Ullapool to Edinburgh (a collection of short pieces)

Introduction to the "Ullapool to Edinburgh" Collection

Every year at the beginning of May I migrate to Ullapool in the far northwest of Scotland for the Feis Rois Inbhich (http://www.feisean.org/rois/feisean/adult/adult.htm), a marvellous cultural event with the emphasis on Scotish traditional music. For the last two years it has also had a creative writing component.

Despite the late nights and alcohol I never fail to leave recharged and full of creative energy. You will find below the pieces I wrote while there this year and (in my head) on the drive back to Edinburgh. Fans of my ToeKnee pieces (see http://www.abctales.com/set/cellarscene/a-modern-fairytale-toeknees-big-... -- tbc at some point) will find that a version of him makes an appearance in the "Murieston Muriel" poem.

I do hope you enjoy my writing. For more information please visit: www.myspace.com/ericswanepoel

Defrosting Overdue

The fridge’s complacent click-and-hum… click-and-hummmmm,
The buzz of heat-mazed flies against the window,
Soon to join their fallen comrades,
The ticking of the kitchen clock —
The only sounds here, in the sticky late afternoon.

In the icebox the white mass grows — obscene cancer — occluding, entombing, the remains of that last meal: red meat barbeque-charred the evening the patio-heater — profligate — seeped poison into the last cool breeze.

“An act of God, the hurricane,” they said, “not our responsibility, an act of God…”
But the Old Testament God was an inconvenient god — of vengeance, of retribution.

The overturned Hummer hums no more…
Only the fridge — indifferent — generating ice
While the planet dies, while the poles melt…

“Time I got rid of them,” God said: “Defrosting overdue.”

Four Haikus: Ullapool Seasons

1. Cartesian Spring

Cartesian frames:
Classroom windows square the view.
Spring leaves flout the rules.

2. Summer Escape?

Light pools on tables,
The sun’s stains near the windows
As summer heightens.

3. Last Gasp

Autumn death rattle:
Crisp leaves underfoot protest.
Soundless compost soon.

4. Global WarNing

No snow yet, alas.
Winter greenhoused, gone?
The thought is chilling.

Whin in the Wings, Singing — The Patient Winner?

Rape screams yellow
Whin sings it,
Around the aggressive agriculture,
Waiting.

[“Whin” is the Scots term for gorse. In Scotland the “wh” sound is distinct from “w”, so Scots would never confound a component of Great Britain with large marine mammals, although both may be known for their singing.]

Opposites and Parallels

Wind-bowed Scots pine,
Negotiating. Benign.

Brutal spruce,
Uncompromising. Malign.

Motorway Musings

Verdant verges burgeoning…
The motorway’s vernal setting.
Birds sing, unburdening
Urgent urges of early spring,
Oblivious of road-kill carnage,
Car-crushed carcasses:
The roe deer,
The red deer,
Have rendered the road red here.
The pheasant, too, is flattened
On a tarmacadam bed.

Murieston Muriel
[Recite to a jig rhythm]

They knew her as Muriel of Murieston Crescent,
A genteel-looking lady, whom some thought quite pleasant.
She collected antiques and fossilised whales,
And mastered the music of the land of the Gaels.
She played a fine fiddle with vim and with vigour,
Her home-grown tomatoes were better and bigger.
But mysterious Ms Muriel was not what she seemed,
As behind her macramé and knitting she schemed.
For malicious Ms Muriel was a mad misanthrope,
To destroy the planet her secret, dark hope.
She plotted and planned and drafted and built
A strange semi-Scot, who never sported a kilt.
She sent him down south, her remote-controlled man,
And he took over Britain (for such was the plan).
He made deals with Murdoch, and Bush was his chum,
In Iraq and Afghanistan they beat the war drum.
The more deaths they caused, the merrier was Muriel —
On manufacturing mayhem she needed no tutorial.
Her job was recruiting for the group Al Kaeda,
And this was so easy with Blair as our leader.
Yes, the charming old dowager of Murieston Crescent
Was vicious and venal and exceptionally unpleasant!

Three Colours Blue

Blue, she thought. Blue at last. A frenetic day lay behind her, a hot day. The air-conditioning broken, the telephone unfortunately functioning — that wretched red phone! Bulls might not be able to see red, but — literally and metaphorically — that’s what she did whenever the damn thing rang: another interruption, another ego to be massaged, more words to sieve for the source of the caller’s ire, more phrases to select from her so-familiar script, to calm and console.

Now, the baking office a memory, it was she who needed calmness and peace. She was home, the patio doors were open and the blue floor-length curtain gentled the still-bright light, its tassels teasing the indigo carpet in the evening breeze.

Blue the light, and blue her mood. Life must change… Blue also the hopeful sky of the morrow?