Friends in High Places

This has been a day of new soup and old curry, and a bus into Glasgow dragged my mind through all sorts of crannies. On the way there I read most of the poems in a collection by Hugh McMillan called Aphrodite’s Anorak; there are some great poems in there and you have to concede that a bus is useful some of the time. Slim volumes of poetry are light and don’t weigh you down though I can’t say that about some of the subject matter. On the way back I stared out of the window like a teenager trying to skip the conductor. It was raining and my brain strained to catch tendrils of poems.

I can’t remember why I caught the thought of children with different fathers, and out of that came the notes that had to be written into my notebook:

Siblings of the same womb – there are no half-measures; half-brothers/sisters are all their mothers’ children.

The stream processed itself into adjectives and how last week I recognised a friend’s writing in an old Poetry Review. I know this, I thought, that voice and how it describes impossible hospitals…then my mind cut to gentle cemeteries because she’s dead and her last collection of poetry concerned the struggle with cancer and the anathema of cures.

So yes, I’d say that it was worth a trip on the bus today – I got through a lot.

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