Check out http://www.naturalvoice.net/ song of the month - 'All is Calm and Cold' - setting by Ali Burns, text Nummi, trans. Adamson

David Mark Williams is a fine poet based in south-west Scotland. I like this account of a seemingly-doomed-from-the-start marriage - everything comes from surrounding details. It was a Ragged Raven prizewinner. Check out his website: http://www.davidmarkwilliams.co.uk

The Year of my First Wedding 

During the springtime of that year,  

the war began: two syllables of triumph  

crowing from a front page, 

a grainy shot of a dissolving ship. 

While we walked in the park  

through shaken petals of white blossom,  

men fell, on fire, into a dark sea. 

Drink Argentina Dry, an off-licence slogan ran, 

and a small army of drinkers  

responded to the call, carrying home 

their bottles of wine like unexploded bombs,  

as though wading waist deep in water. 

The week before the big day, I left a hole 

in the lounge where I should have been, 

witnessing  an incursion of early presents, 

bolting upstairs instead to be sick. 

The crinkling of all that paper had set me off. 

The day of the wedding rumbled into place. 

It had been prepared so beautifully, a sky 

of powdered blue hoisted as far as it would go, 

with the sun bright enough to burn us. 

All the photographs show our eyes 

hard pressed to keep from closing. 

The night before I listened to my heart 

drum its reservations, rasping through 

the coiled springs of the folding bed,  

until I awoke into the lucid dream 

of going through with it. 

After that, the speeches were a breeze 

When the best man read out the telegram 

from Galtieri, defiant still, 

there was a ripple of unease 

quickly turning into a chorus of jeers 

as though everyone agreed, and it had to be said,  

we had indeed fought a good war there.

Here I answer questions set by ‘Blog Hop’ and introduce some poets I like, with a link and a sample: Chrys Salt, Liz Niven, Douglas Lipton.

The “Next Big Thing Blog Hop” - authors who have been tagged answer ten set questions on their blog or website about their next book. They then tag more authors, who can pick up the baton if they choose.
With thanks to Mike Horwood  who tagged me. Mike’s blog is at www.mikehorwood.blogspot.com

1) What is the working title of your next book?

‘From Coiled Roots’
2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

Slow evolution – the title was a long time coming. I want to convey the idea of outcomes, some good, some bad, coming from difficult places, darkness – Yeats said that the ‘ladders’ start from ‘the foul rag and bone shop of the heart’. I like that.
3) What genre does your book fall under?
Poetry

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

I’d like to hear how my poems would sound with a French accent. Maybe Gerard Depardieu. Or Isabelle Huppert, now that would be something.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
It explores roots that push in different directions: upwards to the joy of creativity and the celebration of loved ones; downwards into history, sexuality, and ‘petals on a dark road’ – consolations in the face of human transience.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It will be published by Indigo Dreams in June 2013.
7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

Depends what counts as a beginning. It includes some poems that go back 20 years. To get a  first draft starting from the idea of getting a collection together, maybe 2 years.
8) What other books would you compare your work to within your genre?

Not sure that comparisons apply. I like the wildness of some Scottish poets, past and present, the mix of the down-to-earth, ‘coarseness’ if you like, and what you might call the spiritual, the lyrical, the melancholy and the awareness of suffering. Burns and Dunbar come to mind, on a totally different level.
9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?
Life and death.

10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

Depends on the reader. I suspect themes like history, sex, belief and mortality might appeal to older rather than younger readers.

Here are three authors I like, out of many. Most don’t have blogs, but do have websites, with samples of their poems. I’ll present some more authors in weeks to come.

Chrys Salt

www.chryssalt.com/

Chrys Salt’s work has appeared in many anthologies, magazines and journals. Chrys is a trained performer as well as a poet. She is Artistic Director of the Bakehouse, a flourishing arts venue in South West Scotland Her most recent collection is Grass (Indigo Dreams ISBN:  978-1-907401-85-5  Price: £7.99).

Here’s a sample – I love the zest, the fertility of the details, the humour and the truth behind it.

Sex of one

Dave Cork and me behind the chicken shed.

‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine’ he said.

Some of his Wrigleys for a flash,

that was the deal. (I wanted cash)!

Dave was an ‘only’ and lived opposite

I had a brother, seen his stupid snail bit

in the bath. I knew a thing or two!

Dave Cork’s was not much cop.

A bit more walnutty and sticking up,

a tinys dribbling eye on top and thinly thatched.

He had it in his hand, said I could feel.

I didn’t fancy it. ‘Now show me yours’ he said.

I stared him out, all snooty and detached,

pulled down my navy knickers.

lifted up my skirt.

He peered, his snotty nose up close.

looked hurt. I wouldn’t let him touch.

He shrugged and said ‘You ain’t got much,

did someone cut it off?’

Then poking behind his molars

hooked the promised gum and offered it

half chewed with no mint left

and full of Dave Cork’s spit.

A sticky metaphor perhaps

of Things To Come…?

Liz Niven

http://www.lizniven.com/
Liz Niven is one of Scotland's most popular poetry facilitators. She is a poet writing in English and Scots.She has published several poetry collections, including The Shard Box, Burning Whins, Stravaigin (Luath Press Ltd).

A sample. I like the pathos, and the seeming simplicity – so hard to bring off. It refers to the ‘homecoming year’ (2009) – a series of events designed to attract people of Scottish ancestry to visit Scotland.

Hamecomin blessins

Blessins

oan the faimilies waitin,

breid, watter and mair oan the table,

bed made, hoose trig,

bit naebodie comes hame.

Blessins

oan the folk wi nae hames tae gan tae,

cooried, at the hin en o a dreich nicht,

intae cairdboard boxes or

warmin hauns roon a brazier unner a bypass

win flappin roon faces shilpit an wan.

Blessins

oan the sodger hunkert doon

in a bluid-soakt sheuch,

or the refugee staunin

at the black-brunt shell o hoose.

Blessins oan

thaim whae come hame,

thaim whae dinnae ,

thaim wi nae hame tae gan tae.

in this Hamecomin year.

Douglas Lipton

http://www.douglaslipton.co.uk/

Dumfries writer, widely published, many collections. Douglas has collaborated extensively with other performers and performing groups. Here’s a sample of his poetry, recently published in Orizont Literar, with Romanian translation. I like the way it catches the breathlessness of the narrator, who is almost forced to echo the mad, ancient-mariner-like protagonist. The black humour seems perfectly judged:

“A Good Sink”: an Ancedote

I must tell you this, though.

It’s this. That we were up in Sutherland

Thinking of buying a house.

We’d seen one advertised, but when

we got there it was all shut up.

We looked around outside anyway,

peering through the windows and so on.

A man came up to us. Local.

“Do you want a house to buy?”

he said. “I’ve got a house you can buy.”

He insisted, really insisted,

so we followed him. He took us

inside. “Look,” he said.

“It’s got a sink.” (Full of peelings

and filthy dishes.) “A good sink.”

We nodded. “A good sink, yes.”

“And a cooker. A good cooker.”

“A good cooker, yes.” “A good cooker.

It cooks. It works.” Yes. Yes.

We nodded. We knew it could cook

from the pot pourri glazed on the hob.

“I’ll just ‘phone them, then,” he said.

“I’ll ‘phone them. You stay there.”

He lifted the receiver, dialled

and waited – A good sink.

A good cooker. This house?

This man? – He was speaking.

Pausing.  Speaking. Our eyes

trailed the flex to its disconnection

at the socket. “We need to go now.

Now. Sorry. We’re – we’re late.

Must go.” “What? Just a – No, wait.

It’s good. It’s good. A good sink.

A good –.” We backed away.

Later that day he took a razor

to the minister. We had been there,

in his house with him.

Just us and him.

Some Scottish tomfoolery for Christmas. I enjoyed writing this.

THE YIN LEFT OOT


Ye ken aboot Mary and Joseph
And the Babe, and the Wise Men three,
And the Ox and the Ass and the Shepherds,
But ye dinnae ken ocht aboot me.

See – Ah’m the dug in the manger,
Ah’m fou o envy and spite,
So they say – but dinnae believe them
Fur they arenae tellin it right.

Ah’m juist an adorable puppy,
An affable, amiable chap,
Ah wag ma tail and Ah lift ma paw
And Ah lowp intae Joseph’s lap.

Ah skrech wi the choir o angels,
Ah skirl wi the heavenly band,
Ah snuggle in Mary’s apron
And Ah lick Baby Jesus’s hand.

Ah growl at the Three Kings’ camels
Freenly-like, so they’ll no gan astray,
And Ah snarl at Herod’s sodgers
Tae send them the opposite way.

On cairds ye see pictures o beasties,
The coo and the donkey and mair
Gaithered aroun the Christ Child,
Aa except me. It’s no fair –

    FUR HERE AH AM!
    Woof woof,
    Yir ain wee
    Dug-in-the-Manger.

Another lovely poem by Lassi Nummi. This one seems beautifully suited to Christmas, and to the spring to come. I include the original Finnish below. And a picture for the mood.

LUX AETERNA

Snow has covered the green field, snow covers the meadow-flowers.
When we lift our eyes we see a forest of birches.

The young birch grove has stretched white arms towards heaven,
the tree-tops are like fingers, like the grass of spring – now black on the winter sky.

It is calm and cold. White frost curtains the branches. Over everything
is an inconsolable longing. Over all things a miraculous light.

You to whom we bow when we say: you,
unknown, and close to us – accept the prayer of the birch trees,

the prayer of arms that rise from the depths of the earth up to heaven
and the prayer of our own arms, the mute prayer of our fingers.

Give your peace to those who rest far down in the depths of the earth,
and to us who stray here, between the heights and the depths.

A great spring is dawning! Then everything will burst into greenness,
and every leaf be a word, and every tree a tongue

and all praising you, praising spring and the eternal light of morning.

Lux aeterna

Lumi on peittänyt vihreän niityn ja peittää kedon kukkaset.
Silloin me nostamme silmämme ja näemme koivujen metsän.

Nuori koivikko on ojentanut valkeat käsivarret taivasta kohden,
latvat kuin sormet, kuin kevään ruoho – nyt mustina talvitaivasta vasten.

On tyyntä ja kylmää. Kuura verhoaa oksat,
kaiken yllä on lohduton kaipaus. Kaiken yllä on ihmeellinen valo.

Sinä, jonka eteen me kumarrumme, kun sanomme: sinä,
sinä tuntematon, läheinen – ota vastaan koivujen rukous,

käsivarsien rukous, joka maan syvyyksistä kohoaa taivaan puoleen
ja meidän käsivarsiemme rukous, meidän sormiemme mykkä rukous.

Anna rauhasi heille, jotka lepäävät alhaalla, maan syvyydessä,
ja meille, jotka harhailemme täällä, korkeuden ja syvyyden välissä.

Suuri kevät koittaa! Silloin kaikki puhkeaa viheriöimään,
silloin jokainen lehti on sana, jokainen puu on kieli

ja kaikki ne ylistävät sinua, ylistävät kevättä ja aamun ikuista valoa.