Sandstone Press

Woman trouble

Posted by RLD on 4th July 2010

America’s Independence Day seems like a suitably ironical occasion to present this poem. First published by Sally Evans in Poetry Scotland in the year 2000 it has lain more or less inert since. Conceived as a bit of a joke it probably had a bit too much truth in it, and possibly still has. It also has a propaganda, let me say educative, purpose since its metre insists on the correct pronunciation of Glenmorangie, with the emphasis on the adjective ‘mor’.

Woman Trouble

From twelve o’clock till two my sleep was sound.
I tossed and turned till eight then slept again.
Exhausted I got out of bed at ten,
a flask of steaming Java brought me round.

From ten till dusk I never crossed the door.
I stayed inside and read my time away
but felt as hollow at the close of day.
McCaig and Smith just left me wanting more.

I know I’ll never find my rest tonight.
Too troubled in my mind to risk the dark,
too tired to take a walk around the park,
and neither Bach nor Mozart makes it right.

The darkest hour of night is like a fence
between what’s done and all that will not do.
No need to sleep alone I turn to you,
Old Pulteney and Glenmorangie, my friends.

It seems I am in a ‘leavings’ stage of life again. Norman McCaig, whom I never met, and Iain Crichton Smith, whom I did, have rejoined the planet. The work of both and personal memories of Iain live on. More recently, my friends Old Pulteney and Glenmorangie and I have parted company. Unlike that of the poets it may be a temporary arrangement. I rather hope so. Relations with women remain much the same. A creaking gate never falls.