Sonnet: the first. A twisted love story

You raise your eyes and scan the room for them

Your disappointment palpable to all.

There is no prize but pain; scorched earth within

All bitter bile and biting acid gall.

Without, what is the point, where is the end?

For what, these small reluctant breaths, this pulse?

Irreverent life that will not condescend

To stop this onward march that has no sense.

And yet, there is the memory of hope.

Where razed emotions leave faint trace of joys

And the seeds of new beginnings hint at their scope,

There is this ineluctable truth: time destroys.

Hearts are broken again and again and again;
The insensate clock continues its bloody hopeful reign.

Write what you know

Write what you know

He said.

I said

And what do I know.

I rake through dirty washing.

Sift socks and laddered tights.

Bin the too-worn and the too-torn and wonder.

My Mother said, when asked

A clean shite n spoon-feed fur a livin'

I've inherited the family trade.

And though I love the smell of wind-blasted clothes

I never get to the bottom of that basket

What words would I find there

Amongst the odd socks and dirty knickers?

Birth: March 1997

You could touch the head now.
Go on
Go on
Just there. See.
Put your hand down.
Touch the head.

Irritation severs the concentration
Tethering me to sanity.
Tears down walls
Between me and fear.

The world is contracted.
To just this
Perfect convulsion of muscle and blood.
The rupture of membranes
Slow burn of skin-fissures opening to the pool.

I bite my way around the blue rubber.
I hear him laugh at the perfect line of teeth-marks.
The radio is wrong.
There can be no world outside of this:
Where there is no I
Only a lowing, moaning animal
calling to a God who does not hear.

She hushes me and is
Hushed in return.
Let her cry out.

That first time, it was to death.
As I fought against the bloody rhythm of birth.

Now, in this nexus,
meeting-place for life and death
I am Omphalos.
And from my baetyl belly
you are called out.

She casts a line of voice.
Hooks and reels.
Interrupts instinctive expulsive intention.

Little breathes she says.
Now pant pant pant pant

The pool flushes sudden red
And your round head is born into the waters.

Briefly, you hover between worlds
Between dreaming and being.
Until that final shudder delivers me to myself.
And she gently scoops you from the flood
Into my arms.

I hear your father's sob of breath.
A Robin's song from the gardens beyond this room.
The tea trolley trundling up the ward.

Brownsbank Cottage: Poetry Readings

Brownsbank Cottage Trust held a fundraiser at the Corn Exchange in Biggar last night. Robert was going - he's sympathetic to the Trust's aims and in any case, two pupils from the school were singing - so I tagged along, intrigued enough by the poetic line-up to overcome usual reservations about being 'the Heidie's wife'.

Brownsbank is special. Well, to Scots who enjoy poetry, it's special. Though maybe, nationally, it is almost on a par with Burns' Cottage in Alloway.

Hugh MacDiarmid (pen name of Christopher Murray Grieve) lived at Brownbank with his wife Valda from 1952 until his death in 1978. Valda died in 1989. The Biggar Museum Trust restored the Cottage and the Cottage has sheltered and supported several significant Scottish writers in residence since (Brownsbank Fellows).

MacDiarmid's poetry can be found with a simple name google so I'll not post links. Last night James Robertson (deservedly big 'giant' of the Scottish literary scene and former Brownsbank writer-in-residence who credits his time there as life-transforming); Aonghas MacNeacail (ditto Brownsbank - but also one of the most significant Scottish poets writing in Gaelic in Scotland today - his name translates to Angus MacNicol or Nicolson and his nickname's Aonghas Dubh or Black Angus) and Alan Riach (poet and Professor of Scottish Literature at Glasgow University), read from their own work. They read against a backdrop of paintings by Sheila Mullen all of which had been inspired by individual poems by the three writers (http://www.sheilamullen.co.uk/).

Aonghas was breath-taking. Life-affirming. He read this poem from his 2007 collection Laoidh an Daonais Òg / Hymn to a Young Demon:  'A' Dèanamh Ìme' (‘Making Butter’) :

chan eil a shamhla ann –
tionndadh ’s a’ tionndadh a’ ghileid òraich
am broinn dòrcha na h-eanchainn
ag èisteachd ri suirghe is
dealachadh is pòsadh
nan lid luasganach leaghtach
ag èisteachd airson nam boinne
blàthaich a’ sileadh air falbh o
ghramalas òrbhuidhe dàin

(‘there’s nothing like it – / turning and turning the golden whiteness / inside the darkness of the brain / listening to the wooings and / partings and weddings / of soluble tossed-about syllables / listening for the drops / of buttermilk trickling away from / the golden yellow firmness of a poem’, trans. Aonghas MacNeacail)

The Gaelic first. Soft on his tongue. Reminding me of Sorley MacLean (Somhairle MacGill-Eain) whom I have always loved. Then the English version and comprehension. What a beautiful metaphor for creation. For the makar.

James and Alan are very excellent writers. I prefer James' novels to his poetry. His poetry is finely crafted but his novels are big, human, insightful and beautifully constructed. Alan? - he is a very English Scottish writer. I've always found his poems lacking in heart. They taste manufactured. Perhaps I just need to try harder with him as he appeared a very sound and humble man.

It's a shaming admission - but I've not gone to many any poetry readings before.

Destructive preconceptions I suppose. Some of which were confirmed. But most of which were blown away  - making me angry with my own shallow responses and unreflecting prejudice.

I think it's been a class thing - in the sense that working class Scots don't go to poetry readings. Poetry readings are pretentious. The folk who go to things like that are the luvvies who like their pain and their poverty to be virtual and written.

More significantly it's also an innate Scottish Presbyterian thing: Poetry? Of what use is that? Does it butter parsnips? Is it of practical assistance or purpose? Can you earn a worthy living at it?

I've touched on all that before I think: here

But I think, too, that poetry has always been such a private experience for me. I have written since I was able to hold a pencil. And though I've occasionally wondered what other people would make of my poetry I've had little desire (beyond family) to find out.

But now that I'm aware of at least some of the 'reasons' I will seek readings out again.

I am also wondering about my own work. Is there anything poetic about what I write that could be read with pleasure by others? And for my poems (here and here for instance) - their multitudes call to me from desk drawers and notebooks and pen drives - can they be found a published home?

http://www.biggarmuseumtrust.co.uk/home/brownsbank-cottage
http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poets/aonghas-macneacail
http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poets/alan-riach
http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poets/james-robertson

Just tell the truth...

Beware the client who can only recollect those things he/she knows he/she hasn't done. Especially when - after every grilling from their advocate and every separate reading of the evidence against them they'll come up with numerous, different, explanations of what really happened.

Ordinarily you ditch the dirty lying bastard - if you really cannot stem the tide of inconsistency, volte face and obvious falsehood.

In the end there will be nothing you can do or say which will expunge the impact of a client's own inconsistent approach to 'truth'. These are the ones who can't help themselves. There is nothing good going to come, with even just one response changed mid-hearing.

Think client statements such as:

You know you asked me to think carefully about what I could remember? Well... I was really raking my memory about that thing I said I really didn't do and it suddenly came to me! I did say/do something a bit like I'm reported to have said/done.

OR exchanges such as -

Me: And what kind of people are they? Do they have a motive to lie about you?
Client: No. No. They're really good folk. Decent. Very honest.
Big pregnant pause. During which I look at the client. Look away. Turn the pages of the 3 statements produced by the other side.
Me: So. Decent honest folk.
The statement is allowed to hang in the air between us. I raise my eyebrows and look at my client, expectantly. Client looks at desk, adjusts rings.
Me: Why would these decent honest folk lie?
Silence.
Me: Put it this way: either they are lying or you are. Which is it?

But then, work and Ego give you a defence to narrate; words to locate; an alternative to spin. And if there is a client refusal to explain inconsistency coupled with a constant denial of the accusations and they provide their own narrative, well...

A friend once suggested 'myside bias' for a case I was really struggling with. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confirmation_bias. It was certainly plausible. Unorthodox. But worth a try. And meant there was no snake-training to be done - as I could rope ostensibly scaly truths to a single over-arching narrative. It worked. To a degree.

The thing is - all life is here. Clients come in all shapes. They can be 'creepy' (with a habit of introducing the topic of sex at every opportune moment seen) or they can be intrinsically decent (with a lovely smiling happy family, three rescue cats and dogs and a track record of charitable works). They can be pompous (with an overbearing dismissive air and a tendency to quote the words of high-falutin' well-connected friends in high places) or they can be frightened (hand-wringing and crying and constantly apologising).

I see them at a time in their lifes when the world has contracted to a pinpoint - their future (and possibly that of their families) comes down to hearing outcomes and legal points. And it's probably this intensity that emphasises and distorts particular bits of their personalities.

Most will ask: what would you do?

And I say: The truth - however difficult that can sometimes be to own - is best. Be honest. If you are innocent of all accusations then your testimony will acquit you. If there is 'guilt', forgiveness is more readily granted to he or she who acknowledges wrong-doing and who demonstrates remorse. And sanctions imposed through forgiveness will invariably be measured to reflect the learning you have done.

Truthfully, we are none of us equipped to be our best advocate at times of such great stress.

If it were me I would be no different than they. I would snotter and cry and hand-wring with the best and worst of them.

I would need someone to do for me what I would do for myself if I were able: defend and protect me - and maybe that would sometimes be from myself.


 

 

Ma Familia - for e.f. (the other four wains!)

Ma Familia
(from left to right - Jamie, Lewis, Evan, Megan and Ana)

Just another work day.

Client bought lunch with the £20 his wife had given him. My guilt churned the chicken noodle soup I'd just consumed. He hinted at years of unhappiness. I ignored the hook. He whined about money; about returning to work; about the work itself. He hated the place. Hated his old colleagues. None of them had even called to ask him how he was. She (wife) was pushing him to go back. Money was tight. But that was her fault. He was finished. He had had enough. He wasn't going back. He wanted out. How could I make sure he got as much money out of the bastards as he could?

He rejected the Occupational Health Report. That OH Doctor was 'a bastard', 'a company man' who'd tricked him into saying he wanted to retire. He just wanted them to dismiss him. That way he'd get his 12 weeks in lieu. Then he'd access his pension.

The meeting with line manager and HR was stilted. HR wooden-top was blind to the opportunities thrown her way. I'd done her job for her. Outlined the options we all knew were on the corporate tick list. Then  gone through each one explaining why my client rejected them. HR was hesitant.  Unsure. I could see her thinking: where's the catch? 

She turned to my client, to ask him all the questions I'd answered in my summation. Explaining that she had to attend to the procedure.

Client answered in tangential rants. Starting with blunt negatives and then spinning rhetoric that drew all and everything into the vortex of his increasing rage. There was no alternative. He didn't want to come back to this sector. He'd deck someone or worse. He couldn't tell what he would do. But he knew he couldn't work with traitors and two-faced folk.

I asked for an adjournment. I talked and he calmed.

I went to fetch line manager and HR.

I entered the office they were hiding in, shutting the door carefully behind me.

Are you really telling me you want him back in the workplace? You cannot be serious. Dismiss him now. There will be no appeal. I can assure you. Give him his 12 weeks in lieu and start the pension ball rolling. Let him go.

Outside he punched the air in victory. I stood awkwardly - noting HR and line manager watching from behind blinds. Then he said oh you, come here and pulled me into a thank you embrace.

When I got home I quietly closed the bathroom door behind me. I stripped to the gentle sound of
running water methodically folding garments as I removed them. I avoided meeting my own gaze in the mirror.



* please note - this post is fictional - similarities to any living person is entirely coincidental...