by Rachel McCrum

Girvan

Whit’s yer hurry ?

That great big sea turtle of Ailsa Craig
waiting to finally lumber up evill
scattering barnacles and dripping bladder wrack.

Birds with deadly little beaks
and old bulls in a field
wrinkled like a giant’s knuckles.

The sand dunes pushed back to the mountains.
Chins dug in, eyes down.
The rocks in those hurried cramped layers
as the sea repeatedly slaps them back.

And for all that, still roaring against the wind,
Frankie the Slug,
Jodie Pie + Kimbo Smee
in whitewash on the rocks.

Haste ye back.

by Rachel McCrum

I am unbuilding a house.
Across the living room floor,
bricks lie rubbled.

Without fail, each morning,
I carefully stub my toes,
making sure to curse
ferociously and quietly.

(Today I damned
my grandmother.)

Then, limping and trailing
a damson smear, I heft
a brick into each hand
rub the skin raw
from my palms,
choke on dust particles
and lumber out to the street.

My pyjamas are ripped.

The road outside my house
is becoming cluttered with rocks.

I have tried to line them neatly
along the gutter

thinking that they may be of use
to someone
someplace.

Bricks, even those with
small plum smudges,
may be used to build again

or perhaps, I worry later,
someone will use these rocks
as weapons

a conveniently sized grab for rage
or perhaps a fist sized resistance

hurled against riot shields
or just the irresistible pissed up urge
to shatter windscreens.

by Rab Wilson

What’s This You’re Writing?       English Version

There’s none care now about the poet’s work
Least of all, not round here anyway.
Though Parnassus’ slopes might be hard and steep,
You wonder if the climb is worth the struggle.
Sisyphus, labouring with his little stone,
Was bound to the task by some ill–tempered gods,
The same ones who thought up the Lotto odds,
Damning me and Sis to try again.
Those kettle–boilers who just point and jeer,
Perhaps they could be right! If that’s the case,
As the page stares blankly back in your face,
Stop up your ears! You’ll not want to hear them ask;
‘What’s all this daft nonsense ?
There’s more to life than writing poetry!’

Whit’s This Ye’re Writin?       Ayrshire Scots

There’s nane cares nou anent the makar’s daurg,
Leastweys, no round about here onywey.
Tho Parnassus brae micht be stieve an stey,
Ye wunner gif the sclimb is wirth the tyauve.
Sisyphus, trauchlin wi his chuckie stane,
Wis thirlt tae the task bi some crabbit gods,
The same yins wha thocht up the Lotto odds,
Damnin me an Sis tae ettle agane.
Thae kettle–bilers wha juist pynt an jeer,
Aiblins they could be richt! Gif thon’s the case,
As the blaud stares blankly back in yer face,
Stap yer ears! Ye’ll nae want tae hear thaim speir;
‘Whit’s aa this daft joukerie–pawkerie ?
There’s mair tae life than screivin poetry!’

by Vicki Feaver

I was born bristling
with prickles. My mother
shaved me with a razor.

When my prickles grew back:
longer, thicker, sharper,
she pulled them out with tweezers.

When they grew again:
a pelt of spiky armour,
she chased after me with pliers.

I ran away and hid in the woods.
Sniffed out by a hunter’s
snarling dogs

I rolled into a ball.
I forgot I was girl
and a forester arrived

to fell a tall pine.
I watched in a swoon
as he swung his axe —

driving the blade
deeper and deeper
into the bright wood.

The tree shrieked, swayed
and fell with a crash.
He turned, pushed

a lock of glossy black hair
from his eyes and stared
through me as if I was air.

I ran to the pool’s mirror:
saw a girl as spiky
as gorse on the moor.

I built a fire of dry branches.
Rolling first in claggy clay
(the gypsies’ method

of removing spines
from a hedgehog),
ran through the flames.

Three times I ran through fire
to become the woman
of a man’s desire.

Three times to charm
and be ruled by a man,
I tried and failed

to tame my fierce nature.
And now, I live alone:
my spines, regrown,

turned inwards:
a spiky thicket
around my heart.