Bloomsday in the Backroom!: John W Sexton

It's Bloomsday today. June 16th, the day in 1904 that in the novel Ulysses, the reader follows Leopold Bloom and a host of other characters – real and fictional – from 8am through to the early hours of the following morning. In that time he wanders around Dublin: goes to a funeral, checks in at the office, visits the National Library, and wanders on the beach, going over in his mind his very human worries. It's Marilyn Monroe's favourite novel, it's the novel that changed the parameters of the novel, from escapades on the page to adventures in the mind.

On June 16th 1954, Brian O’Nolan, Patrick Kavanagh, Anthony Cronin, A.J. Leventhal,  John Ryan and Tom Joyce, went on a giant piss up disguised as a pilgrimage to all the Dublin sites named in the epic novel, ending up in Ryan's own pub, the Bailey, late in the evening, thus launching, sort of, the tradition of Bloomsday.

To celebrate some Joycean themes we have in the Backroom today a very distinguished Irish poet who lives on the south west coast of Kerry. One theme might be the inner voyage that is so evident in 'Ulysses' and can be seen as related to the Irish 'Aisling tradition' developed by Aodhagán Ó Rathaille at the beginning of the 18th century. This tradition involved the incorporation of waking dreams, reflections, visions and revelations, the jumps through consciousness and recall a person might have even in the course of a very ordinary day. June 16th perhaps. There is a link below to some of John's 'aisling' poems. In an interview with 'Fantasy and Science Fiction' Sexton once quoted  JG Ballard's opinion that  “science fiction is the poetry of the 20th century”, so in a way akin to Chris G Kelso, whom we featured earlier in the #plagueopoems, his poetry ranges wonderfully across genres.

John was born in 1958 and lives near Kenmare.  He is the author of seven full poetry collections, the most recent of which are 'Visions at Templeglantine' from Revival Press in 2020 and 'Futures Pass'  from Salmon Poetry two years earlier.  A chapbook of his surrealist poetry, 'Inverted' Night, was published by SurVision Books in February 2019.

He also created and wrote the children’s science fiction comedy-drama, The Ivory Tower, for RTE Radio 1, which ran to over one hundred half-hour episodes. His novels based on this series, The Johnny Coffin Diaries and Johnny Coffin School-Dazed are both published by The O’Brien Press and have been translated into Italian and Serbian.

Under the ironic pseudonym of Sex W. Johnston he has recorded an album with legendary Stranglers frontman, Hugh Cornwell, entitled Sons of Shiva, which has been released on Track Records.

He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem 'The Green Owl' won the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007. Also in 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry. His poem 'In and Out of Their Heads', from The Offspring of the Moon, was selected for The Forward Book of Poetry 2014. His poem 'The Snails' was shortlisted for the 2018 An Post / Listowel Writers’ Week Poem of the Year Award.

Here he reads 'Famous Mice':

His Author page at The Limerick Writers’ Centre for Visions at Templegantine is here:

https://limerickwriterscentre.com/product/visions-at-templeglantine/

His Author page at Salmon Poetry for Futures Pass is here:

https://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=472&a=244




Famous Mice


the one my father trapped in the stainless steel kitchen sink
and drowned under the hot tap / the three-quarter moon
a cut coin through the net curtain / the one whose bite
I nibbled from a half biscuit breathing in its rank whiff /
a coconut macaroon a sweet moon / the one who stopped
the washing machine for a week and then the man came
in a blue bib-and-brace and the mouse was a pulped splodge
in the works / the one I cornered in the skirting board
and set free believing it was me / the one I imagined
curled in the grey right eye of the moon / the one our
neighbour’s cat brought live from the railway embankment /
the day-moon’s face inscrutable in the afternoon sky / the
one I never saw but heard the pattering of / the one yet
to be born / the one yet to be caught / the one in the broken
moon of my skull when I die / the grey one / the brown one /
the dor one / the grass one / the field one / the hazel one / the one


From the collection Futures Pass (Salmon Poetry 2018)



The Giftie

On the front step are three fruit:
an acorn, an apple, a sloe.
The autumn sun gutters
in the grey sky.
I take the apple, but throw
the sloe and the acorn to the hedge.

As I eat the apple I look into the sun.
Dark filaments, like cancers,
pass through its bright face.

Next day, on the front step are three fruit:
a physalis, a medlar, a damson.
This day the sun is grey
and it’s the sky that’s bright.
I take the physalis but throw
the medlar and the damson to the hedge.

As I open the papery husk I look at the sun.
The tiny orange globe of the physalis
would make a new sun, if I could place it
up there in the sky.
But instead I place the physalis in my mouth;
it is both bitter and sweet.

That night I am troubled.
Under moonlight I step out
to the hedge.

Outside are four trees, three of which are on fire.
An oak, a medlar, and a damson are flaring
into the night. Only one tree is sound:
from the sloe a blackthorn
has grown into the sky.
I begin to climb,
but I am cut to ribbons on the thorns
and make little headway.

I wake up, fallen at the foot of the blackthorn.
The sky is full of indigo suns,
blazing sloes.
The world is darker.
Daylight is no longer, and will never be.

On the front step were three fruit:
an acorn, an apple, a sloe.
One of these was damnation.

On the front step were three fruit:
a physalis, a medlar, a damson.
One of these was salvation.

Choices are usually clear
only when it is far too late.
And the best riddles are often
the most wickedly conceived.

(From the Mithala Review)























Sexton was born of Irish parents in Newington Green, London, in 1958. He moved to Ireland in 1982 and now resides in Kenmare, County Kerry.




He was born Catholic but has disowned that religion and describes himself as a pagan. He is inspired by what he calls a Muse Goddess, which is "the feminine and ancient energy that informs creation".




John W Sexton is the author of six poetry collections including The Prince’s Brief Career, (Cairn Mountain Press, 1995), Shadows Bloom / Scáthanna Faoi Bhláth, a book of haiku with translations into Irish by Gabriel Rosenstock (Doghouse, 2004), Vortex (Doghouse, 2005), Petit Mal (Revival Press, 2009), The Offspring of the Moon (Salmon Poetry 2013) and Futures Pass (Salmon Poetry 2013). He also created and wrote The Ivory Tower for RTÉ Radio, which ran to over one hundred half-hour episodes from 1999 to 2002. Two novels based on the characters from this series have been published by the O’Brien Press: The Johnny Coffin Diaries and Johnny Coffin School-Dazed, which have been translated into both Italian and Serbian. He has recorded an album with legendary Stranglers frontman, Hugh Cornwell, entitled Sons of Shiva, which has been released on Track Records. He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem The Green Owl won the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007. Also in 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.







The Prince's Brief Career (Cairn Mountain Publishing, Ireland 1996)

Shadows Bloom / Scáthanna Faoi Bhláth (Doghouse Books, Ireland 2004), haiku with Irish translation by Gabriel Rosenstock

Vortex (Doghouse Books, Ireland 2005)

Petit Mal (Revival Press, Ireland 2009)

The Offspring of the Moon (Salmon Poetry, Ireland 2013)

Poetry chapbooks[edit]

Inverted Night (SurVision Books, Ireland 2019)

Futures Pass




Famous Mice







https://www.irishcentral.com/roots/history/first-bloomsday-celebration

Poets in the Backroom 91: Anne Casey

It is the day before Bloomsday. Not Doomsday, Bloomsday, so we are having another Irish time of it for the next few days. Well, in Anne Casey's case, an Irish-Australian time of it.

Its hard to gauge where a good poem comes from. Michael Longley said "If I knew where a good poem came from, I'd go there", but we know one when we see it. I like to think its a conflict between the ruthless immutability of words and the mystery of feeling, with a double whisky strength jolt added in. You see and know the words but their combination provokes an outbreak of something else. Anyway the first poem I read of Anne Casey's had that effect on me.  

where the lost things go

we sat upon a golden bow
my little bird and i
indivisibly apart
we dived into the sky
and to the purple-hearted dark
an ocean we did cry
for all the lost things
gathered there
in rooms beyond the eye
the aie, the I, the ey

That last line has so many resonances, and so much meaning. Anne Casey’s poetry ranges from the personal to the political. It is often sensual, sometimes angry, always controlled and powerful.

Originally from West Clare in Ireland, Anne Casey is a Sydney-based poet/writer. She is another 'born again' writer, having had a career for many years as a business journalist, magazine editor, media communications director and legal author before returning to poetry as the best means to express her feelings on both personal and political issues.  She is author of where the 'lost things go' published by Salmon Poetry in 2017 and 'out of emptied cups' by the same publisher last year. Her poetry appears in newspapers, magazines, journals, anthologies, videos, music albums, podcasts, broadcasts, archives and art exhibitions. Her writing and poetry rank in The Irish Times newspaper's Most-Read and she has won or shortlisted for poetry awards in Ireland, the USA, the UK, Canada and Australia – including the Women’s National Book Association Poetry Competition; Overton Poetry Prize; Hennessy New Irish Writing and Cúirt International Poetry Prize; and Fellowship of Australian Writers Queensland Literary Competition. She is or has been a member of the Advisory Board for 'Verity La' Magazine; Guest Editor of 'Not Very Quiet Journal'; and served as Senior Poetry Editor for the two literary journals of Swinburne University in Melbourne - 'Other Terrain' Journal and 'Backstory' Journal from 2017 to 2020. She has been enthusiastic in formulating a response in poetry, often in collaboration with other artists, to the challenges of climate change and global warming.

Here she is reading Singularity:

Anne's website here, lots of poem recordings, reviews, information:

http://www.anne-casey.com/home.html

An Interview with the Irish Times:

https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/the-real-enemy-in-writing-the-poets-who-slay-me-and-do-i-really-roast-my-kids-1.3737906

More poems in Poethead:

https://poethead.wordpress.com/2018/04/11/burnt-offerings-and-other-poems-by-anne-casey/



Singularity


Staring back through that magnificent desolation
to this devilled blue globe, one dome suspended in light,
the other obscured by the shadow of where you stood;
immersed as you were in light particles
from long-dead stars, did you wonder
at our seemingly eternal journey,
cycling over and over from light
to dark to light? Reflecting on Earth:
seeing ‘home’ for the first time in that vast
perspective at once vivid and spectral; this silenced beauty
turning slowly over its own desolate truth:
the enormity of its one persisting challenge—
to somehow find our allied humanity
—a singular planetary alignment
as subtly elusive as one
perfect surface reflection.
As great and bungled.
As necessary as the light
we feed on, as desperate
to repel the dark, over and
over to separate and break us
apart from the spectre of some alternative reality,
time folded in on itself, suspending us in an-
other perpetual virtual truth
and the hovering ghosts of
what could have been.


(First published in Giant Steps)

In memoriam II: The draper

“The town is dead
Nothing but the wind
Howling down Main Street
And a calf bawling
Outside The Fiddlers”

My mother’s words, not mine
In a letter, kept in a drawer
These long years
She had a way with words
My mother

That’s why they came
The faithful of her following
Leaning in to her over the counter
For an encouraging word
Or the promise of a novena

Long before we had
Local radio
Our town had my mother
Harbinger of the death notices
And the funeral arrangements

Bestower of colloquial wisdom
Bearer of news on all things
Great and small
Who was home
And who hadn’t come

Who had got the Civil Service job
And by what bit of pull
The Councillor’s niece
Smug in her new navy suit
Oblivious to the circulating countersuit

“Would you ever think of coming home?”
Her words would catch me
Unawares
Lips poised at the edge
Of a steaming mug

Igniting a spitfire
Of resentment each time
Then draping me for days
I’d wear it like a horsehair shirt
All the way back

Until the sunshine and the hustle
Had worn it threadbare
This extra bit of baggage
In every emigrant’s case
Their mother’s broken heart

I never thought to ask her
“Would you want me to…?
So I could look out at the rain
Circumnavigating the empty street
And shiver at the wind
Whipping in under the door…?”

I don’t miss that question now
On my annual pilgrimage ‘home’
My father never asks it
Like me, I know he feels it
Hanging in the air
Alongside her absence

I miss my mother
And her way with words

(Reprinted from the Irish Times)
 

Poems in the Backroom 90: Holly Magill

As I've said previously, I'm delighted to have been associated with the 'Poet's Republic', a magazine, publishing house and sort of family which has often provided a counter-point to the sleeker more established magazines out there. It's sort of getting towards the defunct magazines in Scotland you miss as much for their excellent commentary as their excellent poetry, like 'West Coast Magazine', 'Radical Scotland' and 'Cencrastus'. By commentary I'm meaning the place of poets and poetry in the radical stream of consciousness. 'Poet's Republic' set up a 'Poets React' platform for ...well...angry poets. Don Paterson said, sensibly, that poetry should not be "being in love with your own sensitivity as opposed to actually feeling anything." I find myself operating at a level of barely controlled rage some of the time, as I'm sure many do. It's difficult not to make a poem expressing anger into a rant, which should perhaps be an art form in itself. It's brilliant therefore to feature a poet today in the Backroom whose poetry is as at home on the back page of the Morning Star as it is in more established literary magazines, and who is good enough for both.  

Holly Magill’s poetry has appeared in numerous magazines, including 'The Interpreter’s House', 'Bare Fiction', and 'Under The Radar', and anthologies –'Stairs and Whispers: D/deaf and Disabled Poets Write Back'  from Nine Arches Press and '#MeToo: A Women’s Poetry Anthology' from Fair Acre Press. She won first prize in the 2019 Cannon Poets ‘sonnet or Not’ competition. She co-edits 'Atrium'.  Her debut pamphlet, 'The Becoming of Lady Flambé', is a wonderful collection centring around the life of a fictional circus girl and issues like identity and loneliness is out now and available from Indigo Dreams Publishing. There is a link to purchase this below.

Here Holly reads 'The Politest Riot'. It is transcribed below, along with two other poems:

Link to 'The Becoming of Lady Flambe' in Indigo Dreams Press:

https://www.indigodreams.co.uk/holly-magill/4594330527

Three More poems from 'Clear Poetry':

https://clearpoetry.wordpress.com/2016/03/17/holly-magill-three-poems-2/

A Review of 'The Becoming of Lady Flambe':

https://sphinxreview.co.uk/index.php/opoi-reviews-2019/836-holly-magill-the-becoming-of-lady-flambe

The Politest Riot

I will not play into hands that would beckon
close only to shuck me off before they
plunge into vats of antibacterial.

I will not play – screaming, swearing, kicking, spitting –
though God, I know the urge.

Far too easy for you to dismiss as emotional, erratic,
unstable hysteric.

I will not play. Because this is no game.

I am no cleverer – and no more thick – than those bawling the odds.
You would prefer their anarchy, fists through windows,
disorderly arrests to make an example.

Shame them as yobs in the press,
don’t know any better, any excuse for a ruck.
Waste of taxpayers’ money to educate the dross.

That would serve your policies well, I see that:
the NHS literally gave me vision.

I’m trying, I’m a good girl. I try…

courtesy and reason – a surprise to you
that shouldn’t be.

Yes, I have benefitted – from free uni education,
from Social Housing, from scrounging and school milk.
Been told I don’t talk like a DWP claimant.

In public libraries I learned
the lightning and violence of language.

Yes, officer, I will come quietly, so very quietly.

But not silent. I use the words you don’t
want the rough ’uns to comprehend.

O, still small voice not taped to a flying brick.

Every day more hands join in the dark.

Everyone deserves quality…’


The incumbent Conservative will cut
the shiny red ribbon, celebrate

130 jobs created – including artisan bakers,
sushi chefs, specialist prosecco pourers.

(The paper doesn’t mention the cleaners.)

There’s free wifi and 285 parking spaces;
a wine bar featuring a microbrewery draft pump
– only the second of their UK stores to have that.

Come on in, feel posh – look, you can
vote for their next charity of the month
with a plastic token, not have to give

a penny or a fuck.

(From 'The Morning Star')

Firetrap

Zhinnia sparks her lighter, watches
the flame bloom the face she loves
to a lie of rosiness.

They’ve got candles, filched vodka, cheapest cider.
Brisket’s purrs make warm storm-clouds
of the old sofa cushions and crochet blankets
they’d saved from a skip.

You’re different, Zee, special, like.

Kayla’s dad isn’t around to haunt the shed anymore;
her mum keeps talking about knocking it down,
getting a pergola.

Zee, I’ve fallen for someone.

Everything is purring, purring, purring,
baccy flake confetti freefall,
creosote tang and White Musk,
The most beautiful firetrap

just aching to burn.

.

Poems from the Backroom 89: Derek Ross

Great beard, and a voice from the very south west of Scotland, the 'Cleyhole', the bit that sticks out and you can see Ireland from. Ancient Galloway, lochs, currachs, gallowglasses, anti-catholic fairies, sea wolves, Arthurian romances, you name it. Its about as far from the centres of poetry power as you can get without falling into Beaufort's Dyke, and naebody wants to do that. The eternal contrast in Galloway is between the pull of its past and the economic unrealities of its present, a contrast that has led to a hundred thousand exiles. More. I'm going to break from #plagueopoems protocol here and print one of Derek's poems here, as it sums up this never-ending zeitgeist.

Dunbae Road

We never said 'Gallawa', in aa thae
first years. We nivir grew a rowan tree,
nor dreamt o kings, nor focht oor enemies
the wey the aald ballad said we should hae.
Oor wirld wis Dunbae Road, just that, nae mair.
We cared nocht fir aald sangs, nor histories.
We belanged, but whan it came roun tae it,
we left in droves, driven bi realities.

So, the nicht, ah fuin masel, walk-in sounds
Port Roadie, wi rain fawin in torrents.
Keepin waarm the wey exiles ayeweys dae,
wi mindins o some loast, time-silvered toun.
While doun on the tide line, the Mune's reflection
dances mangst the last waves o the day.

Derek Ross left one bit of Dumfries and Galloway for another and this might explain why he's relatively unknown outside it. Other hidden gems abide in there somewhere, all of them excellent Scots language poets, John Manson, Josie Neill in her 85th year, Davy Douglas. Derek's Scots is rich and addresses not just landscape but issues that concern us all. As a living language it addresses things that matter to the living.

Derek Ross is a from Stranraer but has lived in Dumfries for many years working as a microbiologist at D&G Royal Infirmary. His work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies. His poems in Scots have been featured by The Scots Language Centre, The Scottish Poetry Library, Scots podcasts, The Stanza Poetry Map of Scotland and the Channel 4 program 'Haud Yer Tongue'. He featured in the seminal and brilliant book of Dumfries and Galloway Scots language verse 'Chuckies fir the Cairn.' He is also a keen photographer and has collaborated with the Gaelic poet Angus McMillan, another underrated Dumfries poet,  to produce exhibitions combining poetry and photography. In 2019 he was chosen by the Scottish Poetry Library as the Scots language editor of the 'Best Scottish Poets 2019'. Since Covid began, Derek has established a brilliant blog containing poetry and photographs. It is linked below.

Here he reads 'The Windae':

Derek's Excellent Photography/Poetry Site:

https://photospoetryandhaiku.blog/

A Podcast from Derek:

https://www.mixcloud.com/scottishwriterspodcast/derek-ross/

Two poems inspired by his own photographs:

https://www.scotslanguage.com/Poetry_uid15/Photography_inspires_poetry



The Windae


If ye held up yer haun,
Aa the colours o the watergaw Wid dance aroon yer fingers,
An the waarmth o the Sun Wid singe the langer
O a boyhood efternin.
We’d watch the dust churnin
In the licht that lanced through The broken stain-gless windae,
An staun on the very spot Whar the rays split the stane O the age-weathered flair.
The broken kirk wis oors,
Jist fir a wee while, we’d savour Every shiver o the place.
We’d feel it then, richt enough, Yon feelin o no bein alane,
O sumthin burnin beyon oorsels.
Or, maybe, it wis jist kenin
We wir sumwhar we shouldnae be, An yon spark we felt within us
Wis jist the ghost o a candle flame, Flickerin in the derk, refusin
Tae gan oot withoot a ficht.

Absences


If words have ghosts,
they are wandering these fields,
whispering of an absent town
and lives that could last no longer.
If names have hearts,
Polmaddy’s has been broken
by the bitterest cut of all.
It lost its reason to be.
If stones have souls,
then let these ones rest in peace.
They had their time, let them settle
into the earth of their story.

(From Stanza's Poetry Map of Scotland)


First Gemme


Stair Park, a cal December eftirnin,
Stranraer at hame to the micht o Forfar
A’m nae mair than echt years al, an clingin
Tae ma Granfether’s han, stampin the glar
O mud an ash in an effort tae keep
Warm. “They’re a team o triers, son, a team
O triers. Ye can ask nae mair’, his heed
Floatin on a sea o pipe smoke, his een
Gleamin as he took the gemme in. Stranraer
Won, taw nil. “First gemme, eh, ye’re ma lucky
Mascot.” He bent doon, wrapped me in his scarf.
“A wee vict’ry son, just a wee vict’ry.”
He spoke slow, so that A could understan.
Granda, A miss yer voice, A miss yer han.

(From Chukkies Fir the Cairn  from Luath Press)

Poems from the Backroom 88: Beth McDonough

The coronaverse is a smaller place than we're used to, and, as today's guest Beth MacDonough says in introducing her poem today,  we have become much more acquainted with the small sacred paths round our homes since lockdown, and the local detail of nature. I've seen expressed a general feeling that we may emerge from this trauma once more attuned - as our ancestors were- to the natural world. Maybe, but in the meantime nature’s sensibly keeping out of the way in my neck of the woods. No deer are strolling through Pringleton, no otters are floating on their backs down the Scaur. This is a shame because poets like to write about that kind of stuff. I am reminded of Kenneth Koch’s response when finally visiting Michael Longley’s earthly paradise in County Mayo, Carrigskeewaun, the focus of his countless poems about otters. "Where are all those otters, Longley? I see only sparrows and house sparrows at that!"

It's maybe different on the Tay where much of McDonough's poetry is centred. She's also maybe closer to the otters than the rest of us because she's a wild swimmer and in fact is working on a collection of poems on that topic. Her poetry generally shows an acute observation of all the motifs of nature - with both a practical and mystical eye- and divines from them portents from the past, clues for our future. 

Beth McDonough has a very artistic background. She trained in Silversmithing at Glasgow School of Art and then studied for a M.Litt at Dundee University. She was Writer in Residence at Dundee Contemporary Arts from 2014 to 2016. Her poetry may be read in 'Gutter', 'Northwords Now', 'Poetry Salzburg Review', 'The Interpreter’s House' and many other journals and anthologies.  'Handfast', from Mother's Milk Press, a poetry duet pamphlet, with Ruth Aylett,  was published in May 2016. There, she investigates her experience of her son’s autism, as her co-poet considers that of her parents’ dementia. McDonough's solo pamphlet, 'Lamping for pickled fish', has been published recently by 4Word.

Here she reads 'Leftovers', speculating what the future legacy of the virus may be:

 More poems by Beth here:

https://thebluenib.com/5-poems-by-beth-mcdonough/

An Interview with 4Word:

https://www.4word.org/lamping-for-pickled-fish/

More Poems and Reviews of 'Lamping for Pickled Fish'

https://atriumpoetry.com/2020/04/05/featured-publication-lamping-for-pickled-fish-by-beth-mcdonough/

Leftovers

Native plants, of course, and yet,

how hard it is not to suspect
these spiky berried lines are left 

from an older hedging purpose. 

Some rudimentary bush
dug up close for edging land 

between what must have been two burns,
before the making of a road of sorts. 

A place perhaps for catching trout, 

or snaring handy rabbits. Often, 

still, there are deer around, 

if a paucity of otters. 

Maybe other people used these woods, 

in older times, through different plagues.
Little bits of wall, and surely yes, 

these gooseberries, all now feral shrubs.

But this isn't as far as you'd wish to think 

from the closed carpet shop and postal depot.

I wonder who the grozet-planting folk
might have been, ponder what they left in stones.

What will we leave the next ones here 

from these too long, too sore weeks? 

Decades will bring more pestilence, 

with brief escapes from shuttered griefs. 

I smell the now-reopened KFC, 

see that our viral-lives also deposit 

messages to future runners. In styrofoam, 

crimped Irn Bru cans, an unscrewed Buckie bottle

Calima

Let me try to explain,
chalk out how that word gauzes dusk.
In slowed descents, in silting air
become aware of mugging heat.
You’re captured in the absence of sun.
I’d lead you through specifics, beyond causes
but we must pinpoint where I stand.
No path leads out. There’s no reliable map.
Watch this thinnest dust
ghost below doors, shift between boards.
Come to sediment your lungs,
suffocate all valid exit points.
Seven veils danced from nowhere.
When this lifts,
if this lifts,
I’ll try to explain.

Poems from the Backroom 87: Duncan McLean

Duncan McLean is more a novelist and story writer than a poet but his impact on poetry has been - and continues to be- huge so it is a great honour to welcome him to the Backroom today. Duncan’s book ‘Bucket o Tongues’ was always a favourite book of mine, and has never aged. His was a voice in a huge crowd of precocious and brilliant talents, writers like Gordon Legge, Irvine Welsh, Janice Galloway, Laura Bird and Alan Warner and editors like Peter Kravitz and Kevin Williamson, but somehow his mix of gritty human contemporary stories set in a small town coastal Scotland made a particulate impact on me. He followed this up with 'Blackden', a novel charting a coming of age in a rural community, then the amazing 'Bunker Man' the novel that makes school jannies come out in a cold sweat in the wee sma hours. 

One of the greatest things about Duncan is not just his talent - which is eclectic to the extreme ranging from short prose to highly acclaimed  novels via travelogues, stand up, street theatre, play-writing, music, an award winning wine off license business and much more -.but his great energy for promoting others. We’ve already featured Shug Hanlan, the late Brent Hodgson and Alison Flett (Kermack) who were featured in 'Ahead of its Time', one the books from the great Clocktower Press imprint which published ten pamphlets including in 1992 extracts of what would later become 'Trainspotting'. Duncan McLean has lived in Orkney since 1992 and in 2015 launched Abersee Press to encourage a new wave of northern writers. Abersee has published, among others, Christine DeLuca, Harry Giles and Amy Liptrot. The idea of having a creative power house or generator in the so called peripheries of Scotland is a great one and Dumfries and Galloway could likewise profit from it.

Duncan won the 1993 Somerset Maugham award and in 1998 a Scottish Arts Council Book Award.
His bibliography includes: Short Stories-  'Bucket of Tongues' in 1992, 'Dark Island' in 2017
Novels: 'Blackden' in 1994, 'Bunker Man' in 1995; Drama - 'Julie Allardyce', 'Blackden' 'Rug Comes to Shuv', 'One Sure Thing', 'I'd Rather Go Blind',  'Aalst'; Non-fiction - 'Lone Star Swing: On the Trail of Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys'; Edited-  'Ahead of Its Time' 1997, 'Orkney Stoor' in 2015. 'Speak for Yourself' in 2017, 'Sweet Haar' in 2017, 'Turangawaewae, Beuy' in 2017.

Here he is reading the fantastic, funny and cautionary tale 'The Big Man that Dropped Dead' from 'Bucket of Tongues' and from 'Dark Isle', 'At the Fatal Accident Enquiry'.

Interview with Duncan in Dundee University Review of the Arts:

https://dura-dundee.org.uk/2019/05/07/a-master-of-balancing-acts-an-interview-with-duncan-mclean/

More biographical and bibliographical information:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duncan_McLean_(writer)

The Big Man that Dropped Dead

I had this pal that knew about poetry, he was in the mental asylum. He could speak poetry really good, in fact he couldn't speak anything else. He'd see it up there and he'd just pull it down and speak it. On and on. He dropped dead though. I was standing there and he fell down in front of me. Aye, he was a big man, but he just dropped dead. So there you go, eh, poetry...



Jesus Fuckeroo

My cisterns are totally fucked, their insides are ro9tten with rust. But will the town pay to fix or repair them? Will they buckies!
I was leaning by the door the other day when this old guy came out, looked a bit stunned. Whats up old timer, I said to him.
Jesus Fuckeroo, he replied.
I looked him up and down. As bad as that, eh?
I think I’m pishing blood, he said, and his voice was shaky.
Do you want a seat, I asked him.
No, he said, I just had one. And when I looked down, after, the water was red with blood.
This is where I clicked: there was no blood involved, it was rust from the cistern, stirred up in the flush and staining the pan….those fucking decrepit cisterns up to their tricks again! I could hardly keep the smile off my face.
Has anyone kicked your kidneys lately, I asked the old boy.
He looked at me, closed his eyes for a second like he was trying to think, then, No, he said, Not that I can recall.
How about your guts, any punches to the guts theday?
No, he said, Not at all that I’ve noticed.
I glanced around to check no-one was near, then whispered in the hairs of his lug, How about your chugs, old man? Has anyone bounced on your balls lately?
He looked really shocked, he took a step back, the whole of his face was shaking. Do you think that could do it? he said.
Christ aye, I replied, looking serious. But the state of his face, the worry, his eyes folded up under tatters of skin….I just couldn’t help it, I let out a laugh.
I don’t think it’s funny, he said.
Och grandad, I told him. I’ve been having you on. I wiped at my eyes with my fingers. Its just the rust in the cistern gives water that look: you’re fit as a fiddle, my friend, I bet you can pee straighter than I can!
Jesus Fuckeroo, he said. You bastard.



(Both stories from ‘Bucket o Tongues’)

Poems from the Backroom 86: Rachel Fox

"This is not really the poetry collection to give poetry snobs – but it’s a fantastic collection to give someone who doesn’t quite get poetry, because it’s warm and welcoming. Very enjoyable, very recommended."

This review for Rachel Fox's first collection 'More about the Song' sums it all up. Rachel Fox is a people’s poet. She feels she communicates well and gets on with the business of communicating however she’s able -through magazines, books, events, videos and postcards- rather than rising through the ranks of the poetry leagues, whatever that means. Rachel’s poetry is direct, unambiguous, and addresses real issues. Rachel’s reading events in the North East- in my experience- are spectacular. The two occasions I’ve been invited up to the east coast, one reading with the legendary Raymond Vettese, there were huge, merry and receptive crowds and if the three ubiquitous old folk with the labrador were there (my usual fan base) they were swallowed in the crowd of ordinary folk having a great poetry night out.

Born and brought up in the North of England, Rachel has lived in North East Scotland since 2002. She has worked in journalism, education, mental health and learning support, foster care, market research, shops, and as a radio/nightclub DJ, but not necessarily in that order.

She started concentrating on poetry in the late 1990s. She read poems regularly at the folk club in Montrose from about 2007-2018. She has had poems published in various places including 'The Poetry Bus', 'The Scotsman', 'Gutter', 'The Herald', 'Pushing out the Boat' and a HappenStance Press anthology. In July 2017 Cerys Matthews read a poem from 'Turn' on her radio show on BBC 6 Music. Rachel first published poems as postcards, then in a book 'More about the song' published in 2008 and, most recently, in a pamphlet called 'Turn' in 2017. Details of these are in Rachel's website, linked below.

Here she is reading 'Feels 1' and 'Feels 2' though due to some unexplained chicanery the video ends at the start of 'Feels 2'. You can still hear it though, while looking at the wallpaper!

Rachel's Website Here:

https://sites.google.com/view/crowd-pleasers-press


Rachel's Poetry Blog here:

http://slowlaneshuffle.blogspot.com/

She's not there

(Thoughts on Joan Eardley's Self Portrait 1943)

There are bad days
Not even half days
And when they come
The broken pieces of her face
Seem perfectly formed

Reassuring they say
'The sky is still there
The colours still worth seeing
Being broken simply isn't
The worst thing you can be'

Comforted I brush my crumbs together
And look carefully cautiously
At the slightly scrappy sorry collection
Still sad but less lonely
In their fragments than before

The portrait feels like family
Or so I imagine
We are the not quite whole people
The bits and pieces people
The hundreds and the thousands