tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56180953526964765612011-11-30T08:09:59.529+03:00poems, pictures, memories, miscellany - by dave mcclureDavehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.comBlogger1801100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-88920657811562390692011-11-10T11:45:00.000+03:002011-11-10T11:45:05.353+03:00

This is Westminster in Glasgow in 1979. Westminster was a classic green budgie bred by Doctor Cant, biology teacher, badminton player and of course, budgie breeder. Doc was mildly scandalised by our choice of name. "He'll never learn to say it", she said, and was absolutely correct. West never showed the slightest interest in learning to speak. In some ways he was a failure as a budgie. Speaking

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-20401657543263456992011-01-17T21:33:00.000+03:002011-01-17T21:33:25.787+03:00

I can't quite remember why I took this shot of a fairly ordinary pub in Bowling (near Dumbarton). Maybe it had something to do with the mock black and white frontage. That's not impossible, because at the time I'd not ventured much out of Scotland. A few years later, in Shakespeare country, real black and white cottages were all around me and I wouldn't have given the imposter a second glance.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-49702894668753157062011-01-16T21:45:00.000+03:002011-01-16T21:45:03.770+03:00

connemara, with bloke, donkey, cottage and telegraph poles Digitising all of Dad's old family slides and all of my own was fun but enough of a good thing by the time I'd finished. For about six months afterwards, I just didn't have the notion to switch on the slide scanner again. Until today. I've decided this time to process my old black & white negatives, mostly shot between 79 and 81. This

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-43357865472967464512010-06-20T11:48:00.003+03:002010-06-20T22:29:50.483+03:00

I have merged "Dave McClure - Blog" with "Dave McClure - Poems" and renamed the single result "Agnes's Surprise". This is part of the occasional but ongoing process of rationalising my web presence. "Agnes has a Surprise Party", a monologue by William McCulloch, was one of our most played 78s back in Montgomerie Terrace. I can't remember it all, but it began, "The greatest surprise of the nicht

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-19289653125295558392010-03-12T17:29:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:17:05.036+03:00

Some of the younger Bruzzins will never have seen Honor as she is in this slide - young, fashionable and dare I say, normal, before misfortunes beset her. She's wearing the famous charm bracelet of course, but who's driving the red Austin 1100? There seems to be somebody in the driver's seat, but the sun on the windscreen makes it hard to tell who it is.The rest of this set seems to be a mix of

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-70580776161019520842010-03-07T17:50:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:17:05.037+03:00

Blankenberg, looking back, was one of the best holidays and, for me at least, it seemed so at the time. Aged 9, I was old enough to be trusted on one of these go-kart trikes on the Esplanade and to make a fair hack of 'racing' it. And confident enough to go off on my own to the bank, to try to change eightpence into Belgian francs, enough for another game of bar billiards, which we didn't know

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-90576634286062888722010-03-06T14:18:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:17:05.039+03:00

 The photos from the St Jean de Luz holiday are not especially interesting, with far too many anonymous beach shots. But I'll let you judge that for yourself. Maybe some people like beach shots! Having said that, the set isn't entirely without merit. There's a nice shot of Mum sitting by the sea and even one of Peter Grimes. Odd that I don't remember him being there...Among other things, St Jean

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-23603156500762517782010-02-27T10:14:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:17:05.040+03:00

This was the first French holiday, to Le Touquet, Paris Plage, in 1960*, I think, because I'm wearing a Grammar School black blazer. Douglas was allowed to keep his red Academy blazer because he was only moved to the Grammar for one year. The privilege of age! Yet I liked the Grammar primary. It was small enough to know all the teachers and nearly all the kids. But enough of that, we're on

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-17003734872920272802010-02-19T11:57:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:17:05.042+03:00

The young Cumnock Academy teacher* on the left has apparently just told the World's funniest joke. It must have been him, because Mum was never known to tell a joke in her life, except the one that goes: If you vant to buy a vatch, buy a vatch. If you don't vant to buy a vatch, take your dirty bubbly nose away from the vindow, which nobody ever laughed at, or the even worse: Mr Johnstone's at the

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-79752476545900887082010-02-19T01:14:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:17:05.043+03:00

Has this not got to be one of Dad's best ever shots? A Springtime picnic (no leaves on the trees), Derrick now man-sized, or at least man-heighted, Douglas still a boy, Mum engrossed in making a lunch under the arch.The rest of this set includes a few shots of Cumnock Academy playground and the only known picture of the new Jungle Gym.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-56847769684580581862010-02-17T19:46:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:17:05.044+03:00

And the second set of family slides is here. I'm actually pretty vague about where some of them were taken. I've captioned them all, but with plenty of question marks, my shorthand for a large element of guesswork or invented memory. The condition of this set was worse, with more dirt and scratches, and it looks as if the film might have been old before exposure, as quite a few had a marked

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-66968052850474493002010-02-13T21:12:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:17:05.045+03:00

 And here's the proof. Aunt Polly read the 'Woman's Own', not the 'Woman'. Uncle Donald seemed to find that OK, or maybe it was a special dispensation for holidays at Kilfinan.I've been sorting out the old slides, with some difficulty. There would seem to be nine Kodachrome films, but only four boxes. The newest is January '64 - the date is printed on the frame - but the earlier eight films are

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-60469794910177039162009-12-25T14:29:00.001+03:002009-12-25T14:31:31.957+03:00

She says I'll roast in hell for not believing the things she does the way she does. She says my feigned agnosticism is deceiving myself, not God, through whose mysterious ways I'll learn too late that sulphurous fire and worms that never die are my eternal fate. She relishes the telling, as she forms each loving syllable from finest hate. Her husband offers hope: I needn't worry. His Jesus has

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-50514835619599932292009-12-25T14:18:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:29:50.484+03:00

Is is, not very, but still noticeably, a white Christmas here in Malvern. It was apparently a very white December 23, but I was still in Doha where it was decidedly grey and dusty. The mild thaw on 24th was handy because it meant the landing at Heathrow and subsequent train journeys were more or less smooth.Now, here's the Christmas plan for this blog. I'm going to get myself a slide/negative

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-16971788752787035502009-07-08T20:07:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:20:28.150+03:00

Something resembling a plan is emerging. The second extension of my contract at Jazeera ends on July 31. I'm booked to fly to Dubai and spend the first week of August there, sorting out visa and accommodation bits and pieces. Then back to Qatar, to spend a few weeks planning for next year and for IBC, and all the logistics of extricating myself from rent & utilities contracts and generally

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-44287852500412164652009-06-19T10:13:00.002+03:002009-06-21T17:26:09.159+03:00

Mohammed al Suwaidi's cup of tea has multiple and changing definitions: a rainy Sunday, thoughtful company, black hansoms, London's Constables and Titians. No less diverse, we find, are its negations: football, less than gentlemanly manners, dirty commuter trains and noisy stations, demonstrators shouting, waving banners. He learned the phrase in England. Now he tends to treat it like a cherished

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-9957323699808246082009-06-14T14:09:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:20:28.151+03:00

Yesterday was about as hot as it gets here. The radio had warned that temperatures were going to hit 46C and the general consensus was that 46 was a conservative estimate. My after-lunch walk around the perimeter of Muntazah Park, a total distance of no more than a mile, must have cost me a litre of dehydration over and above the high beetroot hue. The odd thing is, I like it.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-72550126257477263862009-06-01T16:50:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:29:50.485+03:00

 Only in England would someone take the trouble to make a slate message board like the above. It's mounted outside a small second hand shop on Malvern's Bellevue Terrace and seemed, today at least, more or less to sum up the difference between Malvern and Doha. There should be no need to enlarge on that.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-40104083569728545362009-05-23T07:12:00.000+03:002009-05-23T07:14:38.756+03:00

Long ago upon a hilltop (let me finish then I will stop)I espied a curious traveller where no traveller was before.As I raised an arm in greeting all at once he took to beatingat the air like one entreating passing boats to come ashorelike a castaway repeating empty movements from the shoreor an over-eager whore.Never one to wonder blindly I demanded not unkindly"Are you waving, or behaving in a

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-82823257567370795692009-05-23T06:52:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:20:28.152+03:00

Today, at 1145, I fly out of Doha. At 1230, I land in Bahrain (pronounced as the answer to the question: Handel, what is the falling wet stuff called?) Then, at 1330 I leave Bahrain only to arrive back in Doha at 1415. In Bahrain, I will not leave the aircraft. This performance, ostensibly to generate a new entry visa in Qatar, is really all about generating a little extra revenue for Qatar

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-91467262421761201552009-01-29T13:32:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:18:29.441+03:00

So here it is - the final episode in Dad's Flopears series:One day Flopears was feeling very fed-up. He had nothing to do and all his wee brothers and sisters were playing without him, and anyway, he couldn't be bothered with all their noise. "I know what I will do" he said to himself "I'll go away and have an adventure all by myself". So off he went, hopitty-hop hopitty-hop, away up the hill

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-69726988385263998512009-01-29T08:22:00.000+03:002010-06-21T13:02:21.147+03:00

If you've tried going to c-change.co.uk you'll have ended up redirected to here (dave-mcclure-blog.blogspot.com) I have migrated c-change from UK2 to Blogger. Two main reasons: Webspace on UK2 was getting expensive, while Blogger is free, and on Blogger I get the whole feature set (layouts, gadgets, etc) and far faster publishing, while only a cut-down version is available on a hosted blog.Now,

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-51955372701760845252009-01-28T15:35:00.003+03:002009-01-28T15:38:56.772+03:00

See if Ah wiz him Ah wudny staun fur thoan,no if Ah wiz President. Ah mean tae sayit's jist no dacent like. If Ah wiz oanthe telly Ah'd sune tell them whit tae daewi aa thur questions. Aye Ah wud an aaan stuff thur bliddy cameras up thur erse.Ah'd jist say it wiz great an thur's hee-hawyouz lot can dae aboot it noo. Weel ferr'sferr, it's no as if he wiz the poapor Ian Paisley - thoan wud be a

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-76611467859115662612009-01-28T15:35:00.002+03:002009-01-28T15:36:41.762+03:00

Hidin, me? Ah'll gie ye hidinAh've bin doon ra cellar humpinbliddy barrels. Wherr wis you'n yerfancy man that drives the loarry?'s aye the same oan Friday. Maggietherr goes poancin aff fur dennerjist afore thae Tennents Lagerwankers bring their bliddy loarry.Last week ye wis daein the bukes,the wan afore ye're in the cludgienext week ye'll be christ knows wherrbut muggins hus tae dae the

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-15340377790411208242009-01-28T15:34:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:35:04.083+03:00

See thon wee nyaff o a licenceewi the fancy ties an the skelly een?He wis roon the moarn fur a wurd wi meaboot christ knows whit. Weel Ah micht o beenjist a wee bit sherp but ah mean tae saywhit wad he o dune if he'd hud tae copewi the likes o whit we hud yisturdaywi the Rangers boays yellin fuck the poapat the feenyans through in the ither baurwi thur Celtic seemits an Irish chants.Ah wis happy

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-84940754747554439442009-01-28T15:33:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:34:23.534+03:00

C'moan, jist luk at them - thur baith as badas each ither. Wan's his faither in disguisecept fur his auld man wisny near as glaikit.The ither wan's as smarmy as get oot.Ye'd think wi hauf a bullion bliddy yanksti choose between - ach, but it disny matter,it's no as if they even dae a loatthae presidents, no luk the queen. Ah mean,at least she opens things and gets her mugoan aa the stamps an that

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-83592474209602239372009-01-28T15:32:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:33:14.055+03:00

See efter this moagur's aa pit byn we're loused furranurra wee while,moanan we'll hae a wee daunner ootbyeeh no? This baur's luk a jile.Thurra place roon ahint St Vuncent's Lanewhaur naebody's gauny come preeinn we'll tak aff oor claes n pit oan oor wingsn dae a wee bit o fleein.Ah'll be the corbie n ye'll be the gullye wis aye a bit o a gannetn we'll wheech ower the chumneys, aye so we wullnoo

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-19832248580868788772009-01-28T15:31:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:32:21.452+03:00

Ma Chookiejist luik atye (sorryhullawrer)but bidininside likea bloke inthe choky!Get oot oit toot sweetor Aggie'll nag ye.Wee gannetye cannybe slackin -get crackin!The jeely'll heal ye.C'moan yerno goanybe bonny'f yer scrawnyan wastedan pasty.Sae Jesustae please usnae pukinma Chookie.(Original is Ma Mignonne, by Clement Marot)

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-87738065876638242182009-01-28T15:30:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:31:23.740+03:00

Wisny wan o the punters.Husny been here afore.A wee stoattur in a straw boaterwi a rid hooter an a braw moatur.Gallus? Jeez, aye!Montague? Forte's queue?Wisny Gow, onyhow.How?Wha's he been killin?

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-2232407860759879952009-01-28T15:29:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:30:33.816+03:00

Aye aye Ah ken it's Hogmanayan whit's a man supposty daeif thur's naebody at hame?But Wullie man ye've hud a skin.D'ye want the fuzz tae tak ye in?It's jist no worth it son.It's no as if ye'll bring her backby gettin stocious. Best tae jackit in an shoot the crawwhile ye're still staunin like. Thur's naewey Ah cud serve ye onywey,no in yer present state.A poke o chups wud dae ye mairguid than

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-1025662554266725442009-01-28T15:27:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:29:42.334+03:00

See 'f ye go tae Kelvingrove Museum'n try'n imagine whit thae guys wiz thinkinaa thae years ago, ye almost see them,thur sweaty oxters, ragged claes, an stinkin.Gaunny tak a pew an hae a bletherwi thae auld codgers? Watch them drappin affknackered-like efter work in fulthy weatheran snorin like auld grumphies. Whit a laugh.OK. Noo dig yer holes an build yer bridgesower the sheuch. Rip doon whit's

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-77111024470649938572009-01-28T15:26:00.002+03:002009-01-28T15:27:35.067+03:00

Thur's wan aboot a moose, d'ye mind we doneit at the schule? Goad that's no yisterdycos thur wis this big lump - she made him readit oot - his name wis Rabbie Burns tae.Ah aye thocht thon wis rotten o his maw.Ah mean tae say she cud o caad him Jimor Wull or Shoo or ony bliddy thing.But Rab? Ye canny dae thon tae a wean.Like Jeannie Gow that caad her bairn Cluntjist efter seein him at the picters

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-52815666266784126832009-01-28T15:26:00.001+03:002009-01-28T15:26:46.229+03:00

Ah huvny been fur yonks, since Jessie threwin Sam that wis a piper in the Argylesan used tae get us intae the Tattooan that wis grand 'cept it wis bliddy milesfae Waverley an up hill aa the wey.They huvny goat the Undergound like us -weel even London his, Ah mean tae say,some capital if ye've goat tae go by bus.An see the shoaps, thur stappit fu o tatfur yanks an sassenachs tae waste thur cashwi

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-85453753695608667482009-01-28T15:25:00.001+03:002009-01-28T15:25:57.056+03:00

Ye see them in Byres Road sniffin thur beerluk lord an lady muck wi fancy wine.Caa thursels Camra, Ah've anither namefur fowk that try'n mak something whit it's no.Oh Ah've hud proaper wine, no yer El D.Ah wis in Bennydorm in ninety two.This wee Spanish chancer tuk a shinean tried tae get us plestered oan the rid -Pair wee sowell, Ah hud tae help him hame.Me n'is mammy goat him tae his bedan hit

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-75868243305684235432009-01-28T15:24:00.001+03:002009-01-28T15:24:56.276+03:00

Ah seen it wi ma ain eyes Maggie hen -They wisny proaper polis, they wis berrs.OK the guy wis stocious like, ah ken,an ferr enough he hurled a coupla cherrsbut me an you'd o handled him wurselsthur wisny ony need tae fetch the fuzzAh mean tae say - a bampot oan the Bellsjist breid an bu'ur tae the likes o uzan jeez it's Se'urday 'nis team's goat bate'nis wife's in hoaspital 'nis wean's in jilean

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-28350072981765457332009-01-28T15:23:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:24:05.201+03:00

See guys in ties? They piss me aff.Come in here at five o'clockas if they own the baur.Hing aboot in threes and fowersShout the odds across the baurGoad's gift ivry wan.Think because they've goat a joab,drive thur fancy motor caurs,sun shines oot thur erse.Sammy therr's been in since two.Still be here at closin time.That lot's gone by sixGlesca's no the place it wis.Fancy lagers. Huvny learnthow

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-3500090521868566542009-01-28T15:22:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:23:10.286+03:00

Me read poetry? Gauny geeza brek pal?Ah'm no wan o yer peely wally wastersAh've got work to dae, washin oot the tumblersso's the likes o yous aye kin hae a fresh wanHear thon, Maggie hen? Student wi a surveyjist like whit's his name, Bamber aff the telly.'sme'n you's peyin for them trachlin roon the toon taepester dacent folk gaun aboot thur business.Glesca's stowed wi them, every wan a

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-41681638465988677042009-01-28T15:20:00.000+03:002009-01-28T15:21:38.300+03:00

Thon wiz a magic evenin aff -went intae Ingrams doon oan the squerrken, whaur the gaffer's a right wee nyaffbut the karaoke - aw it's rerr.We'd a coarner table, Ina an mean we wisny gauny sing at aabut efter a malibu or threeweel ye canny help yersel. It's brawwi the flashy lights an the great big screenan aa the wurds gaun by like yonan big fat Tammy, ken wha ah meanwi the plukes, that does Roy

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-87991362415504129112009-01-28T11:25:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:18:29.442+03:00

Welcome to the third episode in Dad's riveting Flopears series. This is the only one that I can definitely remember him telling me. One morning Flopears had just finished his breakfast and as usual he was still very hungry, so off he went hoppity-hop away up the hill to see if he could find something ekse to eat because, all his Mummy had to give him was one wee cabbage leaf and that wasn't very

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-17636948437244339592009-01-22T11:56:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:18:29.443+03:00

This is the second of Dad's Flopears stories. For the sake of readability, I'm typing this and the others in lower case, but keeping Dad's colour scheme and italics.Flopears and the FoxOnce upon a time there was a wee bunny-rabbit called Flopears who lived in a burrow in the ground with his Mummy and his Daddy and his four brothers and his five sisters.But Flopears was always hungry, he could

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-74970004473442146002009-01-21T16:38:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:18:29.444+03:00

Dad had a fund of Flopears stories, first rehearsed with Derrick, then Douglas and me, then in turn to all the next generation. He finally typed some of them out (on his Amiga computer in the living room) and gave them to Malcolm, with this hand-written covering note:Dear MalcolmI meant to correct & edit these stories but I haven't had much time recently. Someday maybe I'll do it.LoveGrandpa

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-90544298419684152022008-09-09T14:39:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:20:28.153+03:00

Just because I've run out of windows in Ayr surely doesn't mean I've run out of inspiration? After a lay-off of a few weeks from the last post in the house series, I thought I'd better start something new. So, here goes: again courtesy of Google Earth, this is my small corner of Doha. My flat is on the first floor, to the front of the building, facing the street. Across the road, the lads play

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-85798945991972536842008-06-20T13:50:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.002+03:00

It's hard, looking at this window, to think back to the fifties, because of the much stronger recent memory of Mum's last few days, bedridden here, before her final trip to hospital. When I took the picture, Mum only had a week or two more to live. By this time, the room had become Mum's room of course, but in happier times it was always Mum & Dad's room.Except for Sundays, Dad was always first

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-27196132255743405602008-06-05T13:59:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.003+03:00

The Back Room was my first bedroom, and the bed was a cot with dark wooden safety rails and casters. Betty said, "Do you want a hurl?" I'd no idea what a hurl was and thought I was going to get something to eat, but she just pushed the cot across the floor to clean underneath it. That may or may not have been the same day I asked her if she cleaned every house in Ayr, which made her laugh. For

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-89013356478136212562008-05-17T09:18:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.004+03:00

Mum and Dad originally upheld the old Scottish tradition of not using their best room, but keeping it nice for visitors. The Sitting Room was certainly the best room in the house, big, with two fine windows, a piano, and a grand mahogany mantlepiece. The chairs were comfier too.Gradually, they relaxed this regime and by the mid-sixties the sitting room had taken over from the living room as the

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-85853597497674838882008-05-16T13:04:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.005+03:00

The Living Room was where we lived. Often, in the Winter, it was the only warm room in the house. The fire had a back boiler to heat water for the bathroom. There was also a damper that was good to sing about, "Oh you push the damper in and you pull the damper out and the smoke goes up the chimney just the same", but I never had a clue what it was for.The window shelf in the picture came later,

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-19778359951515037392008-04-27T18:08:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.006+03:00

Dad didn't keep a tidy workshop. Every once in a while, he'd decide to impose some order on the chaos, and move things around. But it was a lost cause - there was just too much stuff.But what stuff it was: footballs, rugby balls (of course), cricket balls, softballs, baseballs, basketballs, bowling balls, roller skates, ice skates, rugby boots, running spikes, fishing rods, fishing knives, waders

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-86704599549120825612008-04-24T17:55:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.007+03:00

I'm sitting on Dad's shoulders. There's nobody else in the house and we've just listened to "Sailing up the Clyde" on the wind-up gramophone in the sitting room. We're now walking up and down the corridor, Dad giving his own rendering of the Will Fyfe classic in his idiosyncratic light baritone, and pausing after 'bide' to explain what it means.Mum and Dad had a relationship with Scots that was

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-73512629787888493282008-04-20T15:49:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.008+03:00

Back in the 50s, nobody ever saw out of the pantry window, partly because it was small and high, but mostly because it was behind the perforated zinc fly-screen that gave bug-free ventillation to the old slate meat-shelf below. When Dad took the slate shelf away, it went up to the attic for a while, for no good reason, then, for no better reason, into the garden to lean for evermore against the

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-92047543673676668682008-04-20T12:38:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.009+03:00

The kitchen wasn't big enough to swing a cat in. There was always one available, but Fitzy Puss McClure was quite a serious chap and not really the swingable type. Outside, and not welcome in the garden, were Theblackcat and Thegreycat. Mum kept a stoneware jar of ham-skins (bacon rinds) on the kitchen dresser and, for a dangled sample, Fitzy could be induced to dance on his hind legs. This, and

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-46813769051090739012008-04-18T13:29:00.001+03:002008-04-18T13:29:46.165+03:00

The apple light of dawnwastes time on each dew dropupon the lawnas if these foundlings knewmore than their hour of beinghas brought them to;more than a brief dark waitingfor songster-heralded rose.Anticipatingmore than an autumn sunhas in its gift, they gleamas if to runto steam. Futile, they seetheir coming blindness asrays steepen. Wehave no illusions, brookno watery complaintbeyond a lookof

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-70171707437737282762008-04-17T14:54:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.010+03:00

There were seven stairs down from the hall to the Wee Landing and twelve more down from the wee landing to the glass door. This is the wee landing window as seen from the second top step of the flight of seven. (We might as well be accurate here). It was a big window, but not as big as the one halfway down the main flight. Both stair windows were uncurtained but were of rippled glass, reducing

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-11103934744203982422008-04-16T13:02:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.011+03:00

Two down, ten to go (that's how many windows I photographed) and I've decided to get the spare room over and done with. Looking at all twelve pictures, it's the only one that gives me no pleasant feelings. It's strange how, so many years later, I've suddenly happened on something that I must always have felt, but didn't really know till now: I never liked the spare room at all.The dressing table

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-56925233728000152102008-04-15T14:55:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.012+03:00

Dad's black Anglia, HAG 390, had a choke and a starter, two cream coloured pull-knobs in the middle of the dashboard. A little below were two smaller cream coloured knobs. These could only be the wee choke and the wee starter, because that's what they looked like. Some would argue that they were the heater controls, but it's appearance that matters. It was the same in the house. Along the

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-87545720961974166482008-04-14T19:43:00.001+03:002008-04-14T19:47:24.817+03:00

Pat? He takes it all in his stride. He's seenstudents come and go. It doesn't meana lot to him. A stolid soul. As faras he's concerned, his job's to mind the bar.It opens at five, the Beer Bar, and Peter's firstto the counter. "A'm no an alcy, Ah jist get a thirstsitting in lectures" "'saa right pal. 'sfine by me,jist as lang's ye've got the readies ..." "Ah, reparteeis alive and well in Glasgow

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-35842701760910740092008-04-14T19:05:00.003+03:002010-06-20T22:23:54.283+03:00

(Jester in 19th Century watercolours and lead pencils by Douglas McClure) Below the blackening sky go Iwarily wearily wobbly ofrightened to live and frightened to dietoll bell tollsick as a parrot covered in gluelanguid as leeks in the depth of a stewwho would be me, except possibly you?losers take allDoom is the name of the game we playwarily wearily wobbly odoom by the bushel an acre a daytoll

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-43772882050405478562008-04-14T18:57:00.001+03:002008-04-14T18:59:22.050+03:00

The chorus gave the Hymn of Joytheir everything. The chapel rang.I read a poem today oh boy:a picnic trip by charabancwhere some benighted yokel stoletheir everything. The chapel rangto Bach and alien strains; my soultransported from the little worldwhere some benighted yokel stolethe sandwiches. They caught and hurledhim through the air and served him right.Transported from the little world,I

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-18907100813255317752008-04-14T16:14:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.013+03:00

The big bunker window looked straight across the yard at its counterpart in MissMcMinn's house. There were actually two MissMcMinns. Their names were NiceMissMcMinn and TheOtherMissMcMinn. NiceMissMcMinn had a dog called Frisky that looked huge when it barked over the wall at us but assumed normal terrier proportions when on a lead in the street. I still don't understand how it did that.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-89327055588680873312008-04-14T10:14:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:21:47.014+03:00

- that John bought. It was built in 1894. John, my grandfather, must have been built a little earlier, but family history was never my forte. By the time I arrived on the scene, all four grandparents had coiled their mortal slips, the house had been flatted and the downstairs (we never called it the ground floor) sold to Mrs Gordon who ran it as a B&B guest house.Mrs Gordon merits a paragraph.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-59363397073794665122008-04-12T13:41:00.000+03:002010-06-21T13:02:21.149+03:00

I've just been billed by UK2.net for £72 for the web-space this site occupies. And that's just for one year. I remember when UK2.net was cheap! As the total size of the site is a few MB (poems are small!) it hardly seems sensible to keep tenure of a couple of empty and costly GB. Maybe that should be the mission for the year - to evict Agnes, kicking and screaming no doubt, and tell her to sign

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-38145803839725145462008-04-11T13:20:00.000+03:002010-06-21T13:02:21.150+03:00

The new site has turned out very much as I'd hoped. It is very much easier to manage. There's also the advantage that I can add to it or edit it from any online pc. As it's a blog, there's no need for ftp. However, it does leave the question - what to do with this site? I don't want to take it down because quite a few people link to it. And I don't really want to keep it as a mere portal to the

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-29239231972873647222008-04-11T12:57:00.002+03:002010-06-21T13:02:21.151+03:00

The small picture is me, though my hair is slightly shorter now. It's a pencil sketch by my daughter and is the only non-photographic likeness of me that exists, except for a few cartoons that lack the gravitas to oversee a collection of poems. From what I remember I was watching TV at the time, not aware I was being sketched. I was probably pontificating too - TV has that effect on me - but

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-57848060937484031302008-02-12T21:00:00.001+03:002010-06-21T13:02:21.152+03:00

Progress report - I have transferred all my poems from C-Change to this site. There would seem to have been 114 of them. In the process, I labelled them all, so all can be found via the labels (forms) links on the side panel. I have also removed them from the old site, to avoid duplicate content penalties from the search engines. I have not yet finished building the indexes of titles and first

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-49270494399179610042008-02-11T18:31:00.001+03:002008-02-11T18:31:59.163+03:00

Make the best of hogmanay -it's never easy, but we try.Should we drink the night awayor count the seconds as they flytowards the bells that signifythe moment we've been waiting forwhen we can raise the age-old cry -another year, another war.Send your sons into the fray.No need to worry. We applyelastic combat rules that sayonly civilians have to die.Geneva's dead and buried. Whypretend to love

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-41691056698079865352008-02-11T18:30:00.001+03:002008-02-11T18:30:52.327+03:00

Slight movement. Now your shadow on the mapblends into mine, and with the candle's raysoccluded we imagine light is scarce,so I lean forward too. Your hair and mine,together now, need not be recognisedas touch, and so we do not draw away.And where your finger traces out the routewe ought to choose, your hesitation showsthat gentle contradiction from my ownmight not be unforeseen. My Northern

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-29467529094831884652008-02-11T18:28:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:29:50.642+03:00

A walking man remembers to the liltof footsteps, to the rhythm of his heartand to the warm-cool cycle of his breath -remembers setting down a heavy pack,misshapen by neglect, beneath an elmwith promises of "only for a while" -remembers lightness - seems to see a childwho gathered, gathered, gathered, never knowingencumbrance, for his spirit carried all -remembers disillusion, and recallshow it

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-38357036971979838362008-02-11T18:27:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:28:16.785+03:00

our voices know each other in a tonguewe barely understand words follow wordsthrough turns of everyday what we have donewhat we have said to whom things we have heardephemeral meanings floated on a streamlike paper galleys these the stuff of senseof caveats when in a doubting timewe question why and find the answer lessthan reason still an echo of the soundprevails an

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-2500508610238860342008-02-11T18:26:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:27:13.725+03:00

There was an old man who insistedon writing his limericks twisted.You'd think he was crazythey way he resistedconvention. Perhaps he was lazy?But give him his due. He intendedto edit them if they offendedthe form vigilanteswhose venom extendedto vitriol richer than Dante's.And though he was quirky and curioushe never resorted to spuriousasides from Nantucket.In fact, he got furiouswith culture

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-40276722415276956842008-02-11T18:25:00.001+03:002008-04-18T13:35:05.680+03:00

Turn back the page. Turn backand in the failing rays that fallnaked in the hallfrom pale Edwardian fanlight's dust of daysunremembered, slumbered,read again last lines, last words.Turn back, in no-one's gazewhere pointed fingers talk of doubtor shout accusatory glee.They cannot seethe guilty glance that straysto the number at the bottom of the page.You have left them in the auditoriumwhere

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-9819476436447547432008-02-11T18:24:00.001+03:002008-02-11T18:24:32.706+03:00

I dreamed I came into a placewhere every word was trueand no-one told me this was sobut inwardly I knew.And here I thought to garner friendswithout a trace of guilein word or deed, ingenuous soulsof bright and ready smile.And here, I thought, will peace be foundand here corruption ends,for business, politics and lovewill share truth's dividends.And all the people in the placeprofessed to like it

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-89746294870210166312008-02-11T18:23:00.001+03:002008-02-11T18:23:33.093+03:00

Between birdsong and dawnNight slipped awaybarefoot across the lawn.Between birdsong and dawnher perfume lingered onto fade before the day.Between birdsong and dawnNight slipped away. -o-a line or two to say - I missyour tender lips your gentle touch(a sudden urge to tell you this)a line or two to say I missyour voice your eyes your laugh your kiss -our kiss - you won't begrudge me sucha line

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-69485262561966965932008-02-11T18:21:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:22:25.299+03:00

The chill of an attic by nightour breath turned to ice on the paneraised voices that keep me awake haunt me again.Far out on the Firth a ship's lightthe drone of a small aeroplanethe sounds sleeping brothers would make these things remain.Rare sunsets (the shepherd's delight)the drip of insistent soft rainthe clatter of gulls at daybreak joys to retain.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-14148651612220482622008-02-11T18:20:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:21:26.714+03:00

No crash, no broken glass, no injury.A mild derailment, quiet loss of poweror small mechanical catastrophe,enough to leave us stranded for an hour,is all I ask. The driver can explainpolitely to three hundred fretting soulshow trivial the loss, how rare the gainin marking time by Mirton-under-Moles,at which we acquiesce, and one by onefind friends behind each dull commuting stare -fierce

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-72637499088413979002008-02-11T18:18:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:20:25.944+03:00

Here is a town unhinged. A town possessedby little things. The naming of a space,the sacred right of sheep to safely gracethe common, split infinitives - the testof I-was-always-taught correctness. Pressedfor reason, there is none beyond a faceof Podsnap petulance. Is there a placefor question left, where Malvern stone knows best?Still, there is time to walk the hills and breathefar fresher

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-11574132319793992572008-02-11T18:16:00.001+03:002008-04-14T19:48:21.107+03:00

1. The InvestmentNewton Stewart was where they gathered,in a legal-smelling office.Twenty gentlemen of standing,every one of them a fatherof a son a year or younger(stipulated by the lawyerin the curious undertakingof administering the Tontine).Every father gave a thousand,twenty thousand pounds in total,a considerable fortunein the days of Queen Victoria.And the lawyer was entrustedto invest the

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-40332224400176106752008-02-11T18:15:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:16:17.652+03:00

Shall I compare thee to a thumb, or saythou art unlovely, nor canst thou opposethy weaker neighbours? Shall I with dismayrecount thy knobbliness? Thou, amongst toes,art paramount. Physicians name thee 'great'yet pray that Jonson's learned soc be onlest Jonson's learned shoe thou permeatewith fungal redolence. And when the dawnbreaks in the east and all the world is newand evil things are banished

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-59221803612065296922008-02-11T18:14:00.003+03:002008-02-13T14:21:05.889+03:00

Three gallus brithers hit the toonBig Wullie, Shoo an Sauny Broonrarin tae coup the bevvy doon an the nicht wiz Halloween.Sauny wis mairrit years langsyne(Jessie McGuire fae Ochtertyne)When he wis canned he liked her fine an the nicht wiz Halloween.Wullie wis guid at the boaxin yincetill he got fat oan tatties an mince.Sundays he'll gie his physog a wee rinse an the nicht wiz

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-48577850859870073332008-02-11T18:12:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:13:37.266+03:00

Things happen unexpectedly. You seethe way ahead, with everything in placeand life will drift along quite pleasantlyunless a visitor from outer spaceshould act upon an alien whim to graceyour cornfield with his circles. I agreeit's out of line, but so is drawing an ace.Things happen unexpectedly, you see.Example: can the dirty little fleaavoid a bath when Rover starts to racetowards the pond?

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-88707809480450037732008-02-11T18:11:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:12:16.320+03:00

All I remember from earlier daysbends to the form of another's glancethat lingers long where the juke-box plays,softening the contours of circumstance.A promise sleeps in a distant room,bends to the form of another's glance,toys with the thought of escaping the tombbut hope and the wardrobe are all but bare.A promise sleeps in a distant roomdreaming of waking, of learning to dareto shout through

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-12342061971999674282008-02-11T18:10:00.000+03:002008-04-18T13:35:05.681+03:00

She died on Castle Hill, and Davie knewthe moment, for the mist came to her eyeas Tammie slipped away.She walked between the shafts. The cobbled wyndguided her home as Davie stroked her mane,older by one grey mare.Standing in her own stall, her breath was slow.She heard the rustled straw and kindly wordsas sad hands rubbed her down.He left her for an hour. She had to diealone, and he was not the

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-76177860167143368812008-02-11T18:09:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:10:22.478+03:00

They saw a mouse, the humans, nothing moreand laughed and pointed as I backed away,- a mouse, look, holding Talisker at bay -well, I was cornered, cut off from the door.Ganesh leapt from its back onto the floorand fixed me with a look as if to say- one move and you'll not live another day -and then he grew to seven feet or more.At first I saw the body of a manall turned to fat, but, light upon

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We are the power of law, and you are wrong -let this be yours to carry evermore.The weight will drag you down where you belong,beneath our feet. The woman will implorein vain, your friend extend a helping hand,the gentle one will wipe your sweated brow,but still you stumble in your journey, andwho will believe your words of comfort now?Is it fatigue that drops you, or despairwhen soldiers rob

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-12619876529935968922008-02-11T18:06:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:07:06.264+03:00

Today, althoughthe news is very bad,you hold your little thumbs just soand square up to the camera. Noescape from looking sadtoday. Althoughyour doubts may grow,the PR man is gladyou hold your little thumbs just so -he says it helps maintain the flow.Sincerity’s a fadtoday, althoughyou mustn’t showthe training that you’ve had.You hold your little thumbs just so,squirm in your own imbroglio,but

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-31434803340013637372008-02-11T18:05:00.000+03:002008-02-11T18:06:09.540+03:00

Some call it courtship, some a waste of time,the candlelight, the mandatory flowers,the amateurish dalliance with rhyme,the quaint preponderance of glades and bowers,The evening dress that catches on the heeland in the door of every cab in town,the standing in the station, when you feelmuch more inclined to burn the bastard down.We've done it all, with patience and decorum.We could continue, but

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-90094887940138168542008-02-11T18:04:00.000+03:002010-06-20T22:23:54.284+03:00

We do not dance.Let others reach and leap, like lightlimbed fools too shallow to delightin eating lard.When we were youngwe joyed in coriander, soughtfresh apple mint and little thoughtof eating lard.But wiser now,we throw all fripperies awayand are content to spend the dayin eating lard.And all our talkis safe, and all our looks expressa resolute if tacit Yesto eating lard.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-59470168442353974222008-02-11T18:01:00.000+03:002008-04-18T13:35:05.683+03:00

The morning came unheardand late as it dared. We knewthere was more than day outside.Knew from no passing carsfrom no gulls calling loud.These absences tell morethan all the sounds they drown.We threw the window wideto the bite, the chill of nightthat no dawn had dispelled.And it was everywhereand falling still and slow.We watched, watched for the sakeof ordinary days.

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-84842713854391230822008-02-11T18:00:00.006+03:002008-02-13T20:47:34.593+03:00

There is a formula for life, a billof quantities - one gross assorted bones,one bag of nerves, one epidermis, blackor white, a skein of fur if you're a dog,no eyes if you're a golden mole (they're blind),two presbyterian buttocks for the pew.(Fat ones are better suited to the pew).Assembly is prenatal, and the billis topped by birth. The cells divide in blindobedience to their DNA, form bones,

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-8794329821820872312008-02-11T17:59:00.001+03:002008-02-11T17:59:36.096+03:00

Picture a poet's dismal fatedoomed from the start to moon and mopeover some morbid second-ratehand-me-down lines. Poor misanthrope,humourless, quite devoid of hope,mouthing a mantra endlessly -is there no end beyond the rope?Let me be taken seriously.Hear me denounce the sins of State,parody Cabinet as a dope-ridden debacle, or debatewhether a certain isotopeturning the sky to heliotropegobbles

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-42754552639850423512008-02-11T17:58:00.001+03:002008-02-11T17:58:52.296+03:00

I shall return alone and let the tide,risen again, embrace you for its own.You are the boy who numbered clouds as friends,saw soldiers in the waves, tigers in spray.Awakened by the sea, you need not sleepagain in one who cloistered you so long,prisoner to a promise unfulfilled.Your sad ordeal is over; here is peace.I am the coat of mail that you put onto face a harder world at childhood's

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-66827757282375463882008-02-11T17:57:00.000+03:002008-02-11T17:58:01.865+03:00

He sat within unbroken wallsand sipped imported beer.Warm sun played on his shouldersas he struggled not to hearthe all-pervasive strains that broughtmidnight in Vegas near.And all the inmates round the poolstretched out and took their ease.The dowagers drew back their skirtsto tan their leather kneesand who would grudge the simple soulssuch simple joys as these?Around him birds of paradiseflamed

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-81515779054734212762008-02-11T17:55:00.000+03:002008-02-11T17:56:37.867+03:00

There are things that are good: the whisky I hadten minutes ago, that carried the woodin which it had lain - what more can I add?There are things that are good:the moon with the grace to appear when she shouldhave been covered in cloud, the girl who said 'Sad'at the sight of my shirt, but smiled when she couldhave passed by with a nothing, the memory of Dad,aged eighty, in shorts that you'd have

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-26573569977338111642008-02-11T17:54:00.000+03:002008-02-11T17:55:13.013+03:00

The roaring game is played wherever Scots have settled. The finest curling stones are of granite, quarried on the stark isle of Ailsa Craig, some miles off the South Ayrshire coast, where there are only seabirds. The island gives freely of itself; its sheer cliffs and domed summit are found in every stone. roaring over ice or retired to a scorched hearth salt winds call me home

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-79188091626630845592008-02-11T17:53:00.001+03:002008-02-11T17:53:50.682+03:00

An image of someone who must be mecatches my glance and quickly looks away,gathers itself, then surreptitiouslysneaks a fresh peek with eyes that seem to say -"Where is the stripling youth who ran 10 Kin under 38 at Tewkesbury?The legs are fine, but can that gut portrayan image of someone who must be me?""Just wait till I'm in training then you'll seeit's all still there . ." "Yeah, that'll be

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-47115551426880305992008-02-11T17:52:00.001+03:002008-02-11T17:52:59.742+03:00

Ivor took the front end, Danny took the back.Jenifer and Moira took hysterics.I was somewhere underneath, shouting, "There's a knackin moving baths". (I'd seen it done at Eric's).This one was Victorian. Iron. Foundry cast.Weighing in at seven hundred pound.Avocado upstart installed, he'd washed his lastsweaty student, and was coup-ward bound.We heaved him to the window, four storeys high,teetered

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-64504178048326358422008-02-11T17:51:00.001+03:002008-02-11T17:51:41.385+03:00

On a whim he closed the office,locked it, left the keys inside,with a message on the table"back in five" but specifiedneither minute, hour, nor aeon(there's a spelling to agree on!Oh, the blatant show of sophis-try, the mark of the unstable.)There was something in his manneras he took the stairs in twosthat implied a growing visionof a time too rare to lose.Was he off to save the planetor to

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-25918286128215966492008-02-11T17:50:00.002+03:002008-04-19T13:55:09.448+03:00

To hell with David Hume, Immanuel Kant,Spinoza, Berkeley, Locke. Let's put a stopperon centuries of verbiage. Let us planta plug to slug their every whim and whopper,forever banish the misguided crewof misanthropes, and clear the way for Popper(Karl of that ilk) the man who led us throughHume's paradox and made it shrink awaylike some uncovered bully. Nothing totrouble us here, his genius seemed

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-7990753133474224142008-02-11T17:49:00.001+03:002010-06-20T22:23:54.285+03:00

Every day you hear the wailings from the place behind the railings,every night the sound of science gone astray,as experimental therapies are plied behind the palings(all your failings will be bleached and washed away).And the chemical inferno is a wonder to beholdas it rages in the space behind your eyesand you know your parents love you or they never would have soldyour possessions just to pay

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-89744119170545060112008-02-11T17:48:00.001+03:002008-02-11T17:48:36.194+03:00

A love remembered is a love too longforgotten. Pictures fade but do not ageas lovers do, though tenderness belongto every reawakening on the stageof memory. And now I know you asa poem I crammed away, in innocenceof meaning, empty word chains in a classof carefree boys. The lines are gone. The sense,no longer bound to rote, is free to fly,to change, return again, and to surprisemy equanimity

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-69192557595686373252008-02-11T17:47:00.001+03:002008-02-11T17:47:30.968+03:00

We weren't sure what he would doonly that he was badand that's why we decided tobuild Manuel traps. We hadagreed that he would come to Ayrand climb our garden wallin search of gold, but we would scarehim off, once and for all.We took a brick and tied a stringaround it, nice and tightand lodged it in the apple treeout of the villain's sight.The other end that dangled loose(this was a brilliant

Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13679454407989191705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5618095352696476561.post-14734600987683573822008-02-11T17:45:00.000+03:002008-02-11T17:46:14.787+03:00

And here we are again. Of course I setmy sights too high. A little moderationmight not have gone amiss. I paid the debtof humble pie, endured your fine oration,the flowery words of callous condemnation.So brave, m'lud, it hurts to see you nowreduced to begging for your 'small libation'.Forgive me if it's rather hard to bow.And this familiar face? But when we metbefore, it was a different

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