Monday, June 21, 2010

24: Stephen Nelson


Pu oot yer banjo, boy, n strum
at yon fu moon

till ye nip the prood violet's
wheezy reek

fae teeth n nose n mooth.


Pu oot yer banjo, boy, n pluck
the fucker

till ma hert strings snap n whip
the raw rank erse ae the wirld

wi memory like the putrid seas ae Jupiter.


Pu oot yer banjo, boy -
lazy bam in yer lazy bed wi yer
sweetened songs n yer honey dream rhymes.

Ah wull dance, dammit! - n let the roilin waves
spill oan the frozen shore,
till midnight wurds
ir whisperin tendrils ae shiverin
ecstasy nae mair.


The note: The poem demanded to be written in Scots for some reason. It demanded romanticism, it demanded attitude. Don't know why. I had one eye on the original text while writing it. I wanted to write it quickly, while my dander was up. I now see hazy whisps of smoke clouding my vision but somehow my head feels rainbow clear.

(Image by Stephen Nelson)

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