Singing in Scotland
Singing in Scotland
“Singing in the Dark”, my new collection, is out on February 27th, and on March 15th, thanks to very kind timetabling by the StAnza festival organisers, I hope to do a reading in St Andrews.
Anyone studying the defects of British public transport could start by planning a journey from the West of England to Scotland in a limited time. Alas, I’m flying. In the last twelve years I have only made one other flight, which was to my daughter’s wedding. I am afraid this had more to do with income than principle, but I trust the planet’s chemistry won’t notice the difference.
So, March 15. 5 a m. Wake on daughter’s sofa in Bristol next to guinea pigs, Bubble and Squeak, slumbering in cage. Daughter (not a morning person) has loyally promised to abandon husband, guinea pigs and sleep to drive me to the airport. Plane from Bristol to Edinburgh (sorry, planet). Bus from Edinburgh to Inverkeithing. (Is there coffee still in Inverkeithing?) Train from Inverkeithing to Leuchars, (“the scenic route”). Taxi from Leuchars to St Andrews. 5 p m, do reading. Has a poet ever fallen asleep during their own reading? No, there’s always adrenalin. And caffeine.
I am reading with Michael Schmidt, so, in addition to having published my poems for 25 years, he can throw things at me if I sway too much while reading them. The Muse is never just. Michael, who I don’t think has ever kept a cat, has recently written one of the best cat poems I know. I hope he’ll read that.
The following poem is not based on my plans for the evening of March 15th at St Andrews.
Night out
Brahms? Yes, the story. While he was drinking
The door was kicked open, a girl crashed in
A man on her arm, a brooch on her shawl.
The first drink drained, she turned, in a rush,
Wheedled, “Herr Doktor, play something for us!”
It seemed, said the diarist, she knew Brahms quite well-
Flushed, Brahms bent to the untuned piano.
Notes flew in flocks, soft as doves, quick as sparrow,
While the girl swept the stranger through dance after dance.
How long would she last? A winter? A year?
Brahms had his honours, his pupils, his dear
Untouchable Clara, too heavy to dance.
Symphonies, lullabies, songs filled his days,
A whisper his nights. Give all to one glance,
Pound the dust’s dark piano, whirl dance after dance.
(First published in Stand; to be published in February in my seventh collection, Singing in the Dark, Carcanet.)
“Singing in the Dark”, my new collection, is out on February 27th, and on March 15th, thanks to very kind timetabling by the StAnza festival organisers, I hope to do a reading in St Andrews.
Anyone studying the defects of British public transport could start by planning a journey from the West of England to Scotland in a limited time. Alas, I’m flying. In the last twelve years I have only made one other flight, which was to my daughter’s wedding. I am afraid this had more to do with income than principle, but I trust the planet’s chemistry won’t notice the difference.
So, March 15. 5 a m. Wake on daughter’s sofa in Bristol next to guinea pigs, Bubble and Squeak, slumbering in cage. Daughter (not a morning person) has loyally promised to abandon husband, guinea pigs and sleep to drive me to the airport. Plane from Bristol to Edinburgh (sorry, planet). Bus from Edinburgh to Inverkeithing. (Is there coffee still in Inverkeithing?) Train from Inverkeithing to Leuchars, (“the scenic route”). Taxi from Leuchars to St Andrews. 5 p m, do reading. Has a poet ever fallen asleep during their own reading? No, there’s always adrenalin. And caffeine.
I am reading with Michael Schmidt, so, in addition to having published my poems for 25 years, he can throw things at me if I sway too much while reading them. The Muse is never just. Michael, who I don’t think has ever kept a cat, has recently written one of the best cat poems I know. I hope he’ll read that.
The following poem is not based on my plans for the evening of March 15th at St Andrews.
Night out
Brahms? Yes, the story. While he was drinking
The door was kicked open, a girl crashed in
A man on her arm, a brooch on her shawl.
The first drink drained, she turned, in a rush,
Wheedled, “Herr Doktor, play something for us!”
It seemed, said the diarist, she knew Brahms quite well-
Flushed, Brahms bent to the untuned piano.
Notes flew in flocks, soft as doves, quick as sparrow,
While the girl swept the stranger through dance after dance.
How long would she last? A winter? A year?
Brahms had his honours, his pupils, his dear
Untouchable Clara, too heavy to dance.
Symphonies, lullabies, songs filled his days,
A whisper his nights. Give all to one glance,
Pound the dust’s dark piano, whirl dance after dance.
(First published in Stand; to be published in February in my seventh collection, Singing in the Dark, Carcanet.)
posted by Alison at
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