SCOTS Project - www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk Document : 508 Title : The Lan o Tea an Tigers: Poems fae the Muckle Furth Author(s): Sheena Blackhall Copyright holder(s): Sheena Blackhall Text Dedication This limited edition of poems is dedicated to Alexander Craib, born at the farm of Strathmore, Coull in 1850, died at Balnagowan, Aboyne, 1925. Interred at Coull churchyard, his working life was that of a tea plantation manager in Inverey, Dickoya, Ceylon... my maternal great uncle. His brother, James, a colonial surgeon (1855-1899) is buried in Ceylon. Alexander's gifts of brass and ivory outlived him, my childhood toys. The eastern trips brought all these toys alive. Western Civilisation comes to the East Wagner thundered over Vienna airwaves Deep into Indian airspace. As the plane descended onto the racing runway A brown doll on a beach flashed on the in-flight screen Its hair was matted with salt or spit or spray (Perhaps all three) Its bright skirt raised by the tide A plump European hand Exploratively ran the gamit of paedophilia Fondled the small thigh "Child Abuse is not a pecadillo. It's a crime" The warning flashed in German, English, Hindi After the passport queues The forms The fans Whirring like hovercrafts above our heads Remarkably, a red light at a junction said 'RELAX' Rather than STOP. Throw the Purdah o Calvin an Holyrood Cardamom, popadom, jungle an vines Henna an hinney an swack dauncin quines Rubies an meensteens an aquamarine Fite merble palaces fit fur a queen Suttee an thuggee, stervation, disease Beggars that crawl ben the dubs on their knee Dysentery, cholera, these ye can fin Wi malaria, doon far the broon watters rin Turmeric, ginger, biryani an wheat Poppy seed, aniseed, drummer's belled feet Cinnamon, tamarind, jasmule an jute Mustard an nutmeg: the snake chermer's flute Shanty toon skeletons sleep bi the road The monsoon fur sheets. Wint's a licht-cairriet load Hunger an skaith in a cripple's teem bowl A rickle o beens, aa the cage fur his sowl. Silverweer, sandalwid, rosewid an spice Basil an fennel, crushed mango on ice Canewirk an leatherwirk, silks in fine haas Jewellery an perfumes in open-air staas Bollywood adverts hing braw ower the streets Ower reefs o torn plastic that's hame fur sterved geets India, India, aulder than time Far the lotus growes pure fae its birthbed o slime A tiger wi teeth, baith a purr an a roar, Yer a lowe in the bluid that the mind canna smore. The Colonel's Widow stating her opinion Through the thronged bazaar the widow's voice is angry 'Girl, for shame! Your child should be in school, Or safe at home. Not begging on the streets.' In the plush hotel, the staff salaam and bow First at the desk with her long complaint. 'No tea making facility Standards are slipping. I'll put all this in writing'. Her purring taxi waits, To ferry her past Delhi's gutter-shacks. By the ghat, she wilts, Adjusts her sunglasses, Straightens her broad-brimmed hat. If you can't afford to feed, you shouldn't breed. A Harijan swivels on festered stumps of legs, Bump-slide down to the pool on calloused knees. Five foot four in Marks and Spencer's socks She has come to view the mosque She's read the appropriate warnings. The horrid, nasty troubles you can catch Barefoot indeed! To visit a heathen shrine! The sacred and profane Size each other up, through coloured eyes. In the lounge the temperature rises The Central heating's gone. If this was British, we'd soon get it sorted! The housemaid's been up since dawn To climb the roof, seeking the Sun God's blessing The Hindu Salutation to the sun Elephant Ride To the Amber Fort-Palace, Jaipur, up the steep Aravalli mountain range, built in 1592 by Sawai-Raja Maan Singh Ji, Commander in Chief of the Moghul Emperor Akbar Then the mahout nudged the elephant over the flags Wet and slippy with dung and trampled leaves This animal carriage, painted with stars and moons Flapped her enormous ears and curled her trunk Up like her turbanned master's relentless grin Dripping with rain, white knuckles gripped the howdah. Behind the mahout's head with its crimson bandage His white suit, almost clean, From the sky's trap door the monsoon falls in sheets. A frenzy of hawkers dog the elephant's sway Puppets, madam, the cheapest in Jaipur! My name is Tony, I take your photo: Click! Bangles? Earrings? Fit for a Maharani! Spooked by hustlers, hawkers snapping round like wolves Leaping, waving trinkets of wood or leather Tourists are tills, the hagglers smell our money We count our notes, Penned in the rank howdah Foreign currency making a fraught exchange At Gandhi's Shrine, Raj Ghat In the middle of parkland sits a square black marble platform where Gandhi was cremated after his assassination in 1948. To the North lies Indira Gandhi's cremation site, after her assassination in 1984 and that of her son Rajiv Gandhi who was assassinated in 1991. Gandhi's memorial is flanked by two charity boxes, and is topped by a lamp with an eternal flame. Efter the thrang derk alleys The stooshie o the bazaars The thunnerin larries The goat that stauns an bleats Efter the buying an bribin The priggin, swickin venders The stoor an the bumbazement O rickshaws' dirdin seats Efter the bamboo scaffoldin The saris cairtin cement The cricket, the polo, The staas of baccy an treats Efter the wechty bullocks The cobras wyvin an dauncin The glaur o the gutters The fowk fa sleep on the streets Here is Delhi's oasis. Here, far the shade is sweet The verra girse cries 'Gandhi' The chiel fa cowpit an Empire Walkin in wyes o peace on twa bare feet. Taj Mahal It reigns all glib jibes in. This blend of marble, myth and jasmine-scented air The sky, empties its moods into its pure face. No-one thinks of its builders Wlho'd sweated, cursed, gone home and kicked their wives Who'd thrown their evening meal into the grate. A British Princess wearing a crown of thorns Pricked by a spindle courtiers overlooked Wondered at love enshrined in stone That any wife could earn such Royal tribute. Two sisters took the Taj home in a camera A batchelor shared his blood with a mosquito I rediscovered awe. Passing through snake charmers, peddlers, Lip curled Asian dogs, to enter this cool oasis Like a great gold plate a desert's yielded up. Each hardened brick of cynicism cracked A wall of Jerico brought tumbling down At Lord Siva's Jungle Shrine: Bharaptur Bird Sanctuary Here, far the jungle smores the sun Here, at Lord Siva's temple door The dance o destruction's daithless beat Throbs in the air, ahin, afore Auncient deities lichtly sleep The cobra kills an the cobra saves Yestreen's leaves fae the jungle's eaves Shakk their fetters an jink their graves Here, in the raxxin tangle-tree The heron, the lang-legged crane, the stork They nest in equanimity Provin that tolerant wyes can wirk Lessons no doors no windows no light no books no pencils no nice clean uniforms 50 pupils...there isn't a seat between them they haven't a bean no video, radio (occasional polio) no computer or tv screen no cheek no fighting no drugs no gangs hey mister are you SURE this is a school? Monsoon Fae Bombay tae Rangoon, fowk will say the Monsoon Is a blessin that's mixed fur the peasant Fur fin there's a drought, there's nae doot he's pit oot An the hardship is unca unpleisant Bit fin ye hae flown fae a cauld Scottish zone Tae traivel an savour the East To be drooked in the rain, like rat doon a drain Is a dreidfu event, at the least. Oh oor Aberdeen weet, may be dreich, bit its fleet An it's shortsome, tho dowie an gray But in Delhi the rain cams again an again An can bide fur a month and a day! Ricki- Ticki- Tavi, Jaipur Brave heart Mongoose Short-legged mesmerist Speckled grey coat, Cruncher of scorpions, Scourge of beetles and rats Bush-tailed David Defying jungle Goliaths You never have egg on your face Tiger-blood in a weasel skin Face pointed with hunches Sniffing a quick munch You shoot up trees like a monkey Whose tail is on fire But slicker, quicker. Little lithe mongoose Who can lay King Cobra low Where is your armour, Your wonderful silver lance? The Watterbuffalo Ye'd makk a bonnie hat rack, bit yer kyte it maun be leid, Gin I drank yer puil in Delhi, I'd be merked as maggot-feed Bit there ye stalin, in ecstacy wi watter roon yer rear Like an alcoholic in a tub o beer, beer, beer. Tell me Watterbuffalo foo is yer milk sae sweet Fin ye glugger doon sic clorty dubs an girse is aa ye eat? The Lan o Tea an Tigers The lan o tea an tigers hauds oriental views Far richt o wye tae traffic is gien ower tae coos The sanbags at the airport hid armed guards, I ken Bit karma's wheel birl better, fin helped bi cannie men. There's nae a pick that's British. They serve ye wi a grin! Oh gowd an scarlet saris fae shantytoons o tin Like dragonflees that flichter, up fae a rikkin lan, Far gangrels prig an barter, fit is't that keeps ye gaun? Ye, wi yer thin-shanked bairns, fas beens powk throw their skin I'm chappin at yer culture. Please, cud ye lat me in? I'd like tae pye a veesit ..tae unnerstan, ye see Foo baith at the same table, sit grace an poverty. Solo Flight I would rather be cloistered than boudoired I would rather be neutered than suitored. I fly by autopilot Dials flicker, signals flash Touching base I navigate single-handed Journeying less and less. Good Morning Black and Yellow Bird Good morning black and yellow bird! I do not know your name And by the way you look at me you feel the very same. You're wondering what I'm doing here, and so, I must confess I'm pretending I'm a memsahib born to years of idleness And tomorrow on an elephant I'll be a rajah's wife Hunting tigers in my sari with a ruby-studded knife. That's a different land entirely? Black and yellow bird I know On my British monthly salary here's as far as I could go. Burmese Coo There is a small Burmese community living in the jungle around the Pa-la-u waterfall. The waterall is part of the La-u forest in Kang-Kra-Chan national park's compound. It covers 43,700 hectares Tinkle tinkle Burmese coo, aa ye dae is ett an moo Lugs as lang as cricket bats skelpin swarms o fit d'ye cats. In a bield amang bamboo, swytin like a roastin soo I spy Buddhist monks nip by, on their scooters, trig an spry Muckle leaves waucht ben the breeze. Michty me! They're butterflees! Bear in a Thai Zoo Two stuffed bears inhabit a rusty cage One's slumped in a foetid comer The other, stoppers a water barrel Comotose with heat. Its paws hang down, like rigid backscrapers. Not till a buzzing fly makes a bear eye wink Do I realise they're real. This is Bear Alcatraz No toys. No joys. No vistas other than parched bamboo A brick wall, blistering. Dry scrub. The occasional pink but unobtainable prey Which peers intently at its potential eaters. Not as much as a scratch betrays What thoughts incubate like maggots Beneath their fur No growl of complaint leaks from the thin line Of their sealed mouths. Room service is regular, The bears are suitably rotund Essence of bear, That quintessential judder of the jungle Isn't there. A cracked paw-pad hangs slack A fire extinguished. Flies circle their dry pelts like wheeling vultures. A News wi a Parten Foo mony birsslin British dowps, wee parten, on yer Cha-am beach Hae birled like satay sticks o meat birssled tae reid fae fite an peach? Tell me, ma armour-platit frien fit think ye o these fremmit fowk? Rolex, Gucci, Chanel they buy...Aa fake.. bit names impress a gowk. The warld's ill-pairtit. Nicht an day pyed guairds wi guns stappt in their belt Maun stalk the waukwyes, jist fur fear the fowk fa vend takk back fit's selt. Wang-Kher Wang-Kher is the actual name of a very efficient Thai housemaid An exclamation of approval in Thai is 'Khrap' pronounced 'crap '. Honoured fly upon my pork Why you bivouac on my fork? Use my chop-stick as an anchor? Honoured fly, I name thee Wang-Kher Yalla Dug Yalla dug aneth the staas foo d'ye aywis scrat yer baas Like a waukin plague o scabies? Yalla dug, dae ye hae rabies? In a butcher's, on a hook, yer ma is hingin. Takk a luik! Salamander UP DOWN Up down UP DOWN Press ups press ups press ups Busy busy busy Going for gold gold for gold going for gold Salamander work out Kam-Lai Kam-Lai is a 65 year old elephant at Wat Neranchararam. Cha-am Kam-lai can niver smile because her moo's set up an doon Wi yon lang trunk atween her een she canna even froon As sae ye niver really ken exactly fit she thinks Bin fin ye feed her sugarcane she shuts her een an blinks. This MICHT mean 'Foo idyllic' or 'Nae sugar-cane fur tea!' Or, 'The breeks yon wummin' s weirin wad bring tears tae a gless ee.' Gin ye'd like a game o bools wi yon fine set ahin her feet. I widna. They're fit elephants drap sune efter they've hid meat. An Elephant's Moo Fae auld Siam across tae China, an elephant's moo's like a vagina Stap in a tongue an ye hae got a meal machine that chaas the lot Bananas, chocolate, in it goeses. Niver a thocht o brucellosis! I'm feart I catch e-coli bugs. The elephant lauchs an skelps its lugs Is salmonella in thon breid? The elephant lauchs an shakks its heid An wolfs doon 23 bananas afore I'm intae ma pyjamas She maun hae reinforced intimmers, fur this hett sun turns aa tae cinners Sae, fin a hunner years she's seen, will telegram cam fae her Queen? Tae Ganesh I gie thanks. Thon God his elephants keeps hale an snod Fur elephants wi skitters wid blad Thailan's towrist trade fur guid. The River Kwai For the men of the Second Battalion the Gordon Highlander Regiment, buried in the POW cemetary at Kanchanaburi Kanchanaburi's green an quate. The sun, sae hett it stouns In birsslin drouth, in frozen youth, the deid men makk nae souns A poppy here, a garlan there, rich scents each grave festoons Peace ower the grun. .bit dearly won bi the Daith Railway loons. Far fae the teuchit's dweeble wheep's the skreichin o baboons An here the Thai, alang the Kwai tend weel the Gordon loons. They didna dee far bullets flee. Their war brocht ither wouns Far dysentry kept company wi rain as big's dubloons Aside the Kwai the smilin Thai in bricht sarongs an gouns Sell mango slice an tea wi ice, wi orchids at their crouns. Thailan's the larder o the East. It wyles awa the pouns There wis nae beer nor buffet here, fin coorseness kent nae bouns An fin the jungle lowsed its rage, the peetiless monsoons Cholera, typhoid thinned the ranks ben bitter nichts an noons A different fecht, a different airt, fae Waterloo's dragoons Maleria gied the Deid Thraa tae the Daith Railway loons. The war's lang gaen. They bide alane. Nae wives aside them lie. Bricht butterflees abeen them heeze, aa sufferin ower an by. Culloden, Flodden, Bannockburn. .grim pipers play the tunes The leaders o a nation screive tae mobilise platoons Is liberty as gweed a cause tae dee fur as the lave? Nane kens, dry banes haud nae discourse that full a sodjer's grave. Kanchanaburi's green an quate. Noo, fyew are left tae greet, Far thistles fell...Bit merk them weel.. The wins o peace are sweet Taxi Driver's Buddha Taxi driver's Buddha, fit div ye see? Are yer een on traffic or some transcendental lea? Buddha on the dashboord, fin yer maister drives Are ye watchin ower him ensurin that he thrives? Fare-pyin punters dinna sit sae snod as ye Taxi-driver's Buddha yer a top-speed rareity! Thai Thai Noodle-sellers. Fortune tellers. Silks, sarongs. Rubies, Khlongs. Temple cat. Spending baht. Mango stall. Shopping mall. Sugar cane. Monsoon rain. Spirit house. Dragon blouse. Lotus flower. Siam tower. Tourist police. Conmen fleece. Bitten dog. Floating log. Speeding scooter. Guard with shooter. Traffic jam. Low salaam. Deep fried cricket. Snake in thicket. Toilet squat. Buddhist watt. Calomine lotion. Tuk-tuk motion. Mozzies hum. Immodium. Steamed Rice St Eamed Rice So white So good So nice Supersonic Under the betel-nut trees, Mangoes mango-ing, Tamarinds tango-ing Man, I was David Attenburgh. Man, I was Michael Palin Till spider fell on my shoulder, size of a small boulder Man, I was outa there So fast, you wouldn't believe... Man, I was supersonic Patpong I & II Patpong I and II. Don't look under your shoe You may find you've trod on sin Tourist-walk-on-the-wild-side Safer to stick to gin. Bangkok masseuse Black hair pulled back in an elastic band The Bangkok masseuse moulds my cushioned shoulder Her boney finger takes my palm in hers Kneads it like soggy dough. She coughs discreetly (Too poor to be ill) Under the sickly light The air conditioned whiff of wheeling blades I pay to be pampered. The hour is mine, Is bought and paid for. Trick or Treat When Asian Elvis sings, fantasy rocks off on dragons' wings Behind me the chorus kicks No spots on these ladybirds Bangkok lady-boys trained to trick or treat Are they? Aren't they? You can't see the joins Nipped and tucked So expertly, If they were eggs you'd stamp them, Standard issue. Puil in a Hotel Complex The palm weirs stretch merks roon its belly Leaves, hett an droothy ettle tae reach the puil Tae lick it up like forkit lizards' tongues. The watter sweels aroon like crème de menthe. Last nicht a taed cam here, creashie's a Wall street banker While the palms swyed in the breeze Lord! Foo he likit tae craik. Fu o hissel. He fartit twice Like a German in navy Speedo trunks Nae speedin, twa towels doon. Progress (From a talk given by a Bangkok Tourist Guide) We got Dunkin Donuts.We got cookies. We got MacDonalds.We got coke. My kids don't eat no tapioca now. No siree! I got me CIVILISATION Got me a car. Got me a traffic jam. Hell, lady, me even got pollution. Yes Mam, I'm middle-class. Shame about the grass Don't grow much with the fumes.But what d'you think of Our sky train overpass? Flute Seller He pykes his barfit wye alang the stran Cannily steppin abeen The anchor towes o boaties, The smachrie o coral an shells. Deid puffer fish sweels in wi the tide Bumbazed tae hae puffed its hinmaist puff A playthin o the sea coost ooto this melee O froth an sweeshlin bree. Aneth the cweel bit shade o his coolie hat The broon flute seller fussles. His shanks are shilpit His breeks are torn an green His semmit fu o holes Flaps fae the lean Coat-hinger o his frame. He smiles wi twa mauve lips Like coconut flesh, his teeth Sae fite they daizzle ye This Thai pied piper blaws Ben bamboo tubes, Thon hollow reeds Echo the lanely lappin o the sea Bead sellers jostle ye Silk venders hassle ye Horse hawkers dog yer steps The flute seller cocks his heid sidiewyse His reedy notes waucht fae his bamboo pipe The music furls like rikk alang the stran His easy-osy joy in his wee tunes His melodic wares Eneuch tae wyle the siller fae yer pooch. Farang Farang is the Thai word for 'foreigner' This is a foreign country. Deep fried maggot, shocks. Pianists tinkle raffishly in hotel foyers Each home accommodates its ancestors In spirit houses (all too solid gilt) Sky trains cross the clouds on heavenly rails Sunsets wear stepping stones of tower blocks. This is a foreign country. Trees wear bells, Traffic police are muzzled against pollution Guns suggest a whiff of revolution This is a foreign country. Toddles hang from scooter handlebars Ducks and diamonds dangle side by side Pigeons are tinned. Even the sky is different. .. Siamese stars. Harvest time Under the plane's right wing, moon looks aghast as usual Britain lies like a stitched-up throw. If we fell from the sky like a stone We wouldn't need a doctor or a nurse, A neurologist, astrologer, psychologist Our organs could be harvested at source. The going rate's as follows in pounds sterling: One Heart.......£100,000.00 One Kidney.......£6,000.00 It's anyone's guess what a pancreas might cost The runway as we left was icy And coming back, the long term forecast's frost. July in Arlington A blood-red maple spills a pool of cool, The sentry's polished boots pace twenty-one. Green acres hold their buried treasure safe, Gravestones, white as cotton, fill the fields. The sentry's polished boots pace twenty-one. The stars and stripes flap like an eagle's wing, Gravestones, white as cotton fill the fields. A leaping flame rekindles Sixties' fire. The stars and stripes flap like an eagle's wing. Four whisk-tailed horses pull a glory box. A leaping flame rekindles Sixties' fire, Tour buses visit the necropolis. Four whisk-tailed horses pull a glory-box. A blood-red maple spills a pool of cool, Tour buses visit the necropolis, Green acres hold their buried treasure safe. The Lion and the Eagle Sung to the tune Sleepytoon Written and performed during 'Scotland at the Smithsonian' (2003) The Lion Rampant is the symbol of Scots smeddum. The Eagle is the symbol of American power. The rain, of course has its own agenda: 'I will go in the morning', said the king. 'You will wait for me,' said the wind (Gaelic Proverb) Aa nicht forked lichtenin rent the sky, it sent a thunnerclap doonby Noo Thor's weet dish-cloot's nearly dry in Washington in the morning Aff plastic ponchos raindraps dreep, throw weety girse the broon dubs seep Yet the Metro's stappit an the mobiles bleep in Washington in the morning. Rikk rises up fae a cowboy's grill. Towrists trek tae the Capitol A bird pykes mealies wi its bill in Washington in the morning Schule pairties steer an mozzies heeze. Flags waucht on flagpoles in the breeze Stane eagles glower atween the trees in Washington in the morning The Lion rampant's cleuks are strang, wi the Eagle's fowk the wauks are thrang See the Eagle's pouer, hear the Lion's sang in Washington in the mornin American Interlude The Mall sat at the hub of things. The Hirshhorn, with its fountain Of naked water, a spiritual oasis. Gold days under the needle tower Were a lucky strike. A shifting tableaux, Tents and trees and sun. The shy smile of melons luscious as Judy Garland's lips, Old Glory hanging from every second wall The red shoes of squirrels tapdancing through the leaves View from A Skyscraper The Potomac slips by, a muddy snake, Gay boats, like flashing scales upon its back. Steel cockroach whiffs its helicopter wings, Small sycamores, so hot their leaves hang slack. Past man-cliffs sheathed in steel, cement and glass, Mist rises. Spires and skyscrapers unveil. The marble cages of old monuments Hold fragments of a nation's Holy Grail. Trailing clouds of ripples in their wake, Jets part the skies with flimsy spider skeins. A living organism, road and bridge Carries the beetling traffic in its veins. The Anacostan tribe has left no mark The Potomacs, the Dogue, their furs and skins Vanished. The city sidewalks seethe and teem On glades once trod by leather moccasins The Potomac tribe, the Dague, the Anacostan people once populated Washington. They largely died out after contact with early explorers, of diseases such as measles and the common cold. Oilman Apocalyptic asses rear and plunge At sets of traffic lights you never see Thin mosquitoes whine. Moths, big as plates land on the drilling plan In guarded compounds, spiders lie in wait Larger than crabs. Everything's up for grabs. Cripples whizz by on skateboards Swamp rigs wade in rivers brown as treacle No one petitions their councillors Complaining on the infringement of civil rights Palms are greased. Oils are wheeled A rash of mud huts spreading along the shore Is raw with life Like a corpse wriggling with maggots Aids lopes like a lion through the bush Feeding at every village Three tribal scars slashed down a cheek Speak solidarity. Oilman's scars are hidden His tribe, dispersed through segregated suburbs Hornygollach His heid's crooned bi a twig. He slalems doon a leaf like ony Olympic skiier, Syne tightrope wauks a trailin jungle creeper. Anely a grenade could bomb him oot Could heelstergowdie him. Explorin his crackly kingdom His shanks cut throwe the air like a tailor's shears, Like a Roman Catholic bishop dispensin crosses. His gollach- intimmers snod in his sheeny shell, He sweys like a hammock, Launches aff like rain sikkin a puddle. It makks me wabbit watchin His ceaseless rinnin. His richts takk precedence ower mine, Here, I'm the tourist, he's the acceptit local. Syne, he takks flicht! His wings whirr like a copter. This gars me grue, The sicht o sic an ugsome ferly tleein! His hame's this Asian stearnie. Unreason's cleuks claa cauldly at ma wyme. Fit gin this horny gollach choose tae veesit me? Explore ma frailties wi his fyaachie taes I ken that I wad kill him gin I cwid. Shorthand Notes on Tall Buildings Shout it from the house tops! Walls have ears! This could bring the house down House of Lords House of Commons Will eat you out of House and Home Here's the church And here's the steeple Open the doors But where's the people? Castles in the Air Bird of passage crosses a cloudy castle Sun streams down slipways of heavenly shutes But what if the sky should fall And not the bird? What if the sea should rise and fly away? What if the castle left its cloudy eyrie Raining pearls and stones into the bay? Then I would gather wonderful posies of larks Angels would go swimming with the seals The furrowed clouds would yield up crops of sand The castle sail away to Samarcand Larks' Tongues Pireep pireep Pireep. P-oi p-oi p-oi. Chirrup chirrup chirrup peereep peereep p-poi p-oi No Passport Needed Skyscrapers breed, oil magnates jostle, where Tide rushes forward, cold and coffin-grey Seagulls and pigeons fight. No scraps to spare Now, land of childhood, prince and silver pear Like the Chimera's vanished in the spray The book is closed on Minotaur and bear. Though I could speed like any mountain hare Turning the busy treadmill of each day Each minute draws me closer to that lair Whose chamber holds the learned and the fair Mortality's the law all must obey King Cross-Bones' Realm. The void behind the stare As solemnly Death takes the regal chair His horrid smiling skull will have its say His legions conquer gaiety and care The charmed, the charming, roses rich and rare He tinctures with the blossoms of decay He makes of Light and Dark a wedded pair When Jacob's ladder beckons, that tall stair Which souls ascend, bequeathing flesh to clay Bones will lie easy in the moorland there No passport needed. Nothing to declare. The Phillipino Fisherman Dear Lady, I hope you will not be angry. I have followed you home from the beach and slipped this letter under your hotel room door. I see you shopping in the market and alone on the beach. Always alone. (Like all foreign tourists, old woman, your wallet is fat. The things you buy cost a few pesos. To you, this is nothing. But this could keep me and my family in food for a week. Always, I see you are alone. I see no man with you, no child. I think maybe you are a widow. I think maybe you are like a cargo boat on the Pacific, heavy with goods. It is not good to carry around so much wealth and not to share it.) My friends call me Phnong. I am a 20 year old education sophomore, fisherman, and breadwinner of four younger children. (You foreigners look on a poor man like myself and click with your cameras, snapping like so many hungry gulls. You think how colourful I look in my nice brown skin, in my red ragged vest and my blue fishing trunks. But I have thoughts, too, lady. I have hopes and desires. The coral reef is pretty. lady, but its flowers are razors. Sharks shadow the pleasure cruisers, sharks that wait and watch.) Owe to poverty I discontinued my college studies. (I watch the foreign TV programmes in the shop windows of the city at night. I see American students leading lives like children. I see fast cars and parties. I see them having fun while their parents keep them. Why should not someone keep me? I am clever too, lady.) I survive by catching and selling fish in the market. I belong to a poor family, lady. My mother died when I was 8. I never experience paternal love. My grandma became my guardian until her death. (Every day I cast my net for fish that escape me. When the net is empty, I starve. Will you be like the fish, lady?) I would like you please to be my future wife. I can make you happy, emotionally, not financially. I am a very romantic and faithful lover.) Others, sell watches and cars. I have nothing to sell but my youth and my body. You are old, lady, When you are dead, I shall have a new life in a new country.) You will find me down at the beach, lady. Any time. Any day. I am always there. Just ask for Phnong. I hope you like my photo. I am a clean, healthy boy. (My cousin asks me, 'How could you make love to an old woman? I say to him he is a fool. A clever man will till poor soil for years for one fat harvest.) I hope you reply, Respectful admirations, Phnong. Oak I am oak. Son of oak. Of the tribe of oak. I am OK. It is OK. to be an oak. For a time, I wasn't so sure. I was far too close to Moss. Ivy was growing invasive. Three new varieties of fungi sprinted up my trunk. Wasps seemed to be colonising my acorns. A New Age Traveller hugged me. That was the last leaf. I was very upset, you can imagine. Lately, I've been having regression therapy. It's coming along quite nicely, my regression. To begin with, stone was my therapist. He was so wise, so Freudian, just sat there. exuding wisdom, letting me exude wisdom, with his back to me as they do. A deeply evolved being, I could tell. In ten years he never moved an inch. Then I found out he was hung up on impermanence. Well I could tell he had troubles enough of his own. Weasel recommended another therapist, a hub cap. He's young, a Jungian photo-synthesiser. Ultimately he hopes to evolve into a Ford car. He was quite specific about the make. I think it's because he's a perfect mandala, the highest form of hubcap in the world. We're coming on leaps and bounds he and I... or rather, shivers and shakes in my case. In my past lives, I've discovered I've been a telegraph pole in Auchtermuchty, a musical box in Boston, the mast of a whaling ship... you wouldn't believe the stories an albatross can tell... and a rolling pin for making scones and shortbread in Dhanakosa. It was incredibly grounding being a rolling pin, quite rhythmic. ..oceanic really, like driftwood being sucked by a sea-nipple. My rolling pin era ended when woodworm finished me off.... more holes in my sides than a centipede's underpants. It was the hub-cap who told me to get back down to my roots. He's so insightful. It's grease does it for me,' he said. 'Gets you goin, grease.' Whatever hits the spot, as they say. So now I'm trying to return to my roots, loosen the soil, get right back down to rock bottom. the great imponderables. Just last week I'd a blip in my ancestral nurturing, though. A Druid crossed the road and stopped, right beside my stone. Well I know the stone isn't my therapist anymore, but I don't like the thought of anyone else sharing him. It's like having unprotected sex in human terms, for a tree to bare its soul to a stone therapist. What if the stone tells the Druid my deepest secrets? What if he blabs? Anyway, the Druid picked up the stone and threw him into the loch, no warning, nothing. Just like that. That's how I knew the stranger was a Druid.... he helped the stone break through to a different dimension. So I plucked up the gumption to ask him a question that's troubled me quite a while. Why does nobody worship me?' I asked. 'It's not much good being a sacred tree with symbolic credentials, if you don't have a priest and a ritual and a brotherhood.' He was smoking a cigarette of some description. Smoke makes me nervous..it's a tree thing, but it seemed to improve his humour. Dragons like smoke too, but I haven't seen one of them in ages. 'For a start', the Druid told me, 'you're not an endangered species. Oaks aren't sexy. It's not as if anyone would want to clone you, there's more than enough oaks, common as muck. It's not as if you're a rain forest with a pop tune in the charts, or a whale, or a cross-toed gorgonzola. Nobody's going to bang drums and sign petitions because you're having an identity crisis. You're just an oak. Furniture potential. A coffin or two. Maybe a kitchen table. Wise up. Get a life. Have you ever considered a complete change of direction? A new career? You could be a pair of stilts... a clothes horse... a floor brush.' I was shocked to the sap. Devastated, a Druid speaking like that to an oak like me. All my collective tribal history, spiritual and cultural significance, chopped up for kindling, metaphorically speaking, It wasn't as if I could unburden this to the hubcap, he was deep in session with a bag of crisps.... now there's a totally screwed up piece of packaging, let me tell you. After the Druid left, though, I reflected. We oaks are great reflectors. Sun helps, and it came out just then, propitiously, so to speak. Humans, I reflected. Mm.. The age of the computer. They're all gadget-junkies nowadays, humans, with their mobile ears and their lap-taps, and their tinned sap. Maybe I don't need a priest. Maybe I don't need to be worshipped. Maybe I don't need the hubcap, even.... They're very clingy, humans, I've noticed that. They water each other occasionally. They call this crying. Sometimes they just water themselves. It goes on longer when they water themselves. Occasionally, they lie down under my boughs in twos.... once, in a threesome... and they rock back and fore. They call this loving. It's very strange behaviour. The hubcap says that's how humans procreate, he heard them talking about it when he was still a molten piece of metal. Humans are quite sadistic, too, cutting their names in my side. If I wanted a tattoo, I'd ask crow to scratch out a little something... runic, maybe the odd scrap of Ogham. I certainly wouldn't ask for "Zak loves Mary". Sometimes, a group of them squat with tins and cups around my roots, and stick triangular wedges into the hole in their head between their ears, eating, I think it is, and listen to music blaring out of a log, I think it's a log. A singing log, though I've never seen the birds that lives in these logs, nor would I particularly want to, the din they make. Humans call this 'Getting back to Nature.' Want to know a secret? Nature doesn't want them back! They've tightened the green belt so much, all that's left of the countryside's some eyelet holes. Oh there's oaks all right... in public parks or lining the side of a motor way but not great tribes of us, like there used to be, thick as bison wandering historical plains. So, here I am, rediscovering my roots, pre Darwin, pre Druid, pre dinosaur. For some reason I'm very attracted to green. Mmmmm. And light. Mmmmmm. Yes, light comes into it, and well.. I seem to have this amazing affinity with water. Maybe I'll have to dig a little deeper. This work is protected by copyright. All rights reserved. The SCOTS Project and the University of Glasgow do not necessarily endorse, support or recommend the views expressed in this document. Information about document and author: Text Text audience General public: Males: Females: Audience size: 1000+ Text details Method of composition: Handwritten Word count: 6393 Text medium Book: Text publication details Published: Publisher: Self: Limited Edition / Thistle Reprographics Publication year: 2004 Place of publication: Aberdeen Text type Poem/song/ballad: Other: Collection of poems Author Author details Author id: 112 Forenames: Sheena Surname: Blackhall Gender: Female Decade of birth: 1940 Educational attainment: University Age left school: 16 Upbringing/religious beliefs: Brought up Protestant, now Buddhist Occupation: Writer and supply teacher Place of birth: Aberdeen Region of birth: Aberdeen Birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd Country of birth: Scotland Place of residence: Aberdeen Region of residence: Aberdeen Residence CSD dialect area: Abd Country of residence: Scotland Father's occupation: Manager of Deeside Omnibus Service Father's place of birth: Aboyne Father's region of birth: Aberdeen Father's birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd Father's country of birth: Scotland Mother's occupation: Private Secretary Mother's place of birth: Aberdeen Mother's region of birth: Aberdeen Mother's birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd Mother's country of birth: Scotland Languages: Language: English Speak: Yes Read: Yes Write: Yes Understand: Yes Circumstances: Language: Gaelic; Scottish Gaelic Speak: Yes Read: Yes Write: Yes Understand: Yes Circumstances: Elementary. Gaelic choir. Poetry. Language: Scots Speak: Yes Read: Yes Write: Yes Understand: Yes Circumstances: