The Angry Corrie 70: March-June 2007

and two poems from elsewhere...


oh, bounce the bloody bounce,
spin in flat dance,
slap rock, give hair,
it's nearly as bad as drowning

oh, bounce the bloody bounce,
how to stop the flailing
crack skull, share flesh,
it's almost final, like drowning

oh, bounce the bloody - no,

it's nothing at all like drowning,
but bounce but bounce
until heather enough tangles
compasslost limbs
stops last crag
drag down.

rocks blood absurd flickers
alive bum wet still a-live
before shock
breaks past survival,
burrowing earth
fingers terrored to root
panic sucking moss, grit,
without air.

Coldsoak, taste of peat,
voiced pain, no numb,
laystill, give respite.
Your hands move me
gently in case I break,
voice commands my breathing,
arm unravels me,
turning out of earth
to your cloud-framed face:
this is how it should be,
comfort, living.

Be sure though,
this thing, different,
not slow, like cold
or lungs of sea,
can stop you
leaving nothing to consider.

Hills have warned:
what they can do
they will do;
next time the bounce
may be bloodier -
murder then,
or a merging?

Grahaeme Barrasford Young

Rain on the Encampment

(for Dave)

The week we camped at Achnahaird
we never saw the sun
or even, hardly, Coigach;
just a quick glance at Stac Pollaidh,
Cul Mor,
one early morning.
Then the rain came, and they were gone.
We never saw hills again

but we heard them
all through the day and night,
lying in sleeping bags
as we were sleeping,
smoking, drinking endless tea.
The drumming of rain on the tent,
the endless running drain

of rain; then more and more rain.
Likewise on Cul Mor, Stac Pollaidh,
Canisp, Suilven
and down the long ridge of Quinag
on and on
on Ben Mor Coigach's
big marquee.

Donald Mackay

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