New collections from Scottish poet Graham Fulton, due for publication:
Upside Down Heart
from Dreadful Night Press towards the end of 2008.
A collection of 30 love poems, featuring
full colour illustrations by Becky Bolton.
Black Motel
from Dreadful Night Press in 2009.
A collection of 21 dreams, with black
and white photographs by Graham Fulton.
Pocket Fugues
from Controlled Explosion Press in 2009.
A collection of 18 snapshot poems, with
black and white photographs by Graham Fulton.
Chihuahua
In Gabriels pub the match is on
a massive, plasma, wall-mounted screen.
Scotland have won the toss, Nil Nil.
A granny in a pink plastic coat
nudges beside us, takes a sip
of lager from her half pint glass,
tells us that she had to have
her dog put down this afternoon.
Ian thinks at first she said Son;
he may have misheard, the crowd is loud.
Scotland are holding on, we’re calm.
I miss him a lot, he was just this big
she says, and demonstrates her claim;
a foot of space between her palms.
We try our best not to catch her eye.
It’s nice to have … Ukraine have scored
in darkest Kiev, the clock ticks on.
We watch the drama of life unfold:
red offences, homer ref,
goal-line punts, theatrical dives.
He was thirteen, and had all his teeth.
A last minute penalty bulges the net,
she asks the barstaff to call her a cab.
Ian thinks at first she said Son.
He may have misheard, the time is loud.
Scotland are passing out, we’re done.
I always fed him chicken and veg,
dog food’s crap. Scotland are mince.
Big Screen
I ask you if it’s alright if I go ten minutes early
because we’re playing Germany tonight
in a make-or-break qualifier
and I’d like to make the Big Screen kick-off
in the Big Screen kick-off pub
with a big selection of beers on tap,
and you say Of course son
and I hope your team wins
and I’ll see you tomorrow.
And Scotland are losing and the pub is full
of people I’ll eventually never see again
and the screen is veiled by slow grey smoke
and a laughing German
is escorted from the premises,
and it’s all increasingly small
and I can’t really make you out
as I think of you alone in your head
and I wish I could have those ten minutes back.
The Warrior Race on Bath Street
first a girl on
boy’s back
out
of their heads
laughing glass
smashing five or six
piling in
with fists boots charging
up the hill not seeing
the shoppers
hiding
against the walls of
banks lawyers bistros
the zenith
of civilisation
letting them
steam past booting
roaring throwing
each other to
the road stamping
one face
as it melts in the centre
the vortex
people
silent behind
their two-way mirror watching
a primal fury
take shape letting
them get on with it