Saturday, August 28, 2010

Cowal Games: Midnight

Along the crescent, in the middle of the night,

a hooded figure minces, its tight step

in bondage to its low-slung jeans. It looks along

its shoulder at the road, and then I see

the green glow from the mobile phone

held like a talisman against the dark –

against the loneliness of being young

as other figures seem to taunt

by being three instead of one.

And hidden at the window I observe

this interplay of darkness and of threat

as distant voices call and jeer

and music snatches at the air

in this, the hour of midnight lives

before the silence of the dawn.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Morgan in school

I wrote this ten years ago, the last time Edwin Morgan visited Dunoon Grammar School. Someone else sent the poem to him, and he replied: "I was touched by her words. I promise to 'speak for us still' as long as I am able!"
And he did.

Your words fall quieter now,
Poet, sometimes submerged in
The hornet hum that is
Technology's voice. Older, you yet
Play young men's games with
Joyous random images from
Mercury to Maryhill.
I see you a small, valiant
Bird-figure in canary yellow,
Quick light movements underpinning
Words as fluent as a song.
The circle of young faces,
Sunflowers in rapt attendance,
Bear witness to your potent
Weaving of wisdom with youth's vigour.
Speak for us still, poet, lest
The tide of dumbness sweep over our
Inarticulate longings, and we drown.

©C.M.M. 11/00