POETRY CORNER

KITTY

written in 1998 to celebrate the life of a lovely cat

Until she came along they had no rules,
the warm, beloved cats of hearth and lap;
the farmyard cats with kittens in the barn,
without instruction book or map.

'Twas Kitty wrote the feline nation's book,
for she was wise, and knew the Way of Cat.
In any situation she knew best,
and that, was that.

No nonsense would she stand from playful dog,
whose boist'rous ways disturb'd her meditation.
A mistress, she, with well-aimed, unsheathed claws,
of canine education.

Yes, Perfect Cat was she; a good companion,
a quiet, friendly presence in the house;
and though quite ancient in the end, could still
pursue, and catch, a mouse.

What shall we do without her? Kitty-less
we face a future bleak and full of strife;
but she's gone where all good cats go, and so
we celebrate her life.

Ally McGurk April 1998

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HER LAST ENCORE

She did not cry or scream or shout
that day she cut her finger;
she pulled the glassy fragments out
and sang - for she's a singer.

The bloody puddles stained her score;
the notes could not be read.
Yet still she sang her last encore,
ad-libbing words instead.

Alas! She could not stem the flow.
Red gore poured all around.
She faltered, weakened by the blow,
and slumped towards the ground.

The crowd, in horror, rose as one,
to see the diva dying,
"I fear that nothing can be done!"
the tenor whispered, crying.

So still the prima donna lies,
right there, where she did drop.
the crowd files out, with sorry sighs,
and the cleaner brings her mop.

ally McGurk (possibly circa 2007)

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O, YOU MEN IN SUITS

ally mcGurk 08.03.16

O, you men
in your smart, smart suits,
your silken ties, neatly knotted,
your smooth, smooth hair,
your white, white teeth;
you men
who stalk your corridors of power,
filled with your own importance.
Yours are cold, cold hearts;
hard, cold hearts.
You stand by
and argue over quotas
while the bloated, drowned bodies of babies
wash up
on tourist beaches;
their mothers’ salt tears
puddling
on the golden, sunlit sand.

Power over life or death
is in your manicured hands.

O, you men
with your fine educations,
your millionaire mansions,
trained to be leaders of men:
that's your teenage son,
orphaned and bombed out in Syria,
carrying his sickly baby sister,
travelling barefoot,
for thousands of miles across Europe,
to find himself in the Jungle at Calais,
only to have his hand-built shelter
bulldozed,
leaving them homeless
again ...
They are your family.
Will you look more kindly upon their plight?

Power over life or death
is in your restless hands.

O, you men
with your beautiful, clever wives,
your elegant daughters,
training to be lawyers
and bankers:
do you see that empty-eyed girl,
shivering in the Calais mud?
Thirteen years old.
Like your own girl.
On the verge of womanhood.
Raped, repeatedly on her journey,
and will be raped again.
And again.
She is the last of her family.

Power over life or death
is in your paternal hands.

There are no easy answers,
but one thing is certain:
we are human -
all of us are human -
we are sisters and we are brothers.
You, with your power
and they, with their nothing.
Had they the power,
while you have lost everything,
would you feel as they do,
standing hungry,
bereaved,
homeless,
on the borders of their land,
seeking nothing more than succour;
seeking open hearts,
a helping hand,
and a place to lay your head?

Power over life or death
is in your holy hands.

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THREE POEMS BY A YOUNG CHRIS SCOTT, 1987 

THE BURNING POEM
Sparkling, flick'ring, Destroying Flames.
Roasting, Melting, Frazzling Heat.
Choking, Floating, Sick'ning smoke.
Sneering, weeping, Wond'ring voices.
Boiling, Driftin, Blowing Air.
Crying, Hoping, Breaking Heart.
                         by Christopher Scott

FIRST SNOW OF WINTER
Silently
The snow drifts thruogh the still air,
to land unnoticed on the white ground.
A carpet of woolly looking snow.
Grey shadows darken the white.
Bushes look like cotton wool.
A light breeze knocks some snow off the branches.
Light, powdery, crumbly, icing sugar.
                            Christopher Scott

 CULMAILIE
I see the Children in the field.
I hear the burn trickling to the Sea.
I smell the fresh salmon.
I taste the clear water.
I feel warm and rinsed with heat.
Sumer in Culmailie.

I see the fields all covered in snow.
I hear the Children's teeth chattering.
I small the hot mussel broth.
I taste the warm milk.
I feel the woollen scarf round my neck.
Winter in Culmailie.
                         Christopher

(I still love one particular line in the third poem: "I feel warm and rinsed with heat". Realising my offspring was capable of coming up with phraseology like that I felt secure in the knowledge that I'd raised him to appreciate the power of words and language, and happy to add him to the roll of poets in our family. )

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