by Iyad Hayatleh

Mornings       English Version

Thousands of splendid mornings and kisses
I send
to those who have no mornings

To my mum
whose face prays in my eyes
and sprays in me the lights of moons

To a grave
that hugs the laughter of my Lamees
where my heart flies sideways like a bee

To a girl
whose lesson invades her while still sleepy
with her dream lingering in her bed
dancing with its shadow

To a boy
who deceives the darkness of the camp with smiles
and draws a sun on what was destroyed
and plants jasmine amidst the ruins

To the soul of a martyr
that wipes the tears of a most beautiful mother
who became in his presence
just like a girl

To the handcuff of a prisoner
who spends his night starving

while his wrist admires the sun

To my far away motherland
I chant
and from the words of my poems
I weave a rope of love for her
and alight the bleeding of my nostalgia
as candles, for her
for you
every night.

by Ian McDonough

We’re born to see round corners, but struggle sometimes
with panoramic vistas. Broken decorations from last Xmas
hang from lampposts: the hotel bar has abandoned
its Friday Happy Hour as no–one was happy,
apart from Bella McKay, who was far too happy.
Under the stone bridge the river is in spate — black water
topped with dirty creamy foam. Running
in everyone’s veins, the last thin words of Gaelic, trace–elements
of Pictish, harsh calls of Neolithic hunters. Blue eyes, red hair,
pink cheeks, a measgnachadh of folk populates the spread
of council houses, crofts and granite strongholds. Fishing boats
named after daughters bob against the harbour wall. The local doctor
sits to tea alone, eyes his glass of whisky, iPhone, salmon
on a china plate. Today Col–bheinn is wreathed in snow, tomorrow
it is all of us. The Co–op is selling strawberries from God knows where.
Great gusts of wind blow through Seaforth Place, pinning stray memories
onto fences, trees, parked cars. With night comes a crimson moon,
shining above the Free Church manse. Village ghosts will dance.

by Ian McDonough

The North Westerly is a martyr
shrieking, broken on the wheel.

Years are tentacles of giant squid
grasping all we hold so dear to us.

In the scullery, a whistling tin kettle
pines for those carefree, tramping days.

Rain is necessary, near enough unbearable,
sleet the piss-stream of a minor demon.

Beach ozone perfumes the ancient of days:
our feet crush fallen empires built of shell.

We are each other’s keeper, no-one owns the land;
the gulf between the stars our only prison.

by Henry Bell

That full ripe Glasgow sun
is warming up the courgettes and smashed TVs
in my Back Court

The sky is black to my left
bright blue to my right — it rains against itself
and the drops dry on the warm concrete

Summer must be taken seriously
in Glasgow where limbs hang out of windows
thrilled to be as bright as the sun

Summer must be taken seriously
when it comes short and sharp
and fills your mouth with the taste of rain