Interview with the Anatomist

You will be aware of various ghastly tales that are told in the city of Edinburgh; tales of haunted burial grounds, ghosts and ghouls, Mary King’s Close, and others it would take too long to mention here. Edinburgh seems to have gained some reputation for a violent and sometimes unsavoury past that might, or might not, continue to haunt its present.

Unknown Ending

 Three dark objects dropped into the pot
A cauldron, bubbling
The fire beneath is burning bright and hot
The potion, troubling

First, betrayal: an ugly rotting heart
Black twin beating
Has it always been there, from the start
All goodness eating?

Next, neglect, a knotted length of rope
Hard and dried out
Each knot a choking stop to someone’s hope
When soul cried out

Last, fear: an animal with staring eyes
Shivering with fright
From my own living body I reach and prise
Into the light

This fear’s the hardest thing to kill
Hold it under
I long to save it, keep it safe – still
I hold it under

It kicks and thrashes, howls and scratches
This fear is strong
I waver, until I see my face his matches
I stare long

But now it breathes its last and sinks
Though not yet dead
I feel his pull, we share the same instincts
And sense of dread

Step away from the cauldron now at last
Leave it to stew
Till twelvemonth and one day have past
Then drink the brew

The ending of this poem is yet unknown
A tale unsure
I must drink that final bitter draught alone
To kill … or cure

A Spook at Bedtime

Angela and Freddy always went away at Christmas, and this Christmas was no exception. But their holiday destination this year was very different, and Angela was not happy about it.

“Darling,” she said, standing the bathroom doorway in her diaphanous nightgown, brushing her teeth, “this has to be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Tale for a Winter’s Night

The old woman sits in front of the dying fire, staring at the embers, rocking, muttering to herself.

I let her rock, let her mutter. I’ve no complaints. I’m stretched out on a battered sofa, a sheepskin blanket pulled around me, a substantial glass of poteen on the floor within easy reach.

Cat’s-Paw Love

Catch me if you can, cat’s-paw love,
Always trying to swallow me whole;
Run fast, or drop silent from above
Onto my heart and devour my soul.
Love, you prying fool, you made a mistake -
I don’t love her and never will,
Never take a bite from that sweet cake -
Even if she bade me eat my fill.

Why won’t you believe me, cat’s-paw?
I can’t think or talk as fast as you,
Love, who will not listen but will eat me raw,
Savagely, and bite my heart in two.
Or if she loved me – then would you let me live?
Never mind – that’s not a promise I can give.

Paul Milne
7-2-91

Africa

“Could you rub some lotion on my shoulders?” asked Marcia, rising up onto her elbows. She sat up and brushed sand off her breasts, turning her back to me.

I poured some hot, runny lotion into my cupped palm, then rubbed it over her back. It was about three o’clock on a cloudless Cretan summer day. We had been out since noon, eaten our lunch of melon and yoghourt, splashed in the shallow turquoise sea, and now lay limply on our towels, holiday novels lying unread in the sand.

On Leaving Juneau

The darkest days are quiet; ripples lap the rocks;
Our faces face the weather here like stone.
A gull cries out – its hunger echoes down the docks;
The ferry sails to harbor, furtive and alone.
We two are largely silent; the moment we have hated
Fast approaches, like the ferry running late.
Her face is pale, her hair bright red unfaded -
A flame in darkness, angel at the gate.
I’m leaving, but our bodies haven’t learnt this fact.
It starts to rain; she hides her face against my chest;
I stroke her hair – no use to try and leave intact -
No sun, no sudden breakthrough from the west.
So small they grow so fast – the docks, my life, her face -
A glimpse of flame, then she goes down without a trace.

©Paul Milne

Senryu for Robert Burns

1.
Frozen ground in January
Snowdrops push up through the mud
The poet is born

2.
Greedy boy!
Only the first of many
Your mum’s breast

3.
Music in your head
You push the plough through stoney earth
The earth pushes back

4.
You booked passage to Jamaica
In Edinburgh, someone read a poem
Almost a new world

5.
Gold and fame were yours
But you had other things on your mind
Women and song

6.
By day you rode
Checking weights and measures
By night, candlelight and pen

7.
You played a fiddle
Scratched out the ancient tunes
Your pen scratched more sweetly

8.
You played with women
Told some lies and told some truths
Loved the babies

9.
Illness and fever
There was no remedy for this decline
Only cold sea-water

10.
Death came
In the prime of your manhood
Deaf to your songs

Paul Milne

A Perfect Moon

A perfect crescent moon in the frozen western sky
Brighid smiling over an arc-lit pitch
A laughing moon, a moon to make you cry
A moon to make you spread your wings and fly

All this moons lacks is a wicked, wicked witch
Dangling a shapely leg among the stars
Or a wolf running through the trees to find his bitch
And pausing to to howl, unearthly, eldritch

A frozen puddle beside a hulking car
Glitters, frost etched on it like a poem in runes
A jewel that even arc-lights cannot mar
And more eloquent than this poor poem by far

The sound of children laughing, ancient tune,
Running up the pitch to score a hard-fought try
A moment like an oasis beside an arid dune
Children laughing, playing beneath a perfect moon

Dunbar, Scotland
18 January 2006

St David’s Day

A toast to Saint David, a testament of doves,
Meekest of men, mild as milk,
Well-wrought and big bodied, water-drinker bread-eater,
Honey-master and beekeeper, hermit and blessed man.
He rose in the church, but shunned worldly riches,
Archbishop of Wales, charity was his weal.
The ground rose to meet him, greet and promote him,
But he loved best the lowly, he lived lithe and lightly.
“Do the little things”, dying he lectured them,
“As you have seen me, do you the same.”
All Wales honours him, all we who honour love,
The daffodils remind us, doves fly around us,
Our spirits are lifted, as pure as well-water,
As bright as spring flowers, on St David’s Day.
1 March 2006
Paul Milne