Mortal Games - by Alister Gillies

Part of my upbringing was spent  on a remote Hebridean island.

Every year, in late spring or early summer, our Croft would be subject to a noisy hoard of 'strangers' who would shoot anything that rose up from the ground.

Apparently the Estate was owned by a conglomerate of Dutch or Arabs - don't recall which - and they had 'shooting rights'.

Shooters would arrive unannounced, spread out in a long skirmish line, then proceed to dispatch anything that flew up in front of them. When the massacre was over they would leave, driving off in several vehicles.

My grandfather would observe all this without comment, all the while puffing on his pipe. Then he would spit and get on with his work. As a child I felt outraged. Who...? What...? Shower of...!!! This is a poem inspired by that event.

Mortal Games

Here they come again
It's that time of year:
Those latter-day young aristocrats
In fashionable sporting gear.

Pealing laughter and frequent kills
Echo through the air
As they trample the scrub,
Scaring out gamey quail or snipe -
Trophies to boast of at the local pub.

When at last the killing is over,
Off to the local
In large range rover,
To brag to each of hunting skill,
And what a life it is to kill.

And left behind
On the killing ground
A littering of dead lapwing,
Lark and starling;
But those chaps are happy now,
Having bagged a brace or two
To show to darling.

Home Going - by Alister Gillies

As the summer's evening sun
Seeps beneath the western margin,
Casting amber shades skywards
From the burnished sea,
A corncrake cracks hoarse cries,
Racking silence
Until melting into evening sky.

Occasionally on such evenings,
Heedless of time
And homeward heading,
A solitary car plunges sight into darkness;
And in its wake,
Leaden clouds of stale exhaust.

Tourists, too,
Will often pause
To politely enquire the right road,
Adding in plaintive tones
Condemnation of early rain.
As if the weather was a failing
Of fabled highland hospitality.

On Writing Poetry

I have never written poetry on a full time basis, and I can only describe my versification as an eratic pastime at best. Although some might say neurotic best describes the poetic sensibility, I would have to disagree - there are many more non-poetic neurotics than poeticising neurotics.

There are even poets who poeticise neurosis. William Empson, one of my favourite poets, wrote very few poems in his lifetime - pehaps this is why I admire him so much. It's remarkably easy to go on and on. Somehow the idea of being a serious poet seems intrinsically absurd. I'm not sure why, and I'm sure I don't really want to know why, short of undergoing protracted psychoanalysis. Who knows what might be unearthed, and I could end up taking myself very seriously indeed.

Haiku is a very interesting form, but can be pretentious if not handled properly. By properly I mean with delicacy. The Japanese have a strong leaning towards nostalgia - I think it could be down to the clash between two different ethical systems, Confucianism and Buddhism. While the former lends itself to a productive and useful social life, the other is more retiring. The Japanese are so busy, that they miss a lot in their haste to satisfy social and group obligations.

When they drink they get maudlin over things that have gone and 'will never come again'. Then it's back on the bus and back to work! To avoid being oppressively nostalgic, Haiku limits the number of syllables you can use, and forces the Haikuist to be very crafty and creative. It is, when successful, a beautiful form. On grieving:

In the morning mist,

the call of a pheasant.

How I miss my parents!

As you may gather I am inclined towards minimalism in poetry - and not just as a justification for my own lack of poetic productivity - it just stikes a chord with my own disposition, which is inclined to laziness and reflection following periods of productivity. Is there an ideal balance? I'll let you know when I find out! After all, as the great Lao Tsu - or someone - said:

When studying the Way, everything accumulates. When carrying out the Way,
everything reduces.

A tutor of mine, when I told her that I had stopped writing poetry, commented happily:

"Yes, more people should."

Bless you Dorothy, I'm at it again.

On The Beach - by Alister Gillies

A rising beach to rushing tide
sliding down to greet each glide,
each grain of me begins to dance
and interjingle with each stirring
foam-flecked surge of you, until
in sweet confusion land and sea
bubbles with laughter to construe,
as full of me as I am of you.

Intimacy - By Alister Gillies

Like the underside of new mown hay
with just a hint of Chardonnay,
swelling like ripened melon,
an opening purse of molten pearls
spilling its liquid heat in a wet caress,
welcoming the strength of silken insinuation
slipping in as easy as expelling breath,
and out like news of sudden death.