The Sunday Posts 2017/Mince and Tatties.

Mince and Tatties

I dinna like hail tatties
Pit on my plate o mince
For when I tak my denner
I eat them baith at yince.

Sae mash and mix the tatties
Wi mince into the mashin,
And sic a tasty denner
Will aye be voted ‘Smashin!’

J. K. Annand

No Promises, No Demands.

                                 

Hullo, ma wee blog,



Well, it's been a while and, as I sit wondering what the heck I might write here, the lines of an old song by {I think} Pat Benatar come to mind. Yes, I really am that old I'm sad to say! It's been a long time -years - since I've interacted with this blog in any meaningful way. I kept it running for a couple of years after I'd hit the wall by posting a weekly poem, partly hoping that I would get things back on track, partly because the blog, and the people who it had connected me to through writing, had been incredibly important, positive and helpful at a particular time in my life and partly because I felt guilty and wasn't ready to admit I'd run out of steam. But reality has a way of overriding such obfuscations and the blog stuttered and stumbled on for a while until it effectively died of neglect until now, a few years later things are where they are.

Our lives no doubt have moved on and evolved in myriad ways, some unforeseen, some predictable, some fortuitous and some less welcome. All the while this wee blog has been sitting dormant until now. I've been without a computer for some time. We've been in a building site of a house with no wifi and my laptop had developed a problem some time back that hadn't been dealt with, then the realities of building a major extension on a limited budget, compounded by some health niggles and unfortunately  having engaged what proved to be a cowboy builder brought problems galore that sucked the life out of me and pushed mere internet into the long grass for, well, far, far too long.

Now The Lovely G and I have a house that is habitable but less than finished, some furniture still in storage and lots of work to do {and pay for} to get the place to where we want it. But these things will come to pass in their own good time no doubt. Meanwhile, life bumbles on and lo and behold, the internet has been restored. Even my old laptop has been able to be resurrected after much head scratching and some luck and flaw on my part. It's not been near a repair shop that's for sure. I can't afford that yet by a long chalk. Now I can engage with all the wonders {ha} of the modern world once again even if it is only by plugging directly into the router and I feel connected. Just being able to surf the internet in something other than a phone in a free wifi area and in a finally clean and comfortable environment has brought a level of normality back that has been missing so long it feels almost alien.

The wonder of raising this old laptop from the dead also brought me back to places and content I hadn't thought of for some time. Old friends neglected for far too long. All my blogging favourites still saved, the blog admin suite and many others. In a quiet moment I began to track back through some favourite places and found myself reading some of the old blog posts and that raised a hankering to do spend more time, perhaps diverting from some uncomfortable reality, perhaps reclaiming something that was 'just me' again. I always valued the solitary element of blogging, of taking time to gather a though and having the help of getting it down somewhere as a means of sorting through stuff, or of focussing on bits of life that are more important. The stuff that should be celebrated or better considered, the bits that should be vented and those that should be held up for some healthy ridicule. No doubt there are also elements of going back to a happy place, to get away from some of the daily rubbish that pervades our lives.

Anyway, I think I'm going to be blogging again. It won't be in the same regularity as before, it'll be more sporadic in all likelihood. Who knows? Not me for sure, but if it brings me some of the fun and satisfaction it did once then that will be just grand and a welcome addition and some antidote to the present frustrations. In many ways, I wish I'd never given up on the blog but I did.

Let's give this another go and see how it develops.

                                              No promises. No demands.

Listening to 'Love is a battlefield' by Pat Benatar.

The Sunday Posts 2018/Covering Two Years

This nothingness that feeds upon itself:
Pencils that turn to water in the hand,
Parts of a sentence, hanging in the air,
Thoughts breaking in the mind like glass,
Blank sheets of paper that reflect the world
Whitened the world that I was silenced by.

There were two years of that. Slowly,
Whatever splits, dissevers, cuts, cracks, ravels, or divides
To bring me to that diet of corrosion, burned
And flickered to its terminal. - Now in an older hand
I write my name. Now with a voice grown unfamiliar,
I speak to silences of altered rooms,
Shaken by knowledge of recurrence and return.

Weldon Kees.
Photo by Alistair

The Sunday Posts 2017/ Hush Hush

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Once, our valleys were ringin'
with sounds of our children singin',
but now, sheep bleat 'til the evenin'
and shielings stand empty and broken.


Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Where stands our proud Highland mettle?
Our men, once sae feared in battle
now stand, cowed, huddled like cattle,
and soon tae be shipped o'er the ocean.

Oh, we stood with our heads bowed in prayer
while Factors laid our cottages bare.
The flames fired the clear mountain air,
and many were dead in the mornin'.

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Nae use greetin' or prayin' now.
Gone. Gone, all hopes of stayin',
sae hush, now. The anchor's a-weighin'.
Don't cry in your sleep, bonny baby.

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

The Sunday Posts 2017/ Breaking News

We interrupt this poem to bring you reports
of an explosion

of wild untruths and other signs that the news
is broken.

Early indications from those who were first
on the scene

have led to widespread fears of another Sweden
or Bowling Green

and that peace might erupt at any moment
in other places.

It is believed that amongst the rubble of reality
were found traces

of humanity and an understanding that stretches
beyond borders.

Many experts predict this will lead to a new wave
of presidential orders

for such trumped-up charges form part of
a familiar pattern.

But back to the poem: we’ll bring you more news
as it doesn’t happen.

Brian Bilston

The Sunday Posts 2017/ As I Grow Old I Will March Not Shuffle

As I grow old
I will not shuffle to the beat
of self-interest
and make that slow retreat
​​​to the right.

I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist
marching with the kids. I shall sing
‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing
homemade placards that proclaim
‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING’.

I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,
and build unscalable barricades
from bottles of flat lemonade,
tartan blankets and chicken wire.
I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.

I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,
armed with a ballpoint pen
and a hand that shakes with rage not age
at politicians’ latest crimes,
in strongly-worded letters to The Times.

I will be a centenarian centurion
and allow injustice no admittance.
I will stage longstanding sit-ins.
My mobility scooter and I
will move for no-one.

And when I die
I will be the scattered ashes
that attach themselves to the lashes
and blind the eyes
of racists and fascists.

Brian Bilston

The Sunday posts 2017/ Brexit In Pursuit Of A Bear

Please look out for this bear. Thank you.
He's been getting ideas above his station.
If found please hand him in to the Home Office.
Section: UK Visas and Immigration.

He is wearing a blue duffel coat,
Red wellies and a wide brimmed hat
in an attempt to look like one of us
but do not be fooled by that.

He's one of those funny foreign types,
who try to come here nowadays
to take our homes and steal our jobs
and eat our Great Nation's marmalade.

It is thought he may have terrorist connections
and may be planning to do us harm
so please beware of his hard stare
not to mention his right to bear arms.

Also reported in this area.
Illegal economic migrant
Great Uncle Bulgaria.

Brian Bilston