The FREE Literary Magazine of the North Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Island Lives: Prizewinning Poems and Stories from the 2013 Baker Prize Donald S

The FREE literary magazine of the North Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Island Lives: Prizewinning Poems and Stories from the 2013 Baker Prize Donald S. Murray, Mandy Haggith and Kevin Crowe on Questions of Independence

New Poetry and Fiction, Reviews Section EDITORIAL Contents Questions of Independence ou’d have to have turned the blindest of eyes not 3 Independence Blues to have realised that the issue of independence is set Essayn by Donald S. Murray Ydominate Scottish politics for the next two years, and beyond. That why Unstated: Writers on Scottish Independence 4 Poems by George Gunn (Word Power Books) is such a timely book, and not just because the writers therein weigh up the pros and cons, the 5 With Her Head on His Chest principles and pragmatics of independence. The question Short Story by Laura Morgan cuts deeper than that. From Shakespeare to Yeats, from Walt Whitman to Hugh MacDiarmid, writers (and other artists) 6 Poems by Jim C. Wilson, Fran Baillie and Nicky Guthrie have take the lead in imagining their countries, in discovering - even inventing - what it means to be English, Irish, American 7 Poems by Hugh McMillan, Maoilios Caimbeul, Mavis Gulliver, Brian Johnstone, and Scottish. And that is why I asked Donald S Murray not Katherine Lockton and Pàdraig MacAoid for a review of Unstated but for a response, a chance to put his own conception of Scotland on the page. As you’ll see from 8 Poems by Ian McFadyen, Angus Macmillan, Charlie Gracie, Annie Pia his essay on page 3, he does not disappoint. You may not agree & Liz Treacher with his views, but it’s an eloquent and potent contribution to the debate. 9 Publish and Be Glad! Questions of independence do not begin and end at Article by Mandy Haggith Hadrian’s Wall, nor for that matter in the debating chambers of Holyrood and Westminster. Independence is about more 10 Halfway than national identity, as the articles by Mandy Haggith are Short Story by Lyndsay Marshall Kevin Crowe demonstrate. They are not just practical accounts of publishing and bookselling; they’re reminders that in an 11 Poems by Pauline Prior-Pitt, Katharine Scambler, Julian Ronay, Greg MacThòmais, increasingly globalised and corporate world, the independence James Andrew and Gordon Jarvie of writers and of the people who bring writers before the public, is a crucial aspect of any society for whom the word 12 Baker Prize – Poems by Deborah Moffatt, Garry MacKenzie, Alison Barr ‘free’ means something. Now that is a state of independence & Andy Jackson this editor is more than happy to abide by. Finally, congratulations to everybody who entered the 14 Baker Prize – Short Stories by Juliet Lamb & Heather Marshall Baker Prize, organised by the Reading Room on Skye. As one of the judges I can testify to the high quality of entries and 17 Poems by Vicki Husband and Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh I’m pleased and proud to publish the best poems and stories in this issue. n 18 Books and Bricks & Mortar Article by Kevin Crowe Chris Powici, Editor 19 Poems by Aonghas MacNeacail, Julienne Thurrott, Niall O’Gallagher, Colin Will, Stephen Keeler and Gavin Broom 20 Reviews 23 Contributors’ Biographies, Where To Find Northwords Now At The Northwords Now Website: www.northwordsnow.co.uk

Podcasts of George Gunn and Vicki Husband Gaelic Poetry in translation Reviews Extra How to download Northwords Now to an e-reader Books and Bricks & Mortar, page 18

Northwords Now is a three times Designer Bradhagair. The verses are in my father’s yearly literary magazine published by Gustaf Eriksson handwriting. The photograph is of my Northwords, a not-for-profit company, www.gustaferiksson.com parents.” www.annecampbellart.co.uk registered in February 2005. Technical Advisor Submissions to the magazine are welcome. Address Tony Ross They can be in Gaelic, English, Scots and PO Box 15066, Dunblane, FK15 5BP [email protected] any local variants. They should be sent www.northwordsnow.co.uk to the postal address. Unsolicited e-mail Contact NNow attachments will not be opened. The material Board members Manager: Angus Dunn should be typed on A4 paper. Contact Adrian Clark (Chair), Ann Yule, [email protected] details and SAE should be included. We Valerie Beattie, Kristin cannot return work that has no SAE. Pedroja, Stewart Lackie Subscriptions Copyright remains with the author. The magazine is FREE and can be picked up Payment is made for all Editor at locations across Scotland. See list on P23 successful submissions. Chris Powici, [email protected] The fee for individual ‘home-delivery’ is £6 The next issue is planned for July 2013 for 3 issues, cheques payable to ‘Northwords’. Gaelic Editor The Board and Editor of Northwords Now Rody Gorman, [email protected] Front cover image acknowledge support from Highlands and Photopolymer etching by Anne Campbell. Islands Enterprise, Creative Scotland, Advisory Group “Based on ‘an Uiseag’, ‘The Skylark’ by Hi-Arts and Bòrd na Gàidhlig. Jon Miller, Peter Urpeth, Pam Beasant Peter Campbell, Pàdruig Tharmoid Chalum, ISSN 1750-7928

2 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Independence Blues

Donald S. Murray Responds to Writers on Independence

or all that the images of politicians It was said that if you wanted to see him, he sometimes flickered across our TV was always good enough to come and visit Fscreen, it was the nights when its signal you at your house. It is not an offer that, I spluttered and failed that really brought the imagine, many of the more self-conscious of politics of the wider world to my young life the islands’ poor were anxious to take up. in the isle of Lewis. Older men might gather There was also a single issue that perturbed around the fire and speak about their days me at that time. Weavers like my father were working on Hydro dams throughout the in a curious position in terms of their em- Highlands, mingling with exiled ‘Poles’ and ployment. Technically self-employed, they Irish to bring light to our homes. They would were still dependent on the mills for their talk about the Tunnel Tigers whose bones supply of tweeds. This left them in a vulner- occasionally mingled with concrete when able position when no orders were available things went wrong, the disputes and dangers as they were not allowed to claim unemploy- that marked their existence in these remote ment benefit for themselves or their families. glens. My father might occasionally be drawn It was not, I heard from SNP activists, a situ- into speaking of these days, mentioning how ation that could be altered in any way – until – as a trade unionist – he had been involved the Labour Party did this when the industry in some of these clashes, losing his job one appeared to be in its death-throes in 2004. time through pressing for a works canteen on All this has left me with a rather cynical site. attitude to independence. In short, I do not These conversations provided me with a believe it will bring about any great trans- sense of theatre, one that was, however, more formation in society. The danger is, as Allan than matched by the arrival of the 7/84 Armstrong predicts in his contribution to company in the Nicolson Institute during Unstated, the SNP will not dissolve itself once my senior years at that school. Their play its goal is achieved but, instead, cling to power The Cheviot, The Stag and The Black, Black with all the tenacity of Tartan Superglue. Oil was a history of both the Clearances and The writer standing upright in the winds of change In countries like South Africa, India and the struggle for secure land tenure in the Photograph of Donald S. Murray by Mhairi Chaff Ireland, this has not proved to be a positive Highlands and Islands. Told through songs, experience. For all my good friend, Aonghas a pop-up book and pantomime-like villains, life; these talks around the fireside. Despite there. It is also the case that, as John also MacNeacail’s words, I have not, for instance, it transformed many of those who watched this, I am all too aware that the principles points out, little has been done – apart from always been cheered by the confidence of it, providing us with a sense not only of the I believed in are no longer in the ascend- Jack McConnell’s Land Reform Act in 2003 my fellow-Gaels in Ireland. It has sometimes politics of the Gaelic language which many of ancy in much of the Highlands and Islands – to address what The Cheviot, The Stag and generated its own failings, such as a feeling us spoke (and often, unfortunately, derided) or Scotland generally. Instead it is the views The Black, Black Oil was all about, the issue of of complacency. In the Haughey years, in but also of our native place. of the other half of that 7:84 audience which land ownership, particularly in the Highlands particular, there was a sense in which virtu- For all our enthusiasm about the drama, have grown popular. It is all a little like both and Islands but also Scotland as a whole. At ally every TD and journalist in Hibernia had however, there was a division in the way the the final days and aftermath of the Austro- the time, McConnell’s piece of legislation retreated into ‘hibernus’ hibernation rather audience of school-pupils responded to its Hungarian Empire when the novelist Joseph was criticised by the SNP as being timid. In than bring out into sunlight the extraordinary words. For some, like me, it seemed to argue Roth declared ‘People no longer believe in comparison with the silence that has existed scale of the corruption that was going on. in favour of a form of ‘international social- God. The new religion is nationalism. Nations thereafter and the recent embarassing fiasco In short, whether by accident or design, I ism’, taking, for instance, the croftland on no longer go to church. They go to national over Raasay’s shooting rights, it now seems seem to have adopted the political attitudes of which we lived into community ownership, associations.’ radical and bold. my present home in Shetland. It is not as ide- ending what control that landlords, whether If that were true in 1932, the year ‘The This is also true of their commitment to alistic as those of the Western Isles; no sense they were Scottish or English, had on our Radetzsky March’ was published, his words that other element of the play - the Gaelic that either the flap of a red flag or blue saltire lives. For others, the message of the play seem to me to carry quite a bit of conviction language. A number of years ago, we had the will alter the landscape very much. Instead, it seemed to be all about the idea of nation- in the Scotland of 2013. In this new faith, there extraordinary spectacle of Seamus Alasdair is both pragmatic and practical. (When the hood, that Scotland could once again become is little doubt that the recent book, Unstated; Stiùbhart MacSteafain or Stuart Stevenson independence debate opened up, the first independent and end the injustices its people Writers on Scottish Independence is both text the SNP’s erstwhile Minister for Transport question they asked was ‘How will it benefit had suffered in its past. and catechism, providing even in the poetry delaying the introduction of bilingual road- us?’ – encouraged, no doubt, by the woeful Nearly forty years later, it seems to me of such marvelous writers as Kevin MacNeil signs for fear they might confuse and endan- performance of the MP whom the SNP trot- that I still remain more or less on the same and Douglas Dunn a litany and missal for the ger drivers. One can only conclude that there ted out to discuss the issue on one night’s edi- side of the dividing line I occupied at that movement. There are one or two writers who must be mayhem among the motorists travel- tion of The Politics Show.) They will also very time. For all that it was more than a little even appear to believe that as soon as the vote ling across the mountains of the Dolomites. quickly point out that if ever there was ever bruised by the Blair and Brown years and for independence is achieved, ‘the kingdom of Sometimes there are even tri-lingual road- a Shetland version of The Cheviot, The Stag their bloody misadventures in, say, Iraq, my heaven’ will be at hand. Social justice will be signs yodelling along the roadside there, all and The Black, Black Oil, the villains would faith in the ‘Christian Socialism’ espoused achieved. Our southern neighbours will fol- poised to ensure car-drivers and passengers be much like the ones that also (largely) ex- by men like my father remains relatively low our example. ‘We could’ even ‘inspire the alike plunge, distracted, to their deaths isted in the Western Isles – the mainland and intact. Their principles brought us both the whole of the British Isles to become part of This notion that the SNP are essentially Lowland Scots. National Health Service and an educational a larger European fightback’ - though against a ‘conservative’ party - distilled and bottled And then despite all this, every single doubt system which allowed me – unlike my father what is unclear. largely in Moray and Nairn and Highland and reservation, if independence ever came, compelled to leave at 14 – to attend that play Haud yer horses. This is exactly what Perthshire - with a left-wing fringe chimes they would, like me, take Alasdair Gray’s cel- in my senior years in school. It also – through John Aberdein warns us against in his more with much of what I observed during my ebrated advice and ‘work as if you live in the the remarkable work of the Scottish Secretary measured contribution to the book – the university years and early period of employ- early days of a better nation …’ of State, Tom Johnston and others - built the triumph of hype. Over the last years in our ment as a teacher in Stornoway. At that time, As if most people aren’t putting enough Hydro Dams that brought that flickering TV shared trade of education, we have seen far the Western Isles constituency was repre- hours in already. n screen to my island home. too much of this from ‘Parlamaid na h-Alba’. sented by Donald J. Stewart, a decent, kind I write all this by way of preamble to this Meaningless catch-phrases like ‘Quality man who smoked a pipe, was involved in the essay, establishing that – like all human beings Assurance’, ‘Curriculum For Excellence’ Harris Tweed industry and looked avuncular. Unstated: Writers on Scottish Independence – I am not an objective observer. My views and ‘Higher Still’ are parroted by both the Almost uniquely in the Scotland at that time, – Edited by Scott Hames. Published by Word were moulded by the experiences of my early Mandarins and MSPs mixing and mingling he operated without a Parliamentary office. Power. ISBN – 9780956628398

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 3 We Are All In This Together Poems by George Gunn

Serenade Badbea Revisited History

Jupiter is low in the Southern sky We walked the old road back The sky is low Venus high in the East from Berriedale to the monument the day is cold the full Moon rises huge & orange hugging the top lip of the Grey Coast the barley knee-high the sky is a harling of stars zig zagging around geos in the whisky acres in this the coldest night of Winter & fractures in the granite on the train the young Wickers the air is sifted the road inspired & terrified are playing cheat-poker pock-marked every twenty yards while fiddling with their mobile phones the frost spreads across the grass with the mean grabbing o-rings neither of the girls know the rules with stiff feathered purpose of keeper set snares & I don’t know them either I touch its sticky anaesthetic skin the old dispensation cannot let go listening to their ugly rap music local & tickling & numb human or rabbit & staring out at potato fields the scream hangs over the sea drilling rigs appear out of the mist I look up & in my minds map here Finn walked from Dunster like Landseer’s stag emerging the season swings on the gate of Morven a butterfly followed him as he went from the Cromarty Firth no longer a big green hill squat on their footings but a small snow-shirted mountain omphalos at the edge to dominate our uncertain decades shape-changed & pivotal centre & periphery a rumour of boor trees time tradition & torture weep through their flowers as I walk up the Langwell strath over a hundred years a hayfield blown into waves doglegged narrow & hill-cut of being tethered to a thankless nation pours out its tide of grass the night wind is a serenade of stags the people came to Badbea like history after rain like tides they move & meet betrayed by the great liberal conceit then move apart again of “agricultural reform” & “market forces” high up in the scree-slopes while Sinclair obsessed in London a Birnam Wood of antlers about Cheviots & the Statistical Account We Are All In This Together & among the secret harvests the dispossessed of the Eastern straths In Memorium Yannis Ritsos of their fraternal nods came to a bleak hillside above a cliff (1909 – 1990) my instinct pulls me in to construct something from nothing & its cousin the generosity of the estate A warm wind blows in from Libya I pass upon the narrow road the surf crashes like white china the shades of my uprooted clan control is the drug of choice on the beach at Kommos Sutherland Bannerman & Gunn for the sadistic incompetents it power-surges sending tourists their markers still manuscript the brae who litter the lobby of history searching for their cameras & beach-bags across the burn at Altbea with their ugly shoes for here the land is the stable element out in the Moray Firth earlier in the day we walked not the weather of those who own it The Beatrice Field burns its wasting torch through the broken wave in the distance we can hear of the ruins at Gortes they go these shades the neurotic hunting hounds where the Roman capital stretched to Badbea & the coast bark their kennet rage across the mesara & reached out did they hear the hooting night owl over Langwell & Braemore to North Africa with her galleys & legions as I heard it from the coppice the estate has put a tourist panel at the corner of the estate house garden at the bottom of the path from the road now olive trees embrace which then like them now it asks in all cynical innocence the fallen imperial columns was not there “Could you live here?” much as the wave does the girls legs at Kommos cut into rocks not far at Badbea time stopped in nineteen eleven from the occupied space all the books written Italian archaeologists dig out of the cradled township about the Highland Clearances a silted-up theatre which now consolidates a sheepfank sit stacked like layers of sedimentary rock where hymns to victory are cup marks for the old god on some off-shore sea-clett were choked on the dialogue of dust who swam between the trees we marvel at the ordinary swims still in the founds names on the four sides of memory I would take them here of the abandoned houses which at least was leavened with love those who burst for glory the carved druid memory unlike the cordite cloud at Waterloo I would ask them to speak to the olive trees of this silent devout column of ghosts where young Donald Sutherland fell about empires and wars walking out tonight & every night where the Highlanders should have bound their officers & after two thousand years a forest of frost-lit antlers & taken their Brown Bess muskets to join the French the olive trees would say the owl in the darkening pine “We feed the people”

4 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 hey were lying on the bed in his laughed too but he couldn’t help remember- room, listening to Black Sabbath. With Her Head on His Chest ing that the bottle was half full, two thirds at TGordy watched as Sheila wound a the most. And what Al hadn’t told them about strand of gold hair round her finger. She was Short Story by L M Morgan was afterwards, when they were sitting in a propped on one elbow, the bedside lamp at hollow in the middle of dunes, passing the her back. ✯ bottle between them. Al told Gordy that he “So are ye excited – what do ye think was going to apply to go to university. That yous’ll do?” he wanted to study engineering. She was smiling and he knew she was “To work at Dounreay?” excited for him. He liked the way her eyes chest, squeezing his sides. Her thin fingers He pictured her applying it to the white skin “To hell with Dounreay, mate – to see the shone when she spoke. They were the same felt surprisingly strong through his woollen just above the collar of her navy blouse. world! You can travel anywhere with an engi- colour as the blue of her checked shirt. jumper. Al arrived back at the table with two pints neering degree. Folk always need bridges!” “I dunno. See the university, I guess. Visit of lager. And Gordy had laughed. But really he the castle, maybe. Da says there’s a hail street At first he’d just enjoyed the sensation “So how long have you two known each had wanted to know why. He had wanted to o’ pubs.” of gliding, and the faint noise of the tracks other?” Lou asked. point up to the lights above the bay, at the He didn’t really mind what they did in beneath him that confirmed he was indeed “Forever! Since we were wee!” Gordy third house along, and say – There! That’s Edinburgh. He was just excited to be seeing on a train. A train going somewhere far, far said. where you live! Why would you want to live his friend again. Al had left for university in south. Snow-covered fields passed the win- She smiled at him, biting her lip. “I’m sorry anywhere else? September and now it was almost Christmas. dow, dark grey forests on the white hills. He but I have no idea what you just said.” Strathy hadn’t been the same without him. was thinking about Sheila. How long were “He said we’ve always known each other. On Monday morning Al said he would There was no one to go shooting with on you supposed to wait before you told a girl We grew up together as kids,” Al said, sound- walk Gordy back to the station. Gordy put Saturdays. And, on his way to Boys’ Brigade, you loved her? He thumbed the pages of his ing posh. his jeans, his shirt and his toilet bag back into Gordy had to cut over Crabby Coull’s field NME, wondering what Al would say. Gordy smiled at Lou. With her black the leather suitcase and flicked shut the brass on his own. Worst still, there was no one to sit By Perth, there was no snow and the hair and dark eye make-up, she looked like clasps. He wanted to say goodbye to Lou be- with down by the beach, smoking No. 6s in countryside just looked grey and damp. He Cleopatra. Only prettier, definitely prettier. Al fore he left. Al told him where to find her the pale grass of the dunes. looked at his suitcase in the luggage rack – was still speaking. He was saying something room, on the next floor up. The record came to an end, the speakers the one his mum had borrowed from Uncle about the time he and Gordy stole a bottle of Lou answered the door wearing a towel- hissing to the gentle click of the needle. Gordy Alec. Gordy had been washing himself at the whisky from Pa Munro. ling dressing gown with floral pyjamas show- got up from the bed to choose another from sink when his mother came to tell him it “Who’s Pa Munro?” Lou asked, laughing. ing at the neck. She looked tired. Her hair the pile that lay on the chest-of-drawers. His was on his bed. She stood behind him as he “Gordy’s grandfather. Everyone calls him was flat on one side, and black eye make-up hands caught a draught and he bent his head soaped his chest with the flannel, a soft smile Pa Munro though.” was smudged around her eyes. to the tiny cottage window. A bright moon on her face. He didn’t like it when she stared ‘Why?’ “Gordy! Are you off then?” hung in the clear winter sky and beyond the at him like that – like he was the finest young “I dunno, they just do… Anyway, Pa “Yeah. Just wanted to say bye.” headland the black water of the bay was pit- man in the whole of Sutherland. The truth Munro had these new neighbours. A young Lou leaned her head on the doorpost and ted with silver. was that he was too skinny and his neck was couple from Liverpool. The guy was working smiled. She was still lovely, even with the “What ye putting on noo?” Sheila asked. too long, and his pale skin was almost purple at Dounreay.” smudged make-up. He had bought three new singles this around the chin, where his face was marred Gordy noticed that two of the guys at the “Can’t you stay another night? Ten pence a week. Sabbath and Purple, and a song called by pleuks. table had lent in and were listening to Al tell pint at the union on a Monday!” All Right Now by a new group called Free. It was getting dark when the train ar- the story. One of them tore the foil from a He shrugged. “I can’t. Got work They’d played it last Saturday night at the Big rived at Edinburgh Waverley. Gordy stood in packet of Rothman’s and offered the ciga- tomorrow.” Hall, and he’d hummed it on the walk home, the dusk of the platform as the whistle was rettes around. “Sorry?’ she smiled, her eyebrows seven miles of country lanes with flecks of blown for a second time and the train pulled “Now Pa’s about ninety, and he’s blind as a pinched. snow sticking to the grey tarmac. off. It felt strange to be standing there, in a bat – wears glasses like jam jars.” Al paused to “I’ve got work tomorrow.” He found the record in the pile, and tipped city where he didn’t know a soul. He put the light his fag. “So these new folk move in and Lou giggled. “Sorry, it’s those Rs.” She bit it out of the paper sleeve. leather suitcase on the ground between his the lassie has her black undies hung out on her lip. “Well… we’d love to see you another “You’ll like this,” he said, cueing the feet, and waited, jangling the loose change the line. Now, as far as Pa Munro is concerned time.” needle. in his pockets, until finally he saw Al coming all underwear is white. Women’s smalls are “Yeah,” he said, looking through the door “Are ye nervous aboot the train?” through the crowd. white – simple as that. So this lassie’s black at the chair and desk. “No, no really.” He settled himself back on “You’re late!” undies are flapping about on the line…” “Bye then, Gordy.” the bed beside her and she leant over him, an “Gordy, good to see you! How’d you get Gordy watched Al smoking. He liked to “Yeah, bye.” elbow on his chest. on?” hold his cigarettes like Michael Caine did She closed the door and Gordy was left “You’re dead grown-up since ye started Al looked different. His hair was getting in Get Carter, with all his fingers extended, standing alone in the hallway. A window was work!” longer – it curled around the collar of his the palm lightly cupped. Somehow it looked open on the stairs and he could hear students It was true. He did feel different since he’d leather jacket – and he had a blue silk scarf right here, in this pub in Edinburgh, when in passing by, their voices carried up on the started work. Something about having money tied loosely at his neck. the Big Hall back home it had always seemed breeze. in his pocket. They left the dark of the station and walked a bit showy. “Do ye think… do ye think he’ll have up onto Princes Street. It was a wide road “Now… what I’ve haven’t told you is that It was gone three when he got off the train changed, ye know… now he’s at the with tall buildings on the far side. Al pointed Pa’s favourite pastime is shooting crows from in Thurso. He hitched a lift as far as the turn- university?” out the sunken gardens that dropped away to the back window of Gordy’s house.” ing for Strathy bay, and then walked down to Gordy stared at the ceiling. “Course no. the west of the station. Double-decker buses “How do you mean – shooting them from the beach in the half-light. The tide was out I’ve known Al forever.” rumbled up and down the dusky road, their the window?” and he sat up on one of the dunes and looked But still the question made him uneasy. Al burgundy paintwork glinting under the yel- “I mean, Lou, that he leans out his window out to the dark horizon, where two yellow had sounded different when they spoke on low lights. Al led the way through narrow – with a shotgun – and he shoots the bastards! lights glimmered on the sea. The wind blew the phone. He said things like ‘just now’ when backstreets and up a hill onto another wide So next thing, Gordy’s dad has this lassie from trails of sand across the beach, like whispers. really he had meant ‘the noo’. Gordy wanted road called York Place. Here, the grey sand- Glasgow at his door, near hysterical, telling He couldn’t help thinking how quiet the little to tell him but felt like Al was too far away: stone buildings were five stories high – six if him that Pa Munro has shot her knickers to grey houses looked, sitting there in the dark, just a voice travelling on a wire. you counted the dormers pointing up into smithereens!” above the bay. Sheila was humming to the record. He the evening sky. It was cold but not as cold as “Wasn’t this story supposed to be an anec- His hands were cold. He blew on them looked up at her, her face in the lamplight, home, and Gordy loosened the scarf that was dote about stealing whisky?” and shoved them in his pockets. He remem- feeling the warmth of her body through his tucked into his sheepskin jacket. “Yeah, well I’m getting to that. Gordy’s bered Lou staring at his hands over lunch on jumper. She looked so relaxed – so content – In the pub, Al introduced Gordy to a ta- dad is going mental at old Pa – raging he is – Sunday, and how he’d been conscious of the singing along to the song. He couldn’t help ble of friends and went to get some drinks. and so my good friend Gordy here spots his steel dust under his nails. How long would himself, he had to say it. It had been on his Gordy was sitting next to an English girl with moment… he sneaks into Pa’s bedroom and he have to be gone from the yard before the mind for days. short, black hair. Her name was Lou and he nicks his bottle o’ Glenmorangie! And there’s last of the black washed away? No, his hands “I… I love you, Shee.” thought she sounded like Angela Rippon. He no way Pa’s going to grass him up – not when would never be like Al’s or his friends’. But She stopped singing and looked at him, found himself entranced by her perfume. Not he’s in so much trouble over the knickers. A – steel dust, the white burn on his thumb – her lips parted slightly. After a moment, she so much the smell of it, which was musky, like full bottle it was, seal intact and everything.” it gave him a strength they didn’t have. He lowered her eyes, and placed her head on his cinnamon at Christmas, but the thought of it. The guys laughed. Lou was blushing. Gordy knew what it was to work overtime, to not rr

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 5 rsit down to dinner till eight o’clock, washing yourself at the sink while your stomach quaked. Would Lou understand that, appreciate it? Or did she just think he wasn’t clever enough for university? He remembered the Three Sonnets conversation with Al that morning. The way they’d left things. “You should forget Lou, you know.” They were standing on the platform, waiting for Gordy’s train. The sky was cloudless, the air fresh but not wintery. Al was wearing his leather jacket, and Gordy’s sheepskin coat hung loose. “What do ye mean?” J.W. Lennon, 1957 Al sighed and scrunched up his nose. “I By Jim C. Wilson just… It’s just that I’m sensing you’ve a wee crush and I don’t think it’s worth bothering This boy imagines he might be The King about.” while digging for rock with his Quarrymen. Gordy looked at him. Then, Bring a little water, Sylvie, he sings “You’re not her usual type, that’s all. Even in the cottonfields of his aunt’s back kitchen. apart from the distance thing.” Three chords later, there’s that boy Paul, and praise “What do ye mean ‘not her usual type’?” for pretty Peggy Sue. There’s nylon strings “Look forget it, it’s not important – any- and nylon stockings; time to strum and wake way you’ve got Sheila.” up Susie. This boy can now do anything: “Ye mean I’m not smart enough for her.” even walk the streets in blue suede shoes Al had been looking out over the sta- and a black leather jacket like Be-bop Gene’s. tion concourse and now he turned back to The Light Programme is playing light music face Gordy. He looked surprised, and then but John has learned all the words of Lucille. angry. “No, ’course that’s not what I mean. He’s going to Kansas City, the USA; I mean she usually goes for older guys, flashy across the universe, yeah, all the way. dressers.” They’d stood a few feet apart after that, both with their hands in their pockets. Gordy had told him to go but Al had shaken his head. Battan He’d waved to him as the train pulled off and By Nicky Guthrie Gordy wished now that he’d waved back. Sitting on the dunes, he looked at his The scent of vapour rising, hidden streams, watch. Five thirty. The boys would be clock- Of budding birch, of garlic, earth, of Spring; ing off. Going home for their tea. Dragging The tail-end wisps of winter nip that teem shut the roller-door on the darkened work- With tales of triumph: animals that bring shop, closing in the smell of burnt metal for Themselves unaided through the frozen moons, another night. He wondered what Lou would So close to man, invisible, unknown. be doing. Getting ready to go to the union. I envy them the map that God has drawn Cheap pints on a Monday she’d said. He Upon their brains. We weigh the odds alone. wondered if she would sit at the same table He gives us words and choice and prayer but by the window. If she’d wear the same dark The clues he gives confuse and contradict. blouse that made her pale neck look like one Outlandish baying. Dogs? A stag in rut? of the Lladró figurines on his mother’s man- In March? Aroused, I wait. The flowers picked telpiece. He suddenly felt in limbo, suspended Forgotten. Overhead a flight of swans above two different worlds. Not standing Sweeps clean the winter’s dregs for summer dawns. in the yard with Sandy while Frank locked up. Not walking down the corridor to Lou’s room feeling a breeze from the window on the stairs. Just sitting where he’d always sat. He An Epistolary Sonnet could sit here forever. Looking out at the bay A response to Elegy XIX – To His Mistress Going and the dark headland. To Bed by John Donne He walked home along the tarmac lane, By Fran Baillie just as a wet snow began to fall. The wind sent flurries of it to cling to the gorse bushes Dear John, I must decline what you suggest, in the ditch, and he knotted his scarf around I’m not a fertile country to explore. his neck. Though you persist on knocking at my door and think that I will yield at your behest, this lady’s not for shafting like the rest. In the evening, Sheila called round to the Your catholic taste in every kind of whore house and they lay on Gordy’s bed listening is legendary, and good sir, what’s more, to Sabbath. When the song ended, she sat up, you really need to give that tongue a rest. placing an elbow on his chest. I won’t be safeliest with one man manned, “Hey, I’ve got something I wanted to tell your roving hands aren’t licensed, they can’t go; ye!” my hairy diadem, you understand She looked excited, her cheeks were is mine and I dictate when it’s on show. flushed and her eyes bright. Her smile was so To enter in these bonds is to be free, jubilant he couldn’t help feel better. methinks you jest, old man! You’re kidding me. “Aye, what’s that?” She paused, pursing her lips, then said, “I love you, Gordy Munro.” He stopped smiling. He pulled her head down to his chest and held her there for a while, cupping her soft hair with his hand. n

6 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Poetry

Saturday Morning Aig a bheil inbhe is cliù, Seil Hugh McMillan A chruthaicheas bòidhchead fhìor Mavis Gulliver Le co-sheirm dhathan rèidh Across the water on the Greensands, Bhios mar cheòl nam ban-sìth. Ardencaple two early morning drunks are fighting, rolling over cut grass like lovers. Tha ise na saoghal fhèin, Abandoned long ago, Here, balanced sturdily on a railing, Dùinte ann an glas agus dubh: and poached for stone, is a seagull, eyes cold as a Viking’s. Am beàrn eadrainn cho mòr only low walls remain It is desperate for a crust ’s a tha eadar tìr is muir.’ each crevice home to spleenwort, that’s nestled snug wall rue, moss, in the dirt below this bench. Tè le smuaintean naomha each family’s space so small What brings us to these depths, Dhan fhear-ealain mhòr: a rowan’s branches stretch misfits from two noble species, Coinneamh an dà shaoghail from wall to wall. our holy grails pale things Is dà sheòrsa glòir. made from flesh or pizza dough? when it rains. Small quarries where they worked We will not be deterred, are overgrown. not by this fine rain, nor instincts From slate-strewn floors of when the world was fresh and leaf-clogged pools and the sun a diamond cut in space. Changeling trees strain to reach the light, We watch each other, Brian Johnstone cast shade on man-made cliffs, it is a waiting game, decline, slimed walls that drip and trickle and the river makes its usual the ewes cry for their offspring slow who’ve rejected them horrified in death way to sea. Grod cry for the skin Pàdraig MacAoidh flayed in mitigation that’s bodied round the orphan Tha tòrr an tairbh air a bhith a’ bòcadh Arrangement in Grey and Black: airson seachdainean a-nis, gun sgeul fòs Dealbh dhe Màthair a’ Pheantair (1871) a swift nick cut and peel air sgioba na comhairle ga thiodhlacadh. le James McNeill Whistler thrusting one identity Tha na bà a’ cumail nan taigh-fhaire, Maoilios Caimbeul all four legs ged a tha tè no dhà dhiubh an impis sgogadh nan cuimhne ’s nam bàidh, Dealbh a tha dorcha is glas into the being of another an impis beachdachadh air an fheur ud thall. Dhe màthair a’ pheantair fhèin the mother Tha na coin, a rinn donnal ri boladh Ann an dreasa fhada dhubh wiser than the moment an sgiorr san adhar, air preaslach Agus i le lèirsinn dhian nan ròsan fhàgail, air tilleadh dha knowing hers iom-cheumnachadh nan gàrraidhean. Agus foighidinn gun smal as more than this Tha corp na h-aon feannaig feòrachail A’ meòrachadh air na th’ ann still bloody from the knife a-nis na iteag ’s na chnàmh. San dìg, Mar gum biodh i ag ràdh: tha rodan a’ dèanamh dìolaidh, ‘An e seo toradh mo bhroinn more than smell and touch a’ freastal spreadhadh a’ ghais, the thrust and nuzzle gus grodadh a chuirp a thionndadh gu dearc. Tha a-nise beò mar seo – of snout on teat “Ealain air sgàth ealain” – fear ’Son na rinn mi ùrnaigh tric more than cries Aig cathair Dhè rè òige mhear? that echo from the holding pen Pacman heave out her response Pàdraig MacAoidh Ach chaidh e a shlighe fhèin, Bha e righinn, fad’ na bheachd: The Day the Rain Falls ’S dòcha gun robh, mu dheireadh thall, a-nis chì e mi mar thè Katherine Lockton nàdar de phact ann eadar thu fhèin dhùr nach roghnaich tlachd. agus na taibhsean, rudeigin Faustian, The lake is speckled with rain. anns an robh an leth-bheatha acasan agads’ Mise na mo shaoghal earbsach, Each dot an echo of the last. agus vice versa. Cha do thuig mi riamh ge-tà Ag ithe aig bòrd fear-saoraidh; a’ phuing a bh’ agad mun eagal agus caitheamh: Is esan mar am mac stròdhail Swans pedal. bha mi eòlach ort mar thàmhaiche-baile, Na gheòcaire an fhaoineis.’ flâneur beag buidhe a’ spaistrich tro sràidean My eyes are wet. Life is melting. do phrìosain ’s a phàtran-griod on 19mh linn, Ach canaidh am mac ris fhèin: I always do this. a’ feitheamh airson an diog a reòthadh tu, ‘Is iad na h-ealain mo threòir, a’ feitheamh airson error message. Tha mi dùinte ann an dath; This is the way it always is. Tha mi na mo pheantair mòr Kids jump in puddles, parents calling them. But still they leap, mouths wide open, eyes grinning.

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 7 Poetry

Showdown at the Red Barn in Blanchland again, November 2012 Ian McFadyen Charlie Gracie

They came down by Dungrianach, our place in the sun, in the square there is nearly nothing a gang of them, marauders from the moor; the post office, a deli, the closed doors of houses between the rounded, wind-smoothed, red-flecked granite Pennine stone frames everything in this hardly peopled place boulders of the Ross. visitors hide in the White Monk, eating broth

They did not flit, like buntings, wagtails, in soft late sunshine the hollyhocks breathe their last wheatears, linnets or the like: the ranks of gardens squeeze final inches of growth this was a swaggering, a strutting flight. leeks, the skeletal ends of sunflowers, blooded haws the walls of the houses are warm Yet they could hover by Macdairmid-headed thistles and pluck them bald, white strand by strand, over the field to the river or land upon the spent rust-coloured clumps I pass a sagging line of washing, one side sun-drying, the other frosted of sheep-sorrel as light as bees in the dark stretch of trees, the river skips over brown stones and strip them bare. oak, ash, beech lean over, nearly drinking from the wet rush

And it was there, down by the red-roofed barn, out into the horse path, a pine, high and soft barked that they faced up the cat (a Siamese, we hug, me and the soft barked tree with one squint tooth, called Pigeon-pie). talk in hush about all things since we last met the school closed He was no danger: and the Consett works they could just have taken flight, the football field was flattened and drained but they were not for giving ground. my father died Sharp little balls of fury, on Bale Hill new trees were sowed they fluttered their wings, flaunted their bellies, and in squished-in houses shrilled their defiance and shot up and down fire upon fire upon fire laid and spent in the warmed front rooms in a frenzy, like so many bungee-jumpers at the ends of their tethers – some invisible matador the village sits in smoky sun with this cloak of living rage, the same sun we saw years ago taunting the hapless cat (who veered off sharply, affecting indifference).

Dunnock, we thought, or sparrows. Waiting for the Film But no: to our delight Annie Pia these guys turned out to be a shower of cheeky little twite. I wish I was A picturehouse girl, All punk and patchwork Rough knit socks, a scant covering Winter Trees For that tattoo, Liz Treacher Your gift for a birthday I have now forgotten, A kind of celtic branding, your style. Afterwards we dress in the awkward silence of the hotel room. My hair is gothic geometry, Light glares through a gap in the curtains, making the dust jump. My lips are Hollywood, my face speaks tea rooms She offers me an upturned hand and, picking up her watch, I am geisha rather than Greek. I slip it over her tiny wrist, veined with winter trees. And we would talk intelligently, you and I, I fiddle with the fastening, fingers feeling her fragile bones. If I was that girl, Years later I can still hear the click of the catch and the About the rise of Latin America, dust dancing. The red tents of Jacob. And I would live in Portobello perhaps, with cats, a herb garden, terracotta pots Fifties chic, I would dress my ginger girl in charity shop dresses, Drystane Dyker Listen to Women’s Hour, Angus Macmillan And seated in rattan sofas, I would turn the pages of a glossy book, He settles to a rhythm beyond braille, Intent on Annie Leibowitz or retro Miyake, an unworded language Maybe re-read reliable Austen from a library close by, between eye and hand and stone, webbed I would holiday in Sweden in a haptic grammar of heft and balance, Play the mouth organ, ride on buses in oversized astrakan, by the unerring eye that tongues the stones, I would be that girl in a quiet corner drinking ale, edge against jagged edge, knowing Simply waiting for the film to begin, what to pick up, what to leave aside. And once again, you are fascinated.

He can see the line he intends across the hillside, slanting beyond us, shaping a future tense.

8 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Publish & Be Glad!

Mandy Haggith Surveys the ebook Revolution in the North

ost small Scottish publishers are patchwork of a family tree brings revelations of an audience in the epublishing world than as a lesbian. Mary abandons her council house now producing ebooks as well as about Magnus’ past and Fay’s own need to they get in the sphere of conventional books. in Skye, takes up with a no-good man and Mtheir traditional paper products. recover from the events leading to the cou- Short story collections also seem to be does everything the social services consider Birlinn is putting their entire backlist out as ple’s divorce. This is a marvellous story about doing well. Best Man by David Manderson is the wrong thing for a single mother. This ebooks. Sandstone Press has the same inten- healing and self-preservation. a collection of three substantial short stories immensely readable story has a lot to say tion, except for a handful of graphic-rich The Survival of Thomas Ford, by John A.A about men. The stand out story is ‘Inkerman’, about love and mothering, and its characters non-fiction books, and Robert Davidson Logan, is another success story. It is a gripping in which a car factory worker steals, piece are as messy and complicated as people are at Sandstone says that their ebook sales are thriller about Thomas Ford, who survives a car by piece, all that he needs to build his own in real life. Orla is already reading unsolicited about to outstrip paper sales. crash in which his wife dies. Jimmy, the driver car. It’s an atmospheric piece, the landscape manuscripts from potential authors. The book Saraband are also producing all their books of the car that caused the crash, is a brilliant in snow vividly drawn and the main story was produced simultaneously as an ebook, an both on paper and digitally, and have noticed creation: variously described as a crow, a hawk is interspersed with glimpses of a small girl audio book and in paperback, and the ebook that ebooks generate worthwhile overseas and a parrot, he is sometimes ludicrous, always meeting her father out of a brickworks in an is due to have covered its costs through sales sales, particularly to the Scottish diaspora. dangerous and his father is even worse. When earlier time. It invites the reader in to witness within three months of release. There’s still a Sara Hunt said: ‘Ebooks provide the oppor- Jimmy’s girlfriend finds out his guilty secret secret moments in the lives of working class sense that epublishing is a pioneering activity. tunity to reach around the globe, without a she rashly underestimates her ability to ben- people, showing us their quiet resistance and Orla Broderick said: ‘I like being self pub- distribution cost (financial or environmental, efit from the knowledge. Right from the start, their dignity. lished, I like having an ebook - it makes me although of course the environmental costs it is clearly all going to end in trouble and as Steven Porter’s collection Blurred Girl and feel a bit daring and adventurous!’ of ereaders/devices are not a straightforward the plot twists the likely scale of the trouble Other Suggestive Stories is a varied gathering of By side-stepping the mainstream publish- issue!) so finally people in New Zealand or escalates. Throughout, the story is inhabited stories, from brilliant flash fiction moments, ing world’s constraints, ebook authors are Canada can find Scottish-interest titles with- by a cast of butterflies, birds and cats behaving such as ‘Lisa’s Birthday Party’, which is a cover sustaining diversity and originality in the out paying through the nose.’ in almost supernatural ways, adding a note of for something much darker, to longer pieces literary world. Independent epublishing may Two Ravens Press produce ebooks when mystery and symbolic depth. It is compelling such as the moody ‘Boxing Day in Muros’, be a way to resist what John Logan describes print sales have gone well and to catch an stuff, and it has been wildly successful. where a man tries, unsuccessfully, to make a as ‘the gradual succumbing to a general and overseas market. They have taken a principled John Logan took Linda Gillard’s success as new start in his life in Spain. The best of these longstanding process of dumbing down and stand to epublishing, producing them in a a model and put his book up on Kindle on are vivid, slightly off-kilter glimpses of the homogenization’. It is certainly allowing the manner that allows them to be shared, unlike Christmas Day 2011 and instantly started to margins of people’s lives. distinctive voices of Highland writers to reach the standard Kindle format. In general, they gather readers. He had been waiting years for Carol Mackay’s short story collection, an appreciative audience. found that ebooks were not working particu- this to happen, because despite praise for his Ordinary Domestic, is full of sympathetically If this all inspires you to head into the epub- larly well for them, until they started using writing from agents, editors, film company drawn characters. In ‘Frozen Waste’, a tramp lishing world, the Alliance of Independent the Kindle store on Amazon, which is where staff and others in the publishing world who who lives in a dump shows compassion to Authors allianceindependentauthors.org may almost all the ebooks action is happening. read his work, nobody actually signed on the a runaway girl. In ‘Decomposing’ a woman be able to help. n In the Highlands, it is individual authors dotted line to publish it. They have missed a skirts the extreme edge of despair after a mis- who have gained most from ebooks so far. trick. Asked if epublishing is working for him, carriage. In ‘Ugly Duckling’ there is an unset- For example, Linda Gillard has found lib- he said, ‘I can certainly say yes to that. Within 3 tling encounter with a man in a planetarium. eration as an independent ebook author, months of epublishing The Survival of Thomas Is he her father? There are some horrible men enjoying the freedom to write exactly what Ford, I had my best week of downloads of the in here, in stories like ‘Unrestricted’ and ‘Total she pleases rather than following editorial re- book, making £1000 from downloads in 7 Obliteration’, and mostly I am drawn to the quests to follow the norms of genre writing. days’. In 2012, The Survival of Thomas Ford women, particularly a blind woman who finds In a blog post about her most recent ebook, a won numerous awards, and it has now reached a moment of joy in ‘What mattered about the paranormal romance, The Glass Guardian, she 30,000 downloads. John’s literary agent will Dancing’. If you like short stories that give said ‘If I published the book myself, I could seek a conventional publishing home for his satisfyingly realistic snap-shots of a broad cast tell my story in the way I wanted to tell it.’ next novel, but he is relaxed about the result of characters, this collection is a must-read. Sticking to her own style has massively paid of their search, knowing that he can epublish Carol Mackay started epublishing when off. Her book House of Silence was described if mainstream publishers don’t take it. she was told the market for her work was too by her ex-publisher Piatkus as ‘unmarketable’, Allan Guthrie, another author with several small. She said ‘E-publishing is ideal .. because yet it has sold more than 30,000 copies so books under his belt, chanced into ebook it means the texts are out there, available, at far and Linda is making a good living as an publishing when his publisher, Barrington little cost to the publisher (i.e. no printing or independent author. How many authors with Stoke, delayed production of the paper ver- distribution costs, no storage costs). There’s no publishing deals can say the same thing? sion of his novella, but agreed to let him have ‘out of print’ issue with e-publishing, either, The moon is too far Linda has re-published several of her novels the digital rights and to experiment with and they can find a market globally. One of as ebooks, and also some new books, one of epublishing. Bye Bye Baby has been explosive the advantages of e-publishing is that books to reach. which is Untying the Knot. This is a romantic on Kindle, reaching their top ten and netting can be any length. Novellas become more The summer breeze novel in her reliably readable and intelligent him sales of almost 10,000 ebooks per month. easily placed and sold. There’s so much more passes without a trace. style, and as I have come to expect, at its centre He said, ‘I like being in control of cover de- flexibility, and this has to be a good thing.’ is a deliciously complex and intriguing man. sign, pricing, what length I write to, etc. And All of these authors use blogs and social net- The running wave turns Magnus is a retired bomb-disposal expert it’s nice that I’m selling a lot more books than working to promote their books, and Steven to water in your hand. who spent years in the army and is left with I ever did in print.’ Porter remarks that independent authors post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). As in Bye Bye Baby is a crime novella, in which need to develop their business and marketing Star Gazing, in which the main character’s a missing boy turns out to be long-dead and skills, as ‘making waves in the world of self- blindness is integral to the tale, in this newer the police are more wicked than the apparent publishing is a huge challenge to those with For lovely things you novel the character’s problem is woven deftly criminals. In these busy times, short novels, a more artistic or literary mindset’. Several of into the plot. The story is narrated by Magnus’ or long short stories like this have a welcome the authors have taken the advice to ‘think can hold and keep, ex-wife Fay, and the text dances between her role for readers who want the plot twisting like a publisher’, effectively setting themselves reflections and memories of the past, and the journey of a novel without the fully-worked up as small independent publishing compa- increasingly excruciating present. Much of character development of a longer text, or nies rather than wearing the sneered-at badge the novel is set in a castle, known as Tully, a who want to stay a bit longer with the char- of ‘self-publisher’. Babalu Chock full of things you will want. ruin that symbolises Magnus’s shattered soul acters of a short story, without committing to One such is Orla Broderick, whose first or perhaps the two character’s relationship, them for several hundred pages. Perhaps these novel is the inaugural production of Council 68 High St, Forres damaged through war and painstakingly re- intermediate length narratives will find more House Press. The January Flower tells of a constructed. The narrator’s creative work on a woman coming to terms with her sexuality

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 9 raig woke. The window was wrong; the wine section at the far end of the store; it was too far away. Then he re- rows of bottles made a hard shiny wall that Cmembered; they were in a hotel. He Halfway glinted reflections of the bright store lights reached across the bed towards Jodi, but she back into the empty aisle. How had he missed wasn’t there. By Lyndsay Marshall them? He turned and began to search again. He listened in the darkness. He could hear He should’ve got a basket; his arms were be- Lily breathing evenly from the travel cot. Rain ✯ ginning to ache carrying a six-pack of water was splattering on the window. He pushed bottles with a packet of chocolate digestives himself up on one elbow and squinted at his his. ‘You can’t stay here.’ From where he was ‘The supermarkets might not get their balanced on top, ready to roll off and smash to watch. The faintly luminous hands were at crouching he could see the pipes running deliveries. There might be panic buying.’ She the floor at any moment. How could she have three o’clock. There was a strip of light along down the back of the basin pedestal and he moved the jeans so the other leg was on the managed to disappear in the time it took him the bottom of the bathroom door. He flopped was on eye level with the toilet seat. board and she squirted the water again. ‘We to choose a few things? back down. ‘I just want to read. It passes the time.’ should make sure we’ve got plenty of tins. He rounded the end of the nappy aisle. Jodi He was so tired. He closed his eyes but felt ‘Jodi, please!’ And some long-life milk.’ was kneeling in front of the Pampers, apparently them twitching as if they were trying to read ‘Just leave me alone.’ She looked at him, ‘Jodi, listen to yourself. This is crazy.’ trying to see under the bottom of the shelf. text on the inside of his eyelids. Too much her forehead creased, and mouth tight. Somehow he’d managed to get her to ‘What are you doing down there?’ he said. driving, but they’d made it halfway. The B&B He stood, ‘I’m going back to bed. I’ve got think straight, after a lot of talking, but maybe He dumped the shopping into the basket that was a decent size; not just them and the owner. a lot of driving to do tomorrow.’ they should’ve cancelled the trip after all. He was next to Lily’s buggy. It would’ve been easier to go to a Travelodge He edged back out of the room into the turned onto his side and stared at the strip Jodi looked up. Her face was red, puffy and by the motorway, but Jodi wanted something dark bedroom. He felt his way back to bed, of light at the bottom of the bathroom door. wet with tears. ‘I can’t find it!’ more homely. It was so homely it didn’t have pulling the duvet up, some warmth still there She used to be up for anything. She’d led a ‘What?’ a lift, so he’d lugged all the baby kit up two in its folds. school trip to Aviemore last year, responsible ‘Her shoe!’ She stood up and pointed at flights of stairs to their room. She’d packed He lay in the darkness staring upwards. for sixty P7s for a week, the sort of thing that Lily. ‘She’s lost her shoe!’ endless supplies for the visit, ticking it all off She’d been waking early in the morning for made him shudder to think of it; a day-long ‘Ssshhh,’ he said, ‘stop shouting.’ He looked on her clipboard, but surely they didn’t need weeks now, whether or not Lily needed a feed, field trip was his limit. He closed his eyes and down at Lily. Her legs, chubby in stripy pink all of it out of the car for one night? but not being able to fall asleep was new. exhaustion dragged him back into sleep. and red tights, were dangling and jiggling. She There was still no noise from the bathroom She had all-but cancelled the trip a few had a bright purple, soft leather bootee on so he pushed back the duvet and climbed out days ago; talking herself out of it while she ‘Can we go to a supermarket?’ she asked her left foot. It had a butterfly on the front. of the bed. The room was chilly and he was was ironing last Sunday. ‘I saw it on the news,’ next morning as he was packing the last of ‘The stupid woman just doesn’t care!’ Jodi wearing only a T-shirt and boxers. He reached she had said, setting the iron down on its end things back into the car. pulled at her pony tail, pulling the end round for his jeans where they lay across the chair, with a clunk. ‘It’s an epidemic. A child died.’ ‘Why?’ he glanced at her quickly, then to lie over her shoulder, and tearing her fin- but then decided to leave them in case he ‘It probably had asthma or something.’ He turned back to the hatchback, squashing and gers through its length, over and over. woke the baby by flapping around putting was sitting across from her in their kitchen- pushing the baby’s changing bag to make it ‘What woman?’ What was she talking them on. He eased past the travel cot that was dining room, his newspaper spread across the fit into the last gap between the suitcases and about now? wedged between the end of the bed and the pine tabletop. He was trying to ignore the the car roof. ‘I went to see if it’s been handed in, and wardrobe. The wardrobe door banged shut as Tesco carrier bag of exercise books on the ‘I need a better gift for Mum.’ She was the woman didn’t care.’ he knocked into it with his hip. He froze. Jodi chair next to him. He turned a page of the jiggling the handle of Lily’s buggy gently. Lily ‘Well. It’s ...’ would be furious if he woke Lily. She didn’t broadsheet. watched him with round blue eyes. ‘I wish I’d ‘I was going to keep them for her memory stir, and he carried on to the bathroom door. ‘Why don’t you listen to me?’ had time to paint something this year.’ box. They’re special. I have to find it.’ She He tapped lightly. ‘Jodi?’ He looked up. She was watching him from ‘The biscuits are fine.’ moved as if she was going to bend down and She answered, muffled through the door, behind the ironing board with her best teach- ‘I don’t think so.’ start looking under the shelf again. ‘You can come in.’ erly glare. He could feel his patience starting to He reached towards her and held her arm, He turned the handle. The metal felt cold. ‘I’m listening.’ The bright red teapot- stretch. He dropped the changing bag down ‘It’s not the end of the world.’ He opened the door just enough to squeeze shaped clock on the wall behind her showed onto the gravel of the car park. ‘What would you know?’ She shook off his through, making sure light from the bathroom that he should be getting on with his mark- ‘Careful!’ she said, and she bent and picked hand. ‘What would you know?’ She hit out at didn’t fall across Lily’s cot. He shut the door, ing, but it was hard to read the exact time; its it up. Craig’s chest with her fists, ‘What would you blinking in the brightness. thin hands got lost in the large polka dots. He lifted a suitcase out of the boot and set know?’ ‘What are you doing down there?’ he said. ‘They said it’s much worse down in it down next to the buggy. ‘Stop it!’ he said, grabbing at her wrists. She was sitting on the floor, her back resting England.’ She folded one of Lily’s vests, then ‘I want to get a digital thermometer too,’ ‘You’ve got to stop it. You’re making a scene.’ against the plastic side-panel of the bath, her unfolded it again and laid it back down on she said. He looked around. There was a woman push- legs crossed like a child in school assembly, a the ironing board. ‘What for?’ He turned round and stared at ing a toddler in a trolley looking at them. Lily novel open in her lap. She looked up at him. ‘It’s only the ‘flu.’ her. Not this again. started to cry. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t ‘What if she gets ill? We’d never forgive ‘In case Lily gets ill.’ Jodi unclenched her fists and sagged want to wake Lily by turning the light on.’ ourselves.’ ‘She’s not ill.’ He pointed at Lily. ‘She’s within his grasp. He let go of her wrists. She She wore pink long-sleeved jersey pyjamas ‘If she gets ill then the likelihood is that fine.’ wiped at her face with the open flat of her with a chunky grey cardigan over the top. she would get better within a few days.’ ‘I want to get one. Then I can check that palm. He crouched down next to Lily as she Her blonde hair tied was tied back in a low, ‘We’ll be miles from our doctor. How she’s well.’ wailed with a wide square mouth, her eyes messy ponytail. There were dark circles under would we get help?’ She folded the vest ‘But we know that she’s well. Look at her!’ screwed up tight. ‘It’s alright little-Lily-lamb,’ her eyes and dark roots in her hair. again. His voice was rising. he said, ‘Everything’s alright.’ He pressed at ‘It’s three o’clock in the morning!’ he said. ‘We’ll be in London. There are thousands ‘Shhsshh. You’ll upset her.’ She bent to the buckle at the centre of the buggy harness, ‘I just can’t sleep.’ of doctors.’ tuck the pink sheep-patterned fleece blanket but it just wouldn’t give. His thumb slipped He was reflected in the mirror above the ‘What if we all get ill and neither of us is round Lily. Then she pulled it completely off off. Lily wailed, pushing her body upwards white basin: black stubble beard and a pale well enough to look after her? What if I get and turned it round. ‘That’s better, Lily,’ she against the straps, making it harder to get hold bald head, shaved so that he didn’t have a ill and I can’t feed her?’ said, ‘the baa-lambs were upside down.’ of the buckle. He pressed again, the buckle circle of hair like an old man. He crouched ‘That won’t happen.’ ‘We need to get on the road,’ he said. unclicked and he could pull Lily free and lift down beside her. ‘You must have slept earlier.’ ‘It might.’ ‘It won’t take long. There’s a Tesco on the her up. He tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. ‘It won’t.’ He folded the newspaper. edge of town. I saw it yesterday.’ She pulled ‘It’s OK,’ he soothed, as he held her on ‘I don’t think so. I keep thinking about the ‘How do you know?’ the blanket off Lily so that she could take her his shoulder, rubbing her back. ‘Everything’s journey, and seeing Mum and Dad, and Lily’s ‘I don’t.’ He laid the newspaper down on out of the buggy and put her into the car. OK.’ feeds, and whether I’ve got all her things, the kitchen table gently, trying not to show Jodi was staring into the empty buggy. Lily and...it’s just no good.’ his frustration by slapping it down like he He couldn’t find them. He walked down was quietening down. There was a musty smell in here, probably wanted to. ‘But, it’s very unlikely.’ the middle of the store, checking every row ‘I think we should go home now,’ said from the plugholes. ‘Come back to bed. Try ‘I think we should stay here where it’s as he passed each aisle-end. He squeezed be- Craig, ‘maybe make a doctor’s appointment?’ and get to sleep,’ he said. safer.’ She ran the iron up and down the leg of tween an abandoned trolley and a display of Jodi’s head snapped up, ‘Does she feel ho?’ ‘I’ve tried. I can’t.’ Her index finger was a pair of jeans, squirting short spurts of spray. mince pies that had been built in the mid- ‘Not for Lily.’ picking at the skin at the corner of her ‘We should get some extra food in too, in case dle of the walkway. This was such a waste of She stared at him with a deep crease be- thumbnail. the epidemic gets bad.’ time. They’d never make it to London before tween her eyebrows. Then she nodded slowly. He stilled her hand by covering it with ‘What?’ dark at this rate. No sign of them. He reached n

10 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Poetry

If She Could Tell It How It Is camhanaich Ballast Bank, Troon Pauline Prior-Pitt Greg MacThòmais Gordon Jarvie would she say camhanaich an latha ùir They told us Troon’s coal-boats she’s in a foreign country dè thig na chois? used to return from Ireland empty under siege ciad ghathan na maidne apart from a dark ballast of Irish soil. a’ tuileachadh na h-albainn walking through rooms le solas is dòchas The ballast became the town’s Ballast Bank, she can’t remember a raised plateau stretching half a mile searching for her babies ar seann dùthaich along the shoreline beside the harbour. air stairsnich a slighe ùire where strangers a brang a’ teannachadh They told us this was the only place ask questions she can’t answer mus bris e na mìle bloigh in Scotland where wild shamrocks grew, so we hunted for them as far as the sawmill. tall men tell her she’s their mother We never found any, a childhood disappointment, bàs an sgioba and we decided the soil wasn’t Irish at all and try to hug her Greg MacThòmais but dredged instead from the adjacent harbour. when she shies away a bheil sinn brònach an dèidh do bhàis The Ballast Bank still makes a vantage point, in this house thusa a sgar mo bhaile-sa is ceud baile eile a look-out for kids to spy flying washing lines she has lived in nan dà threubh, dealaichte, briste to landward, and ships plying the Firth of Clyde. for more than fifty years ginealach an dèidh ginealaich a thug air pàiste èigheach air a nàbaidh It gives forby some shelter from fierce westerlies but keeps begging to be taken home “a phàpanaich shalaich ghrànda a tha thu ann” whipping across the ocean – another Troon feature a thug leisgeul dha mathan airson dòrn a thoirt do being its trees all leaning sideways, drunk. mhàthair a chuid cloinne a chionn ‘s gun do dh’fhaighnich i dè an sgòr a bh’ ann In my late teens I followed the Troon coal-boats Isle of Lewis 1919 chan eil mise duilich ged a dh’àraich na seann laoich mi to attend university in Ireland. The Derry quays Katharine Scambler cooper is mccoist is laudrup had coalyards along the Foyle, below the campus. thig ainneamhaig ghorm beò às an dust agad Freezing tides spat back wreckage leònte is i a’ casadaich is a’ plubraich My room-mate’s dad was a coal merchant in rhythms ach i fhathast a’ moladh a’ bhanna-sìoda a chosg m’ athair-sa in The Diamond, Donegal. Troon’s coal-boats incomprehensible to the human heart. sailed there too . . . Imagine! Only connect.

Dark water yielded the ship’s secrets Such links were all unlooked for over days, months After Your Death in my sheltered youthful Ayrshire world, and decades mute with grief. James Andrew but I was well pleased by these connections.

Women were widows north to south; Wind yowls over the land, shaking a brittle, black backbone of the island. bushes, and razing plants. No trees Daughters learned a landscape of shock. shudder. Their saplings were wrenched out. Furtachd The bracken and heather writhe before the blast. Julian Ronay This was worse than war. Boys grew up watching the sea Sheep graze stubbornly, but seem ludicrous ann an ceallan prìosain that swallowed fathers, uncles, brothers. as they ponder the furore served up with their grass. fireannaich aonaranach agus cràdhte The waves rampage towards the headland. ri fèin-bhrodadh air an oidhche They knew the ocean as a thief of men. The gale and sea shriek like something alive. san fhuachd The waves crashed and roared. saoghal neo-shuimeil No-one spoke. A screeching gull sounds like something dead. a’ briseadh na mhìrean You and I passed here, but now mòmaidean theth fhallasach san dorchadas you’re gone. Our laughter no furtachd sealach longer rebels against storms. na cneadan agus eacaoine a’ cur a mach stealladh sil

sàsachadh miann a bhith coltach ri dia a bhith òirdheirc a choinneachadh ris an neach a tha eòlach ort chan eil feum air faclan an cràdh a tha a’ ruigsinn cho fada air ais a dhèanamh greim air an seud an seud a shlànaich an cridhe dhe gach tinneas

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 11 ISLAND LIVES Baker Prize Poetry Competition Photographs by Donnie Mackay www.photohebrides.co.uk

Winning Poem

The Moving Island By Deborah Moffatt

It was a desolate island, stony and bare, without trees, without grass. On a shore without sand we ran the boat aground and there on the boat the man of God remained, no fool he, while we, in vigil and prayer, passed the night on the barren island. As we set sail, we saw the island moving away from us, She saw the island as she wanted it to be, as if the island had a life of its own, a life that could never be hers, saw beauty in the silver-black water of the lochs, our poor fire still burning on the creature’s scaly back, in the violet-grey grasses of the bogs, as if it had turned its back on her, smoke rising from the hills in the cold blue stone of the hill-tops, the fire we had started in ignorance and desperation, in the amber warmth of a man’s eyes, in silent reproach, as if she alone were to blame for the damage done, in the bottles lining the shelf above a bar. to satisfy our needs, never thinking of the harm we did, the eroding trust, the uncertain silences, the deceptive welcome In the morning, after Mass, we took all we had from the boat, never imagining that God’s will would one day lead us astray. the raw meat, salt for the flesh, the few necessities left to us of an unstable island, the transient passions at the bottom of a glass. on our quest to find the blessed island, the promised land, our Holy Father’s will our own, our bodies in his hands.

More than a life on the island, she wanted the island to be her life, wanted to be defined by the rocky cliffs, the pebbled shores, Runner Up the bare hills, the long winding roads, the remote bothies, the silent men, the wind in her hair, the muddy bog at her feet, the red-brown murk of peat staining her bare skin, drawing her in, Lewisian Nights pulling her deep into the very heart of the island. By Garry MacKenzie

With the few bits of driftwood that we found scattered about the island Abandoned air force buildings – mess hall, we built a fire and set a pot to boil, and as the flames began to rise dormitories, clifftop cells where visions we felt a strange unease, the ground heaving beneath our feet, of war were drawn from a metal sea – the island moving in a great wave from one end to the other. have become a village, concrete shells Perhaps she wanted too much, tried too hard. She made mistakes, that sheep wander like tinkers. In the cold war misjudged the depths, the distances, the solidity of the rocks, of wind and land, two crofts remain, the liquidity of time, the warmth of a man’s eyes. Silences stretched from one end of the island to the other; certainties slipped, and pillboxes black with peat and through the bottom of a glass she saw what she had missed– guard a beach whose sand the instability of the island, the subsidence of trust. was sucked into the sea.

Stricken with terror, we ran from the island, leaving all we had behind, Cows stand in the rain. Inside we drink crying for protection, our hearts full of doubt, our faith sorely tested– and talk of ferry crossings, first impressions, for it wasn’t lost on us that our Holy Father had never left the boat, sitting in a crofthouse kitchen and that all along he must have known what sort of island it was. built for radar operators’ wives. As she tethered her clothes to a rope in a howling wind, At each pause in conversation she heard, in the distance, the music of the pipes, a slow march, we contemplate the inner exile. the lop-sided beat of the retreat, and felt stray notes falling like tears on her face, or perhaps it was nothing but the wind she heard, Later, our hostess lifts a gun nothing but rain on her face, the piper and his music only a memory and none of us is shocked or laughs she was preparing to have after she had left the island. as feathers fall near the cattle trough:

a gull flies west with the sun, lead-poisoned. Night sweeps its ash into the sky. A bus rattles at the end of the road.

12 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Highly Commended

Invasion By Alison Barr

Ropes have minds of their own. They migrate to one another, corkscrew across salty seas, multi coloured DNA spirals. Congregate in bundles. Highly Commended Some stranded on beaches, brilliant Bluefire jellyfish, long tentacles trailing. Fàgail Some, washed up swirls, By Andy Jackson mini-galaxies draped over black rocks. He is the last of all to leave this place, Some, net-intact, waiting for the Admiralty sloop, a refugee vibrant orange, fisherman yellow, pursued by no-one. Hands like claws, concertina diamond jersey patterns. his scabrous skin the pallor of the sea, Some brittle with age, sun baked, he wears the North Atlantic on his face. degraded, weathered, weakened, at a touch breaking into powdery filaments. His home is ceded to the slew of gulls, immutable chaos of beak and feather, Assorted lengths float around the only real government here. The fall deep sea orifices and eddies, of man approaches, low pressure hang around in crisscross rope shoals. roaring in, a revolutionary squall. Swirling, shifting slowly, catching penetrating light rays. Natural hemp, woven, spliced, pleated, knotted, Throughout inconstancies of weather rough ends frayed like lions tails. he has clung like topsoil to the fact Nylon, chemical blue, orange, yellow, of this isle, but, as would a doomed lover, white, polished, ends melted. it now pushes him away, a wordless act Lost overboard from moorings, nets, rigging lines. of kindness, knowing it is over. Drifting for days and decades. Thin, thick, twisted cords, curled, snake entwined, The final parliament dissolved, the vote hitches, stopper knots, plaited. not carried, it is time to face the sea again and set adrift the seaborne note Where do they all go in the end? To rope heaven? that says that you were here, that we To a giant universal rope brain? With rope synapses were here. Now, step onto the boat. pulsing out messages like an international homing beacon. Universal assembly harvested from ice scattered northern seas, warm southern waters. Modern art flotsam birthed from tankers, P and O’s, Nile sloops, Hebridean yachts and local fishers, Dover to Calais Norfolk line, Mediterranean cruisers, shiny red funnelled Cal Macs, Japanese sampans.

Big tangles washed up on beaches all over the world where eyes cast over them and ghost ships cast off.

Photograph by Louise Bellin www.louisebellinphotography.com

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 13 he beach in the American movies through me and pushes me up, tall and wide. on television is very different. People A Few Things I Know About Sheep “You shall not pass,” I thunder, and from be- Tdrive there in red cars that reflect the hind the flock I hear my da laugh. I laugh too, sunshine. They park in long, hot rows of tar- Baker Prize Short Story Competition Winner and it feels like I’m pulling the laughter out mac, in between men selling balloons. They of the air. Wildly, the sheep roll their eyes and lie on broad ribbons of sand and watch each swivel their heads, moving in confused circles other play volleyball. Behind them hotels rise, By Juliet Lamb with a cacophony of grating stone. It is a mo- flat and glassy. Everything shines. When I go ment of supreme chaos that I am fairly certain down to the beach to help my da take the ✯ has never before been seen: humans and sheep sheep in, I step on a rock slick with bird poo churning, yelling, slipping on seaweed. I go and algae and land in seaweed up to the top down and spring up again, waving my arms. of my boot. Everything smells of dead seal. I body. It feels as uncomfortable as chewing The sheep are coming toward me now, not The sheep try to get past me but they can’t. I am fairly certain all this is some sort of cosmic foil. I had better stop moving. running, but definitely walking. Every now am invincible, a force field. There’s a whoop misunderstanding. The day is dark with near-rain. Already and then one of them checks on my da, like that sounds like my da’s, but after the second “Come along then, Grace Kelly,” says my the beam from the lighthouse at the dock they still might be thinking about making one I realize it’s actually me. da without sympathy. cuts through the scraggly base of the clouds a break for it. Somehow the noise of them It must take only a few seconds of confu- The hills behind us are sodden and brown, overhead. The only lighthouses in American all walking at once isn’t as bad as me on my sion before the sheep right themselves, ac- and the sheep don’t want to come. I lift my movies are in the distance, and the only boats own. All the individual grating-stone noises, cept the inevitable, and file up the slope and hood and pull my elbows in, a sheep monk. are elegant sailboats and those fast ones with differently pitched, come together to make an through the gap in the fence. My da springs Massive and orange, my da tumbles down the huge arms sticking out the sides. They don’t echoing crunch like boots in snow. I crouch up behind them and slams the gate. He turns cobbly sand ahead of me, heyupping with have big blocky drab-colored ferries, with a little so that they won’t see me and panic. to look at me, his eyes bright and wild, with brisk claps. He is clearly complicit in the cos- signs inside saying No Dirty Overalls On From this angle we’re the same height, and his hood fallen back and the bald part of his mic misunderstanding. I reach down and peel Seats. Come to think of it, they don’t wear they look like bigger versions of the cobble- head beaded with fog. I remember the way I a strand of seaweed off my boot, along with dirty overalls, which is clearly what my da has stones, grey and round. A line from a school used to run up and put my arms around him a clump of wet sand, and cast it away from on under his orange jacket. I do an excel- poem comes into my head: Two mingled when he’d come home at night from his of- me with an excellent haughty gesture. This is lently pitiable sigh and step again just to feel flocks: the sheep, the rocks. I scoot back into fice, wooshing in with his cold overcoat and completely wasted on sheep, of course. the stones grind. Possibly I have done some- the seaweed and stay low. My da bobs orange carpet smell. The thought pushes the air out In his other life, when we all lived in thing to deserve this torture. I might as well behind the sheep, close enough now for me of me, makes me feel tired all of a sudden. But Kirkwall together, my da was a perfectly make the most of it. Suffering is meant to be to see his expression. It’s funny the way he he’s waiting for something, so I raise my fist normal shipping agent. I would guess that good for artists. If I am ever called upon to looks, concentrated, like all he can see is in the air and stretch out a grin. the sheep are a midlife crisis. In those beach play the wife of a drowned sailor, maybe, or sheep. He bites his lip, the same as mum says The croft used to belong to my da’s da’s movies, people who have midlife crises learn a mysterious enchantress of the waters, I can I do when I’m working hard on something. I da’s brother, who was a genuine hermit and to play the electric guitar or have affairs or channel this experience to bring depth and have this sudden weird feeling that the sheep all twisted up like that one in The Tempest. I become Buddhists. As far as I know, my da pathos and realism to my work. In my accept- are connecting us together, like they’re some never met him personally—he died when I has never had an affair, and he is tone-deaf. ance speech I can thank my father who, by kind of buzzing electric wire leading from was wee—but my da used to tell me stories As for Buddhism, I’m not sure if it’s possible usurping my childhood, made me the artist him to me. about visiting the old man in his hut when to be one if you’re a liberal democrat, and my I am today. I am fairly certain it will be very When he gets close enough he looks at my da was my age. He wasn’t scary, according father is (was?) the recording secretary for the moving. me and nods—NOW—and a shock pumps to my da, but gentle and soft, with a massive Orkney Liberal Democrats. I should probably beard and a quiet voice like old shoe leather. look up how the two relate. Anyway, a midlife He ate mostly sheep meat and fish he fished crisis is one thing, but I am fairly certain that himself and vegetables from his garden, and he’s forgotten that I also have a life. In my he made tea out of nettle and thistles— “like early-life version, Sunday means sleeping late, salty water with dirt,” says da. They would birthday parties, going to the shops, watching bring chocolate biscuits when they came to films at the Picky Center, and takeaway with visit, which were supposed to be a present Mum. Sheep aren’t involved. for Uncle Angus, although he never ate them: They’re all huddled together at the other they were just so da and his brothers would end of the beach, where the seaweedy cob- have something to eat besides nettle tea and bles straggle out to a blip of shale cliff. They fishy-tasting tinned rhubarb. Sometimes, face my da in that way sheep have, panicked grandda and da and his brothers would help and defiant at once, like they could go either with the sheep, which is how da knew what way between committing collective suicide to do with them when he moved out to the or trampling the flimsy human. If I had to croft, I think. like one thing about sheep, it would probably It’s hard to imagine my huge grandda be that: you never quite know what they are visiting the croft house, which is peedie. Da going to do. My da closes in on them, and and I fill it up. The only other things inside they draw together, evil-eyeing him. My job are one extra chair, a table, a tiny burner for is to stand here, blocking off the rest of the cooking, and a fat iron stove stuffed with peat. beach, so that when the sheep come to this Da’s food looks funny in there, wrapped in point they’ll have to turn and run up the hill. colorful plastic, like if you put a rock poster They’ll stay up there, eat grass, have a bunch in a Medieval castle or something. Da checks of ugly scruffy lambs, then come back down the clock and puts water on the burner for here for the rest of the year—they only get tea, while I hang my waterproofs and start to be normal sheep for a few months. Sort of packing up my overnight things. The ferry like me, they are victims of a cosmic misun- back to Kirkwall is an hour from now. My da derstanding. Maybe one day they’ll just evolve clears his throat. into selkies and have done with it. “How’s mum?” The sheep are starting to shuffle this way. He says it casually, like he’s not been wait- My da is still whooping like a lunatic, his claps ing since yesterday to ask. My arms go stiff. sucked into his gloves and spit out as dull Why do you always have to be the mature thuds, and I can only imagine they are getting one when it comes to parents? I am fairly sick of it. Moving back a few steps, I startle certain that’s supposed to be their job. I mean a mallie off the bank and he flips his wings to be angry, but my voice comes out small. and glides off, scolding me with smudgy eyes. “How do you think?” Under my feet, the cobbles rub up against Da doesn’t say anything else. I keep pack- each other with a hollow, echoing scrape ing, slowly, so I don’t have to turn around. In like grinding teeth, vibrating up through my the American movies people’s parents always fight and misunderstand each other over silly

14 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 things, and then they confide in their children, while, with saggy packaging and a thin coat- I can see where this is going. begins. I think I’ve forgotten a time when the who have to step in and sort them out. The ing of dust. Our house in Kirkwall has big “Every day,” Da continues, looking at me whole world didn’t smell like soggy seaweed American movies aren’t much help, though, windows, carpets, fuchsia bushes, a television earnestly through the fog. “I would wake up and dead things. The conductor, who knows because in real life parents just get horribly and a trampoline. Mum bakes bread some- in the morning and know that all I could do me, offers a lopsided grin. quiet, or get angry with you for no reason, or times. We must have been pretty terrible to that day was go out and be the same me as “’Bye, Da.” I give him a stiff, waterproofed get some seaweed-sheep and move off to dark make him want to come here instead. What every other day. Eventually I didn’t want to hug. He’s looking at me so sadly, like our dog little houses on poo-infested islands, and quite did we do, Da? isn’t the sort of thing you can get up any more. The idea of it was so endless, when we go out and leave her home alone, honestly I don’t have any patience for any of ask without whinging, though, which sort of so… flat. I miss you every day, you know that. so I have to say something else. “Thanks for them anymore. The whole idea of being a interferes with being righteous and mature. I miss your mother so much it hurts. But I the sheep. It was fun.” As I say that I remem- parent is that you have it sorted out, or at least Zipping my rucksack, I go over to the spare have to take a break from being me. Just for a ber jumping up from the rocks, feeling the you pretend to. I don’t want to tell him that chair and sit. It (of course) wobbles, and I little while. Just until I can remember how to panicked steps of the sheep on the cobbles, mum stands at the kitchen and just stares straight wobble it several times just to make sure he be me again. I wish you could understand.” watching my da slip and fall and jump up ahead, because what would be the point? remembers. He rolls his eyes and slides the Actually, what I said about how parents again with his eyes shining, and I almost think The kettle squeals suddenly, making me packet of biscuits across the table. should confide in their children, like in the I mean it. Impulsively I reach over and hug jump, and my head dislodges some sort of “Ferry’s coming soon,” I remind him, tak- movies? Let’s forget about that. But we don’t him again. He smiles just a crack. drying-herb-style-thing and several old ing one. It is (of course) already broken. get to take a break, I think, but don’t say. “What was that for?” pieces of paper from the rafter. Da chuckles, “Thora…” Da starts, stops, angles his head Instead I eat my broken biscuit chunk, swal- “For nothing. See you next week?” although it’s not even the slightest bit funny. toward his tea so that the steam fogs his spec- low, and nod very slowly. “Okay, Da. I think He nods, but I’m already stepping onto My excellent evil glare goes unappreciated tacles. He tries again. “Thora, what does it feel you should probably bring me down to the the deck of the ferry, back to where I belong. due to the tea. At least there are also ginger like when you’re acting? Don’t you ever feel pier now.” I’m fairly certain a person can only herd so biscuits. His food comes from the little store like you get to be somebody else, just for a The ferry arrives bang on time and dis- many sheep before she requires television, fish on the island, and it always looks sort of moment? Like you can feel what it’s like not gorges a few disoriented arrivals. From the and chips, and a hot shower. Sunday isn’t over depressed, like it’s been sitting around for a to be you?” water, it’s too foggy to see where the pier yet.n

ate autumn, just beyond the peak don’t care that they are leaving the dug clay of hurricane season, she tells him she exposed, that the cover will be hell to clean. Lwants to go to Sesay. He watches as she Kaolin Afterwards, they wrap the clay, rinse in loads her tools into the skiff, which she insists swamp water, forget about covering the tent. they take,shunning not only the small ferry Baker Prize Short Story Competition Runner Up In the morning, they shake off the dried to the new, gated club at the north end of shards, turn for home. the island, but also the public one, which she “What will it be this time?” He asks this as took as a child. She insists on being the one By Heather Marshall they break camp. who rows pulling away from the mainland, She raises eyebrows, early light drawing facing what she’s leaving. The waters are calm, the tinge of fire in them. “Patience.” a clear sky and bright fall sun overhead. She ✯ Like a girl making a boy wait until the keeps her eyes bare while he shelters behind next date, and the next, and the next. But she his Ray Bans. using oxygen atoms to bind to the sheet of coast. The land became valuable, then; the has always shown him. On Sesay, named for the tribe of one of alumina octahedra. taxes increased. ✯ the first freed slaves to live there, she pulls the “It’s like working in air and earth at the He watches her now, dig into the soft clay; He has seen nothing of it by early winter, boat clear of the high tide mark before he same time,” she had said. he recalls her telling of Wanga’s hands, raw when he finds himself deep in the city. He has the chance to get the gear out. She lifts She rubs a little onto her face, breathes and red, risking the gash of the shell to save thinks of it, standing at her side in a white her bucket, strides on, leaving him to grab deeply. He watches, there on the bank, tent her little bit of ground. room at the end of a linoleum corridor. the tent and backpack and follow her down stake in hand, as she binds herself in earth and His own family came from an island 3,000 They listen as the doctor tells them he has a skinny, sandy path. Here there are neither air and water, elemental. miles east and north of hers. His father, born dug out the mass, found it black and sprawl- boardwalks nor tourists to clatter across them. He recalls her telling of her grandmother, there but not much more, took him once. ing underneath the surface. The sun is filtered first by Palmetto trees, then raised on the island. Octoroon, oneeighth They boarded the plane and then the train “Like cypress,” she burbles, still half under pine, then cypress. Ahead, her kinky blonde black, the granddaughter of freed slaves, she and then took a ferry across the Firth of Clyde the anesthesia. “Take me.” hair, corralled into a ponytail, bounces to her was pale enough to pass for white. At eight- to what, in his teenaged estimation, wasn’t He dismisses the request as the talk of the internal rhythm. When they reach what he een, she rowed herself off Sesay, walked inland much more than a whale-hump of land. He anesthesia. He wheels her back down the hall, imagines must be the heart of the island, out and north; she left her family, changed her hired a bicycle, rode it around like the rest of into the stainless steel elevator. In the lobby, of reach of brackish water, she stops on the clothes and her name along the way. Wanga, the tourists. Fifty-two minutes, it took him. he rolls her past the player piano that tinkles trail, points to a clearing at the edge of still, meaning charm, wouldn’t serve her in her His legs ached for a greater distance. In the across from the fountain, the eternally plump dark waters. There’s room for the tent and not new life as a white woman. She passed easily; evenings, in the one pub with his father and renaissance boy in the center. much else. she met a white man that first week in New grandfather and the few men still resident – a Outside, under a weak sun, she presses out “Are you sure it isn’t tidal?” he asks. York, married him some months later. She handful of farmers and fishers, a priest and of the wheelchair before he can steady her. She isn’t. became pregnant, then afraid. a publican – he felt he couldn’t get a whole She wobbles, extends her left hand, palm out, His back against the bark, he drives in a “She got scared of giving him a baby with chestful of air. Perhaps it was just the smoke, saying, Stop! or, Stay back! wordless. stake between the knees of a cypress anyway. kinky-coily hair, the cocoa skin of her own as his father said. She eases to a squat, presses palms to The dark limbs of the trees disappear into the grandmother. She told him. He paid ticket By the end of the week, he had to hold in ground, turns her face to the sky. swamp on the other side of him. back to Savannah.” the impulse to sprint to the ferry. He paced “Take me,” she says. On her haunches at the edge, she runs her She walked twenty miles to the dock, found on the train, sat awake on the plane. At home, When the stitches are removed, he drives hand under the tannin-stained waters, lifting a boat that looked like hers, took back her he packed his bicycle, rode 120 miles in one her, then rows, he thinks for the day, back to fingers again and again. In the sunlight, the name, rowed herself home. A honey-colored direction in a day. He hadn’t even reached the place beyond the brackish water so she drops become clear against her skin, cling to baby came some months later, with a thick the top of the state. In his tent that night, he can feel her hands in yielding earth. Hadn’t the ends of the delicate blond hairs on her head of blonde hair, kinky as she’d feared, lay on his back, hands clasped on his chest, she said told him it helps form 90% of the arms. She slips off her loose trousers, baggy the same kinky hair he watches in the next thought of the whole broad continent. He earth’s crust? He watches her, in chilled air, t-shirt, silky underthings; she slides in, white generation. He recalls her telling of weekends slept immediately, finding a peace he might strip, goosebumps rising before she slides neck and face above. Her body becomes part on Sesay, Wanga taking her digging for oys- have thought reserved only for the dead. slowly in, fingers clutching the clay bank. To of the dark below. ters. They ate a few, raw. They roasted a few He still has that tent, reserved for solo trips; stop himself from rushing forward, helping Suspended in the water, she digs fingers more over the pit, never getting full because the tent he stakes down on Sesay is two gen- her when she doesn’t want it, he recites, in into pale kaolinite. This is what they have they had to sell enough to pay the tax man, to erations beyond. He spreads the cover in front his head, what he can remember. He thinks come for, to dig out and take home some keep hold of their land. The whole island had of it, spreads himself on top of it, watching of her as the kaolinite itself, formed from of this most important class of rockforming been deemed worthless, good enough only her. chemical weathering, undergoing transfor- materials. She has explained to him about this for freed slaves after the Civil War; it stayed When she has gathered all she wants, he mations made through heat in air at atmos- clay, a layered silicate, almost the precise shade that way until air conditioning brought white lifts her, dripping, clay spattered – earth and pheric pressure. He thinks of her as porcelain, of her own skin; she whispered to him about folks down. Island paradise, dotted just a few water, blood and bone. They slide onto the fired at over 1,200 C. He recalls her voice: the secret shape of it, the tetrahedral sheet minutes powerboat ride from the Carolina tent cover, still spread on the ground; they The Chinese wrote that the kaolin formed

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 15 the bones of the paste; the refined rocks were arrive, he lifts her. Spring light filters through the flesh. Her triceps quiver as she tries to curtains in the hallway as he carries her again, push herself up and out. He steps forward. outside. Her eyelids flutter but do not open “Tony.” She grimaces. He steps back. as he presses her hand against the earth. He “I need to be here,” she says. waits there, wonders only briefly if she’d want He recalls her telling him she felt uneasy him to shun the water ambulance from the moving in when Wanga passed, and left the gated section; he slips her onto the gurney, house to her. She kept her home on the main- just beyond dawn. It will be summer, the start land, checked on Wanga’s house occasionally. of hurricane season, before he forces himself She thought herself too pale to live on Sesay. to the skiff again, to the sandy path. He will Weren’t there enough white people molest- find, in the out-building, beside the oyster ing the island? Now, on this, the free side of buckets, her kaolinite likeness, a self-portrait the gate, she wants to stake her claim. in three dimensions, shiny silicate clinging to She sends him for gear. She sends him for oxygen, unfinished, hairless. He will lift her, supplies. When he returns, he finds her, paler this one last, unexpected time. He will recall than clay, hammer in hand, shoring up Wanga’s her telling him her name meant wearer of the walls. He takes the ferry in the mornings, to mask in Africa. Before that, he’d known only work on the mainland, and at sunset, back; the Greek derivation – life. He will wonder, she insists on rowing herself, once a week, as he carries her likeness, wrapped carefully, to for treatment. She paints the walls, repairs the the spot, would she want him to stay. He will porch; hurricane season is long past. carry the jar containing her ashes, too. He will sit, as she did, on haunches, hold the smooth ✯ lump of her in one hand, close his eyes, trace January brings a rare frost. The same week, her one last time – her eyes, lazy-lidded as she asks him to row her. She refuses to return they were, after, in the tent, the perfect curve to live on the mainland. He is still rowing her, of nose, lips slightly parted. He will recall that twice a week now, in March. Mid-month, he teenage visit to his father’s island, his restless wakes, facing the window. Birds, he thinks first. circuits around the island’s circumference. Soon she can sit on the porch, wrapped in one What might he have uncovered had he been less blanket. She can watch the earth unravel able to rest in the heart of the land and dig again. He recalls her smile, broad, taking her down? He will hesitate, his finger on her lips. whole face. The English thought they meant He will plunge into the kaolin. There at the real bone. There’s a recipe. Two parts bone ash, edge, he will mix the ashes of her, bone and one part kaolin clay, one part china stone. He flesh, with this most important silicate. He rolls over, finds her breath thready. He presses will press and pull until they are one. He will his fingertips to the edge of her throat, the pull her to him, breathe her in one last time, way the nurse showed him. He does not need whisper her name – Zoe – before he slips to check her blood pressure. Before they them under. n

LYRIC WRITER WANTED

Composer looking for poet to collaborate on songs with, someone who writes about the natural world, and can write in Scots, English or Gaelic. Contact [email protected] for more details

16 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Dàin le Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh

Cuairt Rothair “Young minds polluted!” Blàr na Mara Meadhanaich Beachd agam cò rinn e. 1) Bha e uair sa chlas-ealain agam. Nam leabaidh a-muigh As t-fhoghar air balconaidh thaigh-òsta air brat-ùrlair 4) air costa deas Chorsaca. de dhuilleagan Cnocan taobh eile an rathaid. Craobh-giuthais no dhà far an robh Dealanach fhiadhaich dearga ‘s òra. tùr le ridire Nòrmannach ann uair. a’ sìor bhoillsgeadh Màidsig! air bàt’-aiseig air fàire Tha mi air iteig! Am fearann air a thoirt dha le Dàibhidh 1 san dara linn deug. air a slighe gu dàna 2) Chuir ar Comhairle sanas an-àird. tro chath mòr na mara Grunnan sheann daoine bhon Fhraing dhan t-Sardinia. a’ cabadaich air a’ chabhsair, Cha do mhair seo fada ge-tà. cù no dhà air èill ac’. Is dòcha nach do chòrd e An ath là frasan troma. ris na h-inntinnean òga bha siud Mosgaidean an ath-oidhch’. “Nuair a bhàsaich Mo ruagadh le feachd an adhair. an cat againne...”, cailleach ag ràdh. Nam leabaidh a-staigh. Iar-mhòdranas Cùirtearan teann-dhùint’. Mise labhairt thusa labhairt Ceann leònte fo phlaide. mise labhairt thusa labhairt Taigh-beag poblach - le teanga le fiaclan le bilean. ceann a’ phàipeir-tòin air chall am broinn an druma.. 3) Suas bruthach. Balla le graifìti steansailte ann am peanta dubh:

Poems by Vicki Husband

What Do the Horses Think Community Liaison at Torness

What do the horses think For two days now the reactor has been shut off and staff sit waiting on a Saturday night in Glasgow, walking for local trawlers to net the blooms of jellyfish. There is as yet, no the trough-like alleys, shadows saddled explanation for such a furore on the Berwickshire coastline. Jellyfish with luminous riders? Drawing the city crowd around a seawater filter, garlanded with wrack and jostling in draughts through their nostrils, they sift with placards of wood, carrying faded names of fishing ports for the heat of crime, the creature-scent and brands of whisky. of humans, the reek of waste. Ears swivel to catch the lone song of a drunk, wild call It’s as if hundreds of hippies have been reincarnated and flash-mob of the pack, first tremor of a stampede. the waters. Linking tentacles, the pale moons of their bodies bond together. The plant sends Community Liaison to smooth things over – Passers-by may think she shouts into a loud-hailer a testament of safety stats and naturally they’ve imagined these shapes, or conjured occurring forms of radiation, sings the praises of reprocessing them from the past; horse-shoes ringing on in millisieverts, terabecquerels. cobbles, echo off steel-trees, vertical lakes of glass. I wonder if they fantasise: of clover After a while the jellyfish seem to get the gist of half-life, communing fields, nose-bags, blue skies, sweated miles. with the voice on a far-out wavelength. Some drift off on the trail Or later, safely stabled, will they re-live of zooplankton. Others shout from their frilly mouths: Wait, come back the night: steering a baying crowd into there’s strength in numbers. But they’re rudderless in an ocean current sticky pens, ghost-drawn carriages? like peregrinators at the mercy of a god. Or a diligent rent-a-mob moving on, other causes to champion.

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 17 Books and Bricks & Mortar

The challenge of running a bookshop in north west highlands By Kevin Crowe

ccording to research carried out encouraging small shops by longer pay- by Experian for the Daily Telegraph, ment terms and/or better discounts, and the Athere are now less than 2,000 Booksellers’ Association now has a strong in- bookshops in the UK and in 2012 almost dependent section that can provide assistance 400 closed. Despite Tim Godfray of the with aspects of running a business. Booksellers’ Association claiming the rate of Rather than simply complain about the closures has declined, it is clear that the tra- internet, a more productive approach is to ditional bookshop – whether selling new or use it to sell books. Internet selling was one used books, or both – is facing problems. of the reasons we expanded into the used It is not hard to see reasons. The rise of book market, a move we have never regret- the internet, the development of e-books and ted. Although we have our website, with a the uncertainty caused by the economic crisis secure payment page, the vast majority of have all had an effect. We are spending more our online sales are on listing sites, of which time and money buying on the internet, a the two most important are Amazon and phenomenon that has not just affected book- Abebooks. Our internet business is now a shops, but – as the recent problems of Jessops major source of income, especially in the and HMV show – all retail sectors. According winter. We have sent books to every in- to research from Mintel, half of all book buy- habited continent and most days we take ers get most of their books online, whilst only parcels to the post office. a third buy mainly from bricks and mortar A much bigger threat than the internet is shops (B&Ms). the development of e-books and e-readers The effect of e-books has also been signifi- such as Kindle and Nook. Electronic books cant. Mintel found that in 2012 the purchase are not new: the idea probably originated of e-books almost doubled, whereas sales of in 1930, when an American academic Bob printed books fell. There are still far more Brown proposed a literary equivalent of the printed books sold each year than e-books then new talking movies (or talkies), which (in 2012 in the UK £3.1 billion was spent on he called the “readies”. In 1949 Robert Busa printed book, compared to £261 million on began work on an electronic index of the e-books). However, the trend is clear. works of theologian Thomas Aquinas. There Donny O’Rourke reads his poetry at the Loch Croispol Bookshop Is there a future for independent B&Ms? were further developments in the 1960s and If so, how might that future look? Does it 70s, including Project Guttenberg, whose aim depend on whether we are discussing urban was to create electronic versions of “worthy” or rural areas? Croispol Bookshop, Restaurant & Gallery – raising events. All our bookshops are at the books. However, it was only with the creation Clearly, there are differences between ur- the business run by me and my partner. heart of the community. of home computers that electronic books be- ban and rural locations. Bookshops in towns The first thing we note about all four is Although the internet (and particularly came practical. The first e-reader was invented and cities are likely to have a potentially larger that they do not confine themselves to books. the ubiquitous Amazon) is a serious threat to in 1992 by Sony. Fifteen years later, Amazon number of people passing their doors, but The Ullapool Bookshop is part of a complex B&Ms, I believe that threat can be overstated, created Kindle. may also have to compete with Waterstones that also includes Lochbroom Hardware and particularly in areas like ours where most of E-readers are seductive, and there is no and with supermarkets selling books. Second The Captain’s Cabin, all owned by the same our business is from tourists. Buyers can’t doubt they have some advantages (one would hand bookshops in towns and cities may find partnership, but with different management. browse shelves on the internet, and one of certainly have prevented me from having to themselves losing out to charity shops whose The Ceilidh Place combines bookshop, bar, the wonderful joys of bookshops for visitors is pay excess baggage costs on overseas holi- books are donated, are staffed by volunteers restaurant, gallery, hotel and meeting rooms. coming across books and authors they are not days). However, there are also disadvantages, and get business rate relief. Bookshops in Achins and Loch Croispol also provide food familiar with. Such impulse sales are common one of which is the likely effect on book- villages and rural areas will generally be less and drink. In addition, both sell the work of and on many occasions a customer has come shops. I suspect most people do not realise concerned about the chain stores and charity local artists, and Achins also sell a variety of to the counter with a stack of books and a that when they download a book to their shops (particularly those of us in more re- clothing, handbags and toys. All four shops credit card, telling us they only came in for e-reader, they do not actually own the book. mote areas), but are likely to be more reliant stock CDs, calendars, and a range of postcards a cup of tea. They have merely paid for a license to read it on tourists and need to attract visitors in the and gift cards. The threat from the internet can also be on that particular e-reader. You can’t lend the summer months. Three of the bookshops sell only new reduced by choosing stock carefully. There is book to others, you can’t dispose of it as a gift The north west Highlands of Scotland is books, whereas Loch Croispol sells both new little point in small independents filling their or sell it on, and the book can be removed probably the most remote area on the UK and used titles. Loch Croispol and Achins also shelves with celebrity chefs, celebrity auto- from your device without your permission mainland. Anyone who lives and works in sell online. Achins has long been a library biographies and the latest popular best sell- or knowledge. Furthermore, if I leave my e- Wester Ross and north and west Sutherland supplier. ers, as most of these are heavily discounted reader on a train, I lose all the books on it. If I will be familiar with the large distances we This diversification is perhaps the key to on Amazon and often in Waterstones. Shops leave my copy of “David Copperfield” on the often need to travel. Population density is the the survival of all four bookshops. Different like ours simply cannot compete on price. same train, all I lose is one book. lowest in the UK. As well as some of the issues functions within the same building or com- However, we can compete on product Whether we like it or not, e-readers are faced by all independent bookshops, there are plex can complement each other. Many of knowledge and customer service. I regularly here to stay. Some independents are looking additional problems and concerns. our visitors at Loch Croispol come for food get asked to recommend books on specific at selling downloads of e-books. I am not There are four bookshops in the area, all of and drink, and whilst here buy books, post- topics, and it is a joy to help customers choose aware of any bookshops in the north west which have been in business for a long time cards or paintings. Likewise, those who come those that suit their interests and pockets. Highlands who have gone down this path, and each of which has found different ways of in to browse the books normally stop for at Often, a pleasant and welcoming atmosphere but it is something to consider, and both the meeting the challenges of running a business least a tea or coffee, often for a meal. from staff who genuinely care about the cus- Booksellers’ Association and some wholesal- in a rural area in the internet age. All four bookshops play an important role tomer can be as important as price. All four ers can help. Ullapool is fortunate in having two excel- in their respective communities, and have bookshops regularly hold events such as book Despite the challenges, I am confident lent bookshops: the Ullapool Bookshop and sponsored the Ullapool Book Festival. We all signings, poetry readings, book launches and that independent bookshops can continue to the Ceilidh Place. North of Ullapool, at the act as meeting places and we work with local the like. thrive, by adapting to new technology and small township of Inverkirkaig near Lochinver schools and community groups. Our staff are Some wholesalers, distributors and pub- by offering the sort of customer service pro- is Achins Bookshop & Café. On the north local people, so we also provide employment. lishers recognise the importance of a strong vided by all four bookshops in the north west western tip of Sutherland at Durness is Loch We regularly provide prizes for local fund and vibrant independent section, and are Highland. n

18 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 Poetry

mus tuit iad chun na talmhainn callainn ’s freumhan aig am frasan fhèin Seen in the Classifieds Aonghas MacNeacail mura bi ’n gaol gan glacadh Julienne Thurrott is gan toirt gu talamh cèin. aig an t-am seo dhen bhliadhna, bidh Furtachd I like men who’re sure as doorframes, sinn a’ giùlan caochladh dhòchais Julian Ronay comfortable at kitchen tables ge b’ e dè an leus a tha san aimsir ann an ceallan prìosain carved from wave blanched roof beams, fireannaich aonaranach agus cràdhte men who wear sandals in the winter gabhaidh sinn ri cur geal no buige ri fèin-bhrodadh air an oidhche and gymmies in the rain, gabhaidh sinn ri caog grèine fann, san fhuachd men who plant their feet with the conviction i fhèin ’s a ghealach nan deòin rèite saoghal neo-shuimeil of a Scottish Olympic curler. a’ briseadh na mhìrean agus ni sinne ullachadh airson sgoil mòmaidean theth fhallasach san dorchadas Most of all, I like men who taste mar gum b’ e gur i bun gach freagairt furtachd sealach of home-made marmalade, is sinne nar cuinneag da gliocas na cneadan agus eacaoine last year’s batch, a’ cur a mach when a severe snowstorm in Seville stealladh sil caused a scarcity of ripe January oranges. gach nì a bha dhìth ort sàsachadh miann Aonghas MacNeacail a bhith coltach ri dia a bhith òirdheirc Breezers tha gach nì a bha dhìth ort a choinneachadh ris an neach Colin Will airson an turais a tha eòlach ort paisgte air falbh chan eil feum air faclan Girls lurch, bottle-clutching, ’s mas cuimhne leat, faodaidh an cràdh a tha a’ ruigsinn cho fada air ais along Kirkwall’s slabbed streets, tu a bhi cinnteach gu bheil a dhèanamh greim air an seud singing songs that were hits cobhair na do mhàileid an seud before my adult sons were born. airson gach càs a shlànaich an cridhe dhe gach tinneas They’re cheerful drunk, unaggressive; they return my smiles, as if ’s ann mar sin a tha dia Grandad Greybeard has blessed ach nach eil fuasgladh air màileid their dressy adverts for long legs far am faighear gin no cruth do dhia She Had A Thing About Hearts and plenty of pale skin. Gavin Broom They may totter on heels higher than arches should stretch, When we get back home but they have a good-time dignity; Cha b’ e freumhan ach frasan…’ we cover the floor sure of themselves, their right to fun Niall O’Gallagher with slips of paper folded in half, a part of youth’s inheritance. cut into tiny drops - not rain, I wish them well, but don’t join in, Cha b’ e freumhan ach frasan you say, nor tears - although I used to know the words. a dh’fhàg mi agad an seo hearts from sample colour charts, Some worlds should not be joined, gan toirt thar tìre ’s mara outdated phone books, just accepted, partitioned in memory. is ar gaol-sa a’ falbh leoth’; takeaway menus torn down off the fridge, It was the wind off the sea church fliers resurrected from the bin. that made my eyes water, that’s all. bidh neart na gaoith’ gan giùlan chun ar dùthcha far an gabh When we allow heavy sighs iad àit’ sa ghàrradh ùrail to escape tight throats leis gach flùr nach do chuir tabh the hearts flutter alive September rise from the floorboards Stephen Keeler no astar bacadh orra like hope in my chest is iad a’ lorg dachaigh ùir until they surround us There were no dog days this far north this year; àit’ far am faigh iad cothrom and all we can see No fishing canes askew beside the door a bhith torrach ’s iad a’ lùs are butterfly words beating Or jam-jars tied with lengths of tattered string a path to the lights. For sticklebacks or lucky-if-we-caught le deargan de gach seòrsa We hold our breath. A newt; no swimsuits bleaching as they hung ’s iad gorm, buidhe, òr is glas We wait for them to die. To dry each day in searing evening sun; a’ fàs gun rian no òrdugh Or flip-flops curling, colourless, and left nan fiùrain òga is blas As though we were at prayer, secret among The rocks, beside the blackened ring where fire na froise aig na measan Had warmed easy romance the night before. air na meangain mòra ’s àrd’ Cold days made summer short and kept it from ach diofraichte ’s iad measgaicht’, The beach: it was an inland season of na dealtan gan toirt gu bàrr The tallest foxgloves bullied by the wind, And desiccated orchids turned to ash.

* ’September’ was awarded first prize in the poetry category (adults) of the 2012 Highland Literary Salon Writing Competition.

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 19 REVIEWS

A Traveller in Two Worlds:Volume 1 - for many years acting in counterpoint to The Early Life of Scotland's Wandering Williamson. You get a sense of the relationship Bard between the two men, together up-front in a Volume 2 – the tinker and the student high mileage VW camper. Williamson could By David Campbell quickly alternate between the inspiring and Published by Luath Press the exasperating, according to this account. Review by Ian Stephen His own version of his life-story, without comment, seems to be at least as unreliable as David Campbell has written an unusual book most autobiographies, according to the evi- – one in which a man attempts an honest and dence cited by Campbell. But the legends of close analysis of a long-term relationship with the shinty-player or the boxer or the poacher another man he has worked and played with are still part of the pen-portrait of the man for many years. There is a twist though and whose very identity became that of a story- that is that the book purports to be simply a teller. He was known first as a singer – like biography of Duncan Williamson, the singer Stanley Robertson who inherited some of the and storyteller from a traveling background great ballads passed on by his aunt, the very who became internationally known after great singer, Jeannie, first recorded by Hamish the American musician and student, Linda Henderson. And then he was helped to realise Headlee transcribed his tales. that the stories behind the songs were works Transcription is a key element of this work. of art in their own right. And that the tales David Campbell grew up in Fraserburgh, a told by aunt or grandfather to entertain the town hit hard by World War 2, as it contained bairns in the absence of anything else, were in munitions factories as well as being a key fish- fact precious heritage. ing port. Like the poet and broadcaster George There are all too few of the tales in either Bruce, Campbell can thus move effortlessly volume. Where one is slipped-in, an aside in between vernacular voices of Scotland and the recorded life story or rather illustration the educated voice which was once thought and illumination of it, Duncan Williamson’s necessary for presenting programmes on any narrative of remembered things it is carried part of the BBC. I’m writing this in Swansea, through with the unconscious artistry of the after visiting the Dylan Thomas Centre to very great teller. Like Miles Davies, on trum- listen to Thomas as well as Burton intoning pet, in fact. David Campbell could well argue language written to be broadcast on radio. that this is not the place for them and that so Sonorous rhythms but with the regional many have already been so well gathered and accent seeming subdued behind the actor’s reproduced by Linda and available in editions voice, by today’s standards. by Canongate and Penguin. In contrast, I’m also reading the autobiog- So let’s not appraise a book on what it raphy of Miles Davies, for the first time – a does not set out to do. I was held and fasci- book made “with Quincy Troupe”, a jazz nated by both volumes, from the rhythms of journalist. Perhaps Troupe recorded Davies Williamson’s own voice to the counterpoints and arranged and tidied the transcripts to of others. I did feel that the biographer and make the book. But there are no interven- commentator did indeed sometimes sound a tions. And there is little sign of editing to little too much like the radio presenter of a modify either the vocabulary or rhythms of certain period in time – the breezy narrative. Within a page or two, I sometimes a shade overwrought in phras- was sensing this astonishing parallel between ing and language. But this is not a real fault the rhythms of speech of a Scottish travel- because it emphasizes the extent to which ler and the natural voice of the East St Louis such an odd couple became friends, whose trumpeter credited as instigator of the birth relationship seems to have lasted through of cool. their many tiffs and debates. n

David Campbell is generous in the space survived in the day-to-day culture of some how much intervention is in the transcriptions The Spring Teller he gives his friend to speak for himself, from traveller families, to a mainstream audience. but I suspect there is very little because the by Valerie Gillies the recordings he has made. But then he does Linda the student became Linda rhythms of the spoken voice shine through. Published by Luath Press come in with comment. Often this is indeed Williamson and fully entered traveller-life, to Betsy Whyte – a very great storyteller – went Review by Ted Bowman in the necessary role of the biographer – to the extent that there were suggestions that he on to write her volumes of autobiography, question one account of events and compare had adopted a lifestyle which discredited her as did Sheila Stewart and Jess White of the I need help, wrote poet Edward Hirsch, ‘I it with another. This can become fascinat- academic background. The correspondence next generations. All are witty and eloquent need help…to fly out of myself’. Norman ing in its own right. There are after all many of this period is brimful of ironies, not lost works, showing a great sensitivity to the ways MacCaig confessed: ‘I took my mind a walk/ dramatic works based on counterpointing on the author/arranger of this work. David of people and to the fast-changing natural en- or my mind took me a walk - /whichever different accounts of the same events. The Campbell was close friends of both, when vironment. Williamson might seem a bit full was the truth of it.’ I thought of these two and technique comes into its own in the second they were together and after they parted and of himself here and there but this is balanced more poets as I read and re-read The Spring part of the two volume work. I read that first he remained friends and hosts to the children by intimate portraits of a host of characters Teller by Valerie Gillies. Like Hirsch, I need and then realized I could not concentrate on they produced. He recorded both partners but and a generous acknowledgment of their role help to pause, be present, and truly see things another book until I’d read the full story. also the others who had become characters in in passing on a huge culture to him. in my environment that I pass by too quickly, So I began with the story of the tinker- this drama. Over the two volumes, I would say that overlook, take for granted, or about which I man or traveller and the student – how a I then moved to the first volume to read of David Campbell has done a similar service am ignorant. My world is with people, class- young woman from a privileged background the origins of Duncan Williamson and gain a to Williamson’s art of reminiscence as Linda rooms, hospitals, and buildings. I need guides and herself a talented musician fell in love sense of the movement from job to job and Williamson did to her then-husband’s natu- that aid me in flying out of myself to loca- with the charismatic widower and his way of from tent to bothy, from horse and cart to ral storytelling voice. The difference is that tions that can inform and stretch my world. life. The good-humoured, inclusive character truck. There’s a lot of Scotland’s geography Linda did not comment on the stories, only Valerie Gillies is such a guide. of Hamish Henderson is strong in this period, and a fair chunk of its history, influenced introduce them. So the two-volume work I first met Gillies in 2002. Later, during enabling an environment where a rigorous by world-wars. Campbell’s recordings of is also very much David Campbell’s own a workshop in Dundee, she introduced par- study of folklore, in the form of song, tunes Duncan’s reminiscences could also have be- reminiscence, the story of his own journey ticipants to healing wells in Scotland. In fact, and story, could be combined with infor- come an autobiography akin to Miles Davies, from university to teacher, to radio-producer we each made our own “clootie” or rag flags mality. This helped bring the heritage that assisted by Quincy Troupe. There is no telling to jobbing storyteller. In the latter, he was during the workshop after hearing Valerie

20 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 REVIEWS describe pilgrims who have travelled to and rejection, the way the two women im- Poetry Library, a gem of a building which That shape certainly ensures that any walk healing wells to seek relief for ailments from pacted on each other’s lives despite the very Crawford, as a poet, might be expected to through the island is bound to be a meander. toothache to cancer. On our flags we wrote different choices they made – this emotional find an interesting angle on, receives only half And a fascinating meander, through time something for which we also yearned to re- complexity and depth is what interested me. I a paragraph. And sometimes practicalities go and geography, is exactly what Angus Peter, a lieve, let go off, or transform. She had invited can vouch for Regi Claire as an expert guide missing – writing of Darwin’s time at Ed Uni, native of South Uist, delivers. Physically, the workshop participants to take their minds and to the strangeness of our attachments to peo- Crawford notes that he ‘was granted free ad- journey is through Skye, accompanied by yearnings for healing for a walk. ple, and the power we give those we love. mission to the university’s museum’, and that the photographer Cailean MacLean, Sorley’s I later learned that Gillies was walking all Claire is Swiss. I think perhaps it is worth ‘the splendid museum space can still be seen’, nephew, who also spent his early childhood over Scotland and parts of Ireland to healing noting this, as her perspective of Scottish but omits to mention that it is now part of the in Uist, but who now lives in Skye. Cailean’s springs and wells. The Spring Teller is her character and situation has something of university’s Talbot Rice Gallery. images bring their own compelling illumina- poignant and powerful account of finding the outsider’s detachment – in the best way. It’s his focus on people, well known tion to the book, encompassing the tranquil these places, some well known, many out of The tone, despite the first person narrative, and obscure, which is, to this reader, the and dramatic, across both islands. sight or awareness, even to locals. While the manages to retain something neutral and dry, book’s strength; as he tells their stories you Among characters celebrated by the history of some wells is included, more im- leaving the reader to understand more than sense Crawford giving rein to enthusiasms. writer, Domhnall Angaidh MacLean, a native portant is her ‘experiential’ poetry of describ- the narrator herself does. It is intensely inti- Edinburgh has Maria Theresa Short, who of Scarp, a small island off Harris, justifiably ing Dolly “healthy at nearly a hundred” who mate, but a million miles from melodramatic ran a popular observatory on Calton Hill; occupies a prominent place: He was a ‘mis- remembered that as children: ‘We all drank it or sentimental. Patrick Murray, who set up the Museum of sionary’ in South Skye - the title representing if we were ill/because it was so good’. Sounds I have never read her work before, but I am Childhood; and sculptor Eduardo Paolozzi, a paid assistant to the parish minister, rather also find voice in her poetry: ‘The well has about to correct this and search out previous whose father’s Leith shop was destroyed by than an evangelist bringing his beliefs to a a gurgling voice midway between man and Claire stories. I absolutely loved this book. n anti-Italian riots in 1940. In Glasgow there dark continent. He was also a man of deep bird/as the dawn wave of willow warbles rip- is William Burrell who, having donated his intellectual curiosity, whose map of Sleat pla- ples through the trees’. At an Irish well, Gillies On Glasgow & Edinburgh vast art collection to the city, was stingy with cenames is reproduced, and a list of 110 places asserted: ‘you are looking into/ the well of By Robert Crawford his electricity; Madeleine Smith, generally recorded, with brief commentaries, factual or yourself.’ Published by Harvard University Press assumed to have poisoned her older lover, shrewdly speculative where there was uncer- Review by Ken Cockburn despite being found not guilty at a sensa- tainty. In a meditation on the atrophying of Nancy Mairs’ essays about living with tional trial; and Victorian architect Alexander dialects, he uncovers, and quotes substantially multiple sclerosis (MS) helped me to fully Given what Crawford calls the ‘treasured Thomson, whose Presbyterianism was ex- from, an unpublished study by CK Stead of appreciate Gillies’ poetry. Mairs declared that rivalry’ between these two cities, I should pressed in ‘horizontal principles’, and with distinctive dialect words and phrases from she would not want to wish MS on anyone. declare myself at the outset as an (adopted) whose work Crawford seems to feel a post- the author’s own native South Uist some of But, as part of her adjustment, she was forced Edinburgher. modern affinity, writing of its ‘adventurously which remain in use, and some having all but to become more aware of details, little things ‘Written for natives and guests alike’, this is polymorphous variety’. vanished. that could throw her off balance, cause her partly a guidebook, though its layout – long- At the end a consideration of the There are also recollections of striking to fall. In so doing, she also became aware of ish chapters with no section headings, and city rivalry between the cities as is reduced to characters from South Uist, including his other details she would not have seen had centre maps lacking details – doesn’t encour- simply enjoying the ‘fun’ produced by ‘cari- remarkable neighbour, a near-centenarian, she not had MS, things like geraniums, small age use ‘in the field’, and some natives may feel catures’. While full of interesting material, Iain Sheonaidh ‘Smus’ (John Smith), virtually animals, nuances of colour. Once I became the basics are elaborated, and Americanised, the book doesn’t quite convince either as a monolingual Gael, who, alone in the world, aware of healing springs and wells, I too saw over-much (medieval toilets, or ‘necessary- guidebook or as a serious study of intercity could still recite the Fingalian Chant, Duan na things I never would have seen: altars in offic- houses’, are glossed as ‘restrooms’). competitiveness. n Féinne. Others, who are warmly and vividly es, cathedrals in woods, candles lit all around There are thousands of books about sketched, include the Skye traditional bard me, protestants rubbing rosaries, grown men Glasgow and Edinburgh, but Crawford claims An T-Eilean: Taking a Line for a Walk Calum Ruadh Nicolson who is treated with kneeling along the street, roadside memorials, this is the first ‘serious volume exclusively Through the Island of Skye the same respect as his relative neighbour, the bread broken with adversaries. devoted to both’. What it isn’t, though, is a By Angus Peter Campbell internationally known Sorley MacLean, with Healing wells come in many forms. They comparative study; each city is considered Photographs by Cailean Maclean significant quotations from both. may go unseen or undervalued unless we separately, with little cross-referencing. The as- Published by The Islands Book Trust Touching, but without dwelling on crucial pause more often to see, look, and listen. sumed rivalry between the two is rather over- Review by Aonghas MacNeacail moments in Highland history, Angus Peter These poems invite the reader to let the mind done – the book opens with an eye-catching weaves elements of social comment into the walk to places out there, nearby and inside statement: ‘like good and evil Glasgow and narrative. Every now and again, a fascinating each of us. Valerie Gillies teaches us how to Edinburgh are often mentioned in the same Angus Peter and Cailean’s Stride about historical detail leaps out: that, for example, do so. n breath but regarded as utterly distinct’. Later, Skye the chiefs of Macleod and Clan Donald hav- he maintains that ‘Glaswegians point out ing sold tenants into American slavery in The Waiting relentlessly that Adam Smith was a professor I hadn’t gone far into this book when I began 1739, were blackmailed into withholding By Regi Claire at Glasgow, not at Edinburgh.’ Relentlessly? to feel that I was not the one who should their support for the Jacobite Rising in 1745, Published by Word Power I can’t say it’s come up in any conversation be reviewing it. The layers of knowledge, which may have had a significant effect on the Review by Cynthia Rogerson I’ve had with a Glaswegian. (And anyway, as of tradition, of the culture, that Angus Peter outcome of the campaign. The social remote- a native of Kirkcaldy, I’d claim him for the Campbell seemed to be able to access, left me ness of present day chiefs with their cut-glass This is a good book. It doesn’t mess around Lang Toun.) A brief mention of football fur- with an ineffable, almost unbearable, sense of accents is recognised as product of the Statutes – it’s good from the first page to the last, ther undermines the premise, given that the loss. But, in reading on, I realised that, while of Iona, but the sense of alienation between with poetic yet conversational prose, a simple main rivalries are within rather than between he could recreate glimpses of what previous them and their kin is deftly sketched. structure, and a main character who nar- the cities. generations had taken for granted, in terms of There’s a narrative (apparently) for each rates her tale with painful honesty. The back Crawford states that ‘my discussion of the myth and lore, he was also driven by that same day in both Gaelic and English, but the lat- cover seduces the reader with promises of jostling between Glasgow and Edinburgh will sense of what we have lost. His particular gift ter should be seen as complementation suspense, mystery and murderous intentions be unashamedly bookish’, and the sheer range is to be able to find something to treasure, and rather than translation. And, eventually, the (and these are delivered!), but what kept me of his reading throws up a great array of facts, vividly reanimate, even in these fragments. days seem to go out of sync between Gaelic captivated was something much more subtle. characters and stories. But he continues, ‘I The conceit shaping the book is found in (which takes its time to ruminate, on past and Lizzie Fairburn’s complicated friendship with have given little space to such performance its sub-title (deriving its first six words from present, place and personality) and the more the wild and dangerous Marlene, from early venues as halls and sports-grounds, privileg- the artist Paul Klee): “Taking a line for a walk economical English - which could be read as childhood to middle age, is heartbreakingly ing instead art galleries and historic homes’, through the Isle of Skye”. The formal title, a metaphor for the way Gaels view the world real and utterly compelling. Revealed through and sometimes the contemporary cities strug- An t-Eilean (The Island), by which Skye bilingually. What is stored in the Gaelic por- stories from the past, and interwoven with gle to emerge from the museum vitrines. He is known, is a form of abbreviation, as the tion of the brain has an almost organic quality her present as a vulnerable elderly woman extols Glasgow’s 1920s dance halls, but the full Gaelic name is An t-Eilean Sgitheanach to it, while the English material is more for- confronted with the unnerving presence of only mention of the city’s dance scene today which I, a Skyeman, pronounce ‘Sgiathanach’. mally acquired. But whether as Campbell or Marlene’s granddaughter Rachel, this friend- comes in passing, relating to architect Zaha It is, certainly, in the Hebrides, the only island Caimbeulach, this writer has a gift for poetry ship is really a love story between women. Hadid, designer of the Riverside Museum. whose name is an adjective - which may al- in both languages. The betrayals and times of forgiveness, the At times it feels like Crawford is dutifully lude to its winged shape, if “sgiath” is the root. This is not at all a parochial journey. His deep admiration and the envy, the bitterness ticking off items on a list – even the Scottish references range from folk beliefs in holy rr

Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 21 REVIEWS r wells and little people to the now confirmed And now they’re emptied calls the ‘shoe-string’ beginnings of the press. Lesley Harrison’s sequence Beyond the boson, and can accommodate Brodsky, Lowell, the dark farms The poems are laid out chronologically, giv- Map (Mariscat) takes the form of ‘an imagi- Kant, Kafka and Kundera, among other writ- now crouched in their earths ing both a sense of building momentum and nary journey, following early whalers’ from ers and thinkers. Buddy Rich and Schumann Mariscat’s continued commitment to pub- Scotland and beyond until uncharted waters harmonise with Gaeldom’s greatest love poet, for years lishing the best poems ‘we want to publish’. are found. It’s an eclectic collection rang- William Ross, and that great campaigner for they swallowed glints This is not the valedictory publication of a ing from concrete poetry worthy of Edwin land law reform, Mary MacPherson, Mairi and flakes of stars much-loved press winding down, but a litmus Morgan to ballad-based poems, such as Mhor nan Oran (Great Mary of the Songs as mica shines in granite. paper of the quality work they are publishing ‘Lament’: - who wasn’t born in Skeabost but in her still. mother’s family home in Uig - Idrigil, to be Colin Will’s The Propriety of Weeding (Red Living in Pittenweem, one comes across He’s far away behind the wind specific, a couple of crofts away from where Squirrel Press) takes for its leitmotifs, garden- Gordon Jarvie often as a poet of the East He’s at the thin ice of the moon I grew up: the Skeabost house she’s identi- ing, husbandry and plant-life. This is not po- Neuk. Jarvie’s brand of poetry in Out and He’s out beyond the rolling haar fied with wasn’t ready for occupation for a etry of pottering potting sheds and allotments, About Poetry (Harpercroft) seems to be aimed Wait. Wait for me there. few weeks. But that’s a minor, and personal, but botany and scientific study relieved from at local rhymers, historians and tourists quibble). sounding boffin-like by a recurring sense as a souvenir of their visit to the ‘Glorious The poetry is both crisp and visual and de- The line being taken for a walk is as much of humour. Poems of loss and introspection Kingdom’. This is an often witty, innocuous scriptions of elemental things like clouds, sea travelling through the author’s life, experi- rub shoulders with a dramatic monologue and artless poetry that sometimes comes close and ice abound, as well as lichen recurring in ences and memories as an actually geogra- from Yoda and a CSI crime scene involving to a form of East Neuk ‘crambo-clink’: three poems. There is both a plaintive thread phy, but the freedom that gives, to invoke a carrot after snow melt. Some poems go for to this sequence, considering all those who and recall anecdote or story, snatch of verse rather rhetorical and sentimental endings Here’s room for a rhyme died on such voyages, and a linguistic brio. It or complete poem, makes for a wonderfully such as ‘The Blues’, a fascinating poem about from time to time – is as if Harrison is writing both a Baedeker of kaleidoscopic read. But it’s more than that: the ‘true’ blue colour of ice, which ends with and that’s no crime the sea and a dictionary for it and those who we encounter a man acutely alert to his en- ‘And once, in a graveyard on the Somme, / in poetry. venture ‘beyond the map’. Harrison doesn’t vironment, physically, psychologically and in two jet contrails crossed to make / a perfect need many words to convey an unforgettable terms of its history. And we can clearly see Saltire. Alba, blue Alba.’ However, Will often Jaunty rhymes prevail on subjects such image, as in ‘He surfaced, vanishing’: how the latter informs his politics. A religious gets the balance just right and produces mas- as gardening and bird-spotting until the last faith encompassing both Catholicism and terly poems like ‘In the map gaps’: handful of poems when Jarvie’s tone deep- He surfaced, vanishing Presbyterianism, without in any way censor- ens and becomes decidedly more profound. in the wind-blackened water ing his engagement with the wider world, Some nights the wind comes In ‘The road, the miles’ Jarvie thinks upon a provides a delicate bass-line to this narrative, from a direction that doesn’t exist, recent “mild stroke” he has suffered: then hid by drowning which, with all its dualities, vulnerabilities and and there are voices in it his hands full of air. changes, delivers an affirmative portrait of a that I know are crying. But I lie here vaguely thinking land and its people. n of the view from the ambulance, looking Electricity: an interpretive chain Stewart Conn’s second pamphlet from back along the road, the miles Walt Whitman – Poet: Poetry Reviews Mariscat, Estuary, is an elegant and spare pro- I’ve come to reach this point, the life By Richie McCaffrey duction. Conn’s poems segue into each other, I’ve lived to bring me to this place, I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me. rather like the liminal space between sea and this weary sadness in a doctor’s face. Ray Bradbury – SF writer: First up is Graham Fulton’s pamphlet Speed sand or river and sea at the estuary, captured of Dark (Controlled Explosion Press, 2012). in ‘Tide’: ‘hard to know / where the river The blurb for Jim Carruth’s latest col- Agatha is an orphan with an an Electric Granny. These poems range from snap-shots of city ends and the sea begins’. This metaphor can lection Rider at the Crossing (happenstance Lana Del Ray – Singer: life, to funny tirades against popular poets, of course be extended to the cycles of life Press) suggests that the poet has reached an Whitman is my daddy, Monaco’s my mother. Olympic mania and a printer on the blink. and the later stages that Conn finds himself existential and poetic crossing in his work. Roddy Wiseman – Master Baker: Fulton is the arch chronicler of Paisley life in. This existential uncertainty is poignantly Indeed, Carruth has, and one cannot think of in all its forms, and while many of his po- captured in the title poem: a stronger and yet more varied previous col- Icing the body electric? I can do the icing, but for the electrics, you need Greensparks. ems have a surface wit, they usually also have lection by him. Here we see Carruth hanging depth. ‘James Taylor in Paisley Post Office’ Waking in the small hours of the night onto his sense of the anti-pastoral poem and captures both a sense of estrangement and before going to hospital, you press applying it to far more wide-ranging subjects. We install electrics for everybody. loneliness: the palm of my hand to your cheek Many of these poems carry learned epigraphs so that my wrist, following the line but the poetry is never stuffy or inkhorn, but I can hear him in of your neck, detects its pulse-beat, incisive, playful and alive. One epigraph trig- the sorting hall making me aware as though we were gers (if you’ll pardon the pun) a startling poem, Electrical, environmental and general services. on the sandy foreshore of some vast imagining that Mikhail Kalashnikov invented Inverfarigaig, Loch Ness, singing estuary of the tide’s tug, and precious a lawn-mover instead of a machine-gun. The 07712589626 I’ve seen fire grains slipping through my fingers. idea of mowing down Whitmanesque or bib- and I’ve seen rain lical ‘leaves of grass’ is not lost on Carruth: This is not just an abstracted grappling Mythology tells us of the Red Bag, which as he searches for with ebbing time on a non-specific beach, You remark on its accuracy, can hold anything that is put in it: food or my undelivered mail. but a collection firmly rooted in real places the reek of petrol and cut grass clothing or weapons. Even an entire boat and real people. Moments of familial humour mown down in swathes with provisions and galley-slaves! Yet one I’ve seen lonely times in ‘Walk’ contrast well with more serious po- man can carry it. when I could not find a friend. ems and the collection hits a particularly high but not the flutter you felt In ‘Diamond’, the speaker hears a ‘drunk lyrical note in ‘Juggler’: as you flicked off the catch. It is said that a careless traveller dropped or mental’ woman ‘going up Greenlaw’ sing- his red bag in Drummond Street, ing ‘I’d much / rather be / forever in / blue As pointless to ask him why, as for him Many of these poems imagine history Inverness. It had a cargo of clothes and jeans’. Fulton is the makar of Paisley’s bam- to enquire why I’m writing this poem, taking a different course, making a different trinkets. pots, and his tone is mockingly affectionate, as each in endless search of perfection, crossing, and from the dying to the young, if he wouldn’t have it any other way. the marriage of inspiration and design. most of the characters here are caught in one Unlikely? Well it is far fetched. Jean Atkin’s The Dark Farms (Roncadora But which is rehearsal, which the real thing? form of transition or another, be it the loss of Press 2012) is almost an art object with pages and what chance one day of Chinese innocence of the grown man who has seen studded with drawn stars and poems framed lanterns floating, diaphanous, over the trees? the ice-cream man for the greedy slob he Farfetched by the night skies. There is a drawback to this is, or the veteran who learns late that it was Funky clothes for funky people. level of embellishment and one or two of Conn’s previous Mariscat pamphlet is rep- never a battle between truth or lies: Nestled round a corner off Baron the poems seem squashed in order to fit into resented by a poem in Mariscat Press’ Cat’s Taylor’s Street, Inverness. their beautiful frames. The poems are spare in Whiskers: 30 Years of Mariscat Press. The same It’s sitting at the home hearth of an evening writing but cosmic in scope, the products of high production qualities are evident here, and having no one left to tell your stories to. midnight wanderings and stargazing: a far cry from what editor Hamish Whyte

22 Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 CONTRIBUTORS’ BIOGRAPHIES

James Andrew has had two collections of poems Mandy Haggith lives in Assynt and writes in a shed Angus Macmillan is a psychologist, living in Dumfries. Alison Napier lives in Perthshire. She has an MA in published: Birdsong and Flame and Sailing the Sands. He is with a tree-top view. Her latest novel is Bear Witness, He writes poetry in English and Gaelic, and is co-editor Creative Writing, her fiction has appeared in various a retired teacher and lives in Nairn. published by Saraband . Mandy can be contacted at of the literary magazine Southlight. journals and anthologies and her first novel, Take-Away [email protected] People, is currently seeking a publisher. Fran Baillie promised herself when she retired she Aonghas MacNeacail – Bàrd mòr na Gàidhlig à Ùige would spend time and money on her writing and joined Vicki Husband has published poetry in: Gutter, Iota, an Eilein Sgitheanaich bho dhùthchas a thug a-mach Niall O’Gallagher Fear-naidheachd is fear-breith- M.Litt at Dundee University. Fran says “It’s life-enhanc- Mslexia, The North, The Rialto and Smiths Knoll; she runs Aois a’ Gheallaidh ann an 2013. neachaidh. Saothair leis ann an irisean leithid An Guth, ing. Go for it!” a bi-monthly Poetry Book Group in Glasgow. Gath agus Irish Pages. Greg MacThòmais – À Bruach Chluaidh bho thùs. Ag Alison Barr lives on the isolated Scoraig peninsula, Andy Jackson has been published in Magma, Gutter obair aig Sabhal Mòr Ostaig anns an Eilean Sgitheanach. Annie Pia returned last year to writing poetry after where she took up the post of Head Teacher over three and New Writing Scotland. His collection The Assassina- Bàrdachd leis ann an New Writing Scotland 2012. a thirty year gap; she is now a member of poetry and years ago. The wildlife of Little Loch Broom, the sur- tion Museum was published by Red Squirrel Press (2010) music groups in Edinburgh. rounding mountains, sea and islands inspire her writing. and he is editor of Split Screen anthology (2012, also Red Heather Marshall, originally from Kilmarnock, now Squirrel Press). lives in South Carolina with two of her three children, a Pauline Prior-Pitt lives on the island of NorthU- Ted Bowman is a poet, editor, and educator special- pair of Labrador-mix dogs, a set of bagpipes and a Royal ist. She has published six poetry collections and three izing in change, transitions, and resulting loss and grief. Gordon Jarvie grew up in Troon, attending university Enfield motorcycle. She has an MFA in Creative Writing pamphlets. North Uist Sea Poems won the 2006 Callum He lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, but has been coming to in Ireland. His first collection was Ayrshire Recessional from Queens University of Charlotte. Macdonald Memorial Award. Scotland for work on a mostly annual basis since 2002, (1998), and he is currently putting together a wee buke often working with Lapidus Scotland. of his Irish poems. Lyndsay Marshall lives in Aberdeen with her husband Cynthia Rogerson has published four novels and a and two children. She studied creative writing through collection of stories. Her novel I Love You, Goodbye was Gavin Broom is originally from Falkirk and now Brian Johnstone’s work has appeared throughout the Open University in 2012 and enjoys writing short shortlisted for the 2011 Scottish Novel of the Year, and lives and writes in Michigan. He edits fiction for The Scotland, in England, America and in various European stories. developed into a Woman’s Hour serial. Her latest novel Waterhouse Review. countries. His latest collection is The Book of Belongings is If I Touched the Earth (Black and White). (Arc, 2009). Richie McCaffery is a Carnegie scholar at the Uni- Maoilios Caimbeul – Às Taobh Sear an Eilein Sgithea- versity of Glasgow, researching the Scottish poets of Julian Ronay A’ fuireach anns an Aghaidh Mhòr. naich, a’ cruthachadh ann an iomadh dòigh-sgrìobhaidh. Stephen Keeler is a former BBC World Service web- WW2. His first poetry pamphlet is Spinning Plates from Saothair leis anns an duanaire An Tuil agus ann an site columnist. He writes non-fiction diary and travel HappenStance Press (2012). irisean leithid Gairm agus Poetry Scotland. Ken Cockburn is a poet, translator, editor and writing pieces, haikus and poems and is currently working on tutor based in Edinburgh. His most recent book is Snap- a first collection of poetry while teaching occasional Ian McFadyen is a retired teacher whose life is now Katharine Scambler works in mental health and dragon, which collects his translations of poems by Arne literature and creative writing courses in Ullapool. split between the Borders and Sutherland. He last graced travels to the Highlands and Islands whenever she can, Rautenberg. www.kencockburn.co.uk Northwords Now in spring 2010 - hoping to see more to paint and write about the beautiful landscapes there. Juliet Lamb works as an ornithologist, researching the stuff into print in this phase. Kevin Crowe has run Loch Croispol Bookshop & movements and biology of seabirds. She is British- Ian Stephen’s ‘St Kilda lyrics’, first published inNorth - Restaurant with his partner Simon Long since 1999. He American by birth, French by association, and Orcadian Hugh McMillan’s last poetry collection was Thin Slice words Now will be published, in an expanded version, hopes to retire soon to concentrate on his own writing. by adoption. of Moon: selected and new poems. He has received several along with the music of David P Graham by Inventio- awards and been anthologised widely. Musikverlag in Berlin, in 2013. Mavis Gulliver is currently writing about the slate Katherine Lockton edits South Bank Poetry. Her islands of Argyll. SEIL Ardencaple is one of around fifty work has appeared in Magma, Rising, Ink Sweat & Tears, Deborah Moffatt, originally from Vermont, lives in Liz Treacher works in Adult Learning in Sutherland. poems which will form a collection to be published by The Delinquent, Morning Star and South. Fife. Her first poetry collection, Far From Home, (Lap- She also writes and is an exhibiting photographer. Cinnamon Press. wing, Belfast ) was published in 2004. More information Pàdraig MacAoidh – À Leòdhas. Cruinneachadh available at www.deborahmoffatt.com Colin Will is a poet/publisher. He lives in Dunbar. His George Gunn is currently writer in residence with From Another Island, Clutag 2010. sixth collection, The Propriety of Weeding, was published Duthaich ‘Ic Aoidh, The Mackay Country Community L.M Morgan is studying for an MA in Creative Writ- by Red Squirrel Press in 2012 Trust. His last two published plays were Egil, Son of the Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh – Bàrd a tha air an ing at Lancaster University. She was recently published Night Wolf and Atomic City, both Fairplay Press. dreuchd aige mar fhear-teagaisg ealain ann an Inbhis Nis in the Scottish Book Trust’s My Favourite Place anthology. a leigeil dheth o chionn ghoirid. Nicky Guthrie is a prize-winning poet who lives Donald S. Murray spent his childhood in Ness at the high in the hills between Loch Ness and the Beauly Firth. Garry MacKenzie lives in Crail, Fife, and is study- northern tip of the Isle of Lewis and now lives near the Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies and ing for a PhD in Landscape in Modern Poetry at the ‘Ness’ at the southern tip of the mainland of Shetland. magazines. University of St Andrews. His latest book is Weaving Songs (Birlinn).

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Northwords Now Issue 23, Spring 2013 23 Anthony Baxter Margaret Bennett Catriona Lexy Campbell Seonaidh Charity Cruinn Meaghan Delahunt Jenni Fagan George Gunn Kathleen Jamie Wayne Johnston Mary Anne Macdonald Ewan Morrison Donald S Murray Wayne Price TICKETS ON SALE FROM 09.00 ON 22 MARCH 2013 FUNDERS/SPONSORS LUCHD-MAOINEACHAIDH/URRASAIREAN Ian Rankin Creative Scotland, The National Library of Scotland, James Robertson The Highland Council, Bòrd na Gàidhlig SESSION SPONSORS URRASAIREAN SHEISEANAN Raja Shehadeh Ullapool Bookshop, The Ceilidh Place, Achins Bookshop, The Ullapool News, Zoe Strachan The Arch Inn, The Open University in Scotland, Ullapool Harbour Trust Wick Writers Group SPONSORSHIP IN KIND URRASACHD NEO-MHAOINEIL Glen Ord Distillery, Wester Ross Fisheries Ltd, Allan Wilson Ullapool Smokehouse, Ullapool Bakery, CNAG