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

The Junk I Dredge

The junk I dredge from the drainage burn
Sticks, and plastic, and planks and cans
I need this water to flow freely

Even this manmade ditch needs purpose
It has music of its own to make
Music stifled by the stuff of the world

Every artifact that oozes from the silt
I feel a release when it comes free
The water flows forward that little bit easier

Mud spattered and arms aching I work on
Through the heat of the day
Thorugh the stench of the drains and the buzzing midges

Midges buzzing like my thoughts
Now illuminated in a shaft of treefiltered light
Now biting me unseen, pain coming in the dark

I finally come to the footpath bridge
Where the last massive obstacle is in sight
The last hurdle for free water

I wrench my arms, I am a wreck
But the palette comes out at last
And drawn sodden and waterlogged onto the bank

The junk I’ve dredge from this drainage burn
There’s always more junk to dredge
But at least there is release for awhile

At last there is some release

© Paul Milne
13/6/06

The Element of Earth

Two hands-full of earth, too heartful to thole
I sit by warm fire-flower, astounded and baffled

My guardian trees, mighty grove-treasure
Enter my soul’s home, tremendous tree-shamans

I feel my spine stretching, fine spinning roots touching
And pushing to Terra, to pierce her taut torso

She pulls me in swiftly, pulsating and willful
Taproot gripped firmly — trapped tight, grounded safely

I suddenly feel leaves, unfurling with love
Sprouting from fingers, springing and full-green

Light floods on my face, it lifts to the sun
Earth anchoring my spine, thinking with sap now

I fly through the seasons, flitting and senseful
First laughing spring shouting, swift sparrows and showers

Summer is glorious, sunrays glad riot
King of the forest, crowned from the first

Autumn creeps inward, to make peace in the world
Blazing with colour, but loosing clear insight

A glimpse of the end, age limping and spent
Looms deep in my heart, as leaves fall in deep drifts

Sleep now with the angels, slow winter congealing
Dreaming and ice-bound, dark down in soul’s deep

Was spring ever with me, where sports her fair form now?
Alone and bare-bone branched, long barren and abashed

But feel that faint stirring? Bud fighting to surface
And sun coaxing saprise, soul’s call clearing sleep’s eyes

I laugh and my leaves dance, aloft in love’s deft wind
Rebirth in the wide world, berobed in the wood’s weft

I am humble before them, I honour their fair forms
Life lessons they teach me, long-reaching and touching
Earth feeds them and feeds us, hearts full from her favour
We all are her bright bairns, and wildwood our brother

Dunbar, Scotland
22/05/06
©Paul Milne

Blessing for Midsummer

Bright blessings I shower, brought blithely from Scotland,
From King Lot’s dominion, for clear-spoken Druids.
I sing love and camaraderie, single and chorale-made,
I sing sea-swell and clear light, swallow-flight and clàrsachs,
Musically I greet you, masters of green yoemanry.

I give you my right hand, I gift you my red heart,
My voice uplifted is yours, with love I uplift it.
I dance joyous greeting, I doubt you’ll jump higher,
I leap to the clouds, I laugh for clear days,
I conjure bright sunshine, for Queen Bridget I send it.

For high days and holy days, for summer and dog days,
When greenery grows high, grass and green wheat,
Fruit on the vine swells, for wine and for sweetmeats,
Bees making honey, bright mead for the hearth,
Life lightly is leaping: lithe, lissome and happy.

So stand hand in hand, sing loud heart to heart,
Sing Awen to high hills, to echo in heaven,
Sing loud so I hear you, sitting at hearthside,
In the north lands I wait here, for Awens I listen,
Hearts singing in harmony, on High-Summer morn.

7 March 2006
Dunbar, Scotland
©Paul Milne

Poetry’s a Bloody Joke

Poetry’s a bloody joke
Why not just say it straight
The weight of words a heavy yoke
A mask for simple love and hate

Why not just talk plain talk
I don’t love you, life is pain
I long to see you, let’s take a walk
The earth is lovely in the rain

I feel so lonely, where is God
Why do you always turn away
When I don’t see you I feel odd
Just how I can’t exactly say

Pretty words can only say so much
Sometimes we only need to reach, and touch

Paul Milne
20/2/07
Dunbar