
Insidious, the Fenland air.
I lay in my bed at three
And glanced at my watch seven times
In as many seconds.
2: BRADFORD ON A THURSDAY
‘Fluid prose,’ he told me once
But I forgot
Whether that was a good thing
Or not.
A lime-sugar sweet taste
Feet on the stair
I lean back to the mirror
Admire my hair
The soap opera theme tune
Swarms up from below
In the floor-boarded front room
He laughs, and I go
Back to the window
(Dry fingers on the sill)
And gaze down the valley
Which had never seemed so still.
3: CARDIFF ON A MONDAY
The yawning milkman separates
The morning from the night;
Across the rain-stirred reservoir
A flock of geese take flight.
And I have been watching
From my window, from first light.
I shall leave now, quietly
Through the back door
Through the veils of rain
Into the solace of my solitude again.