VERSES FROM VARIOUS SOURCES
From THE ENDS OF OUR TETHERS 2003
Poem: Alasdair Gray © 2005
18 – Proem attributed to Luke Aiblins
nerve netted here I sit,
bee in stone honeycomb
or beast in pit or flea in bin,
pinned down, penned in,
unable to die or fly or be
any one thing but me,
a hypochondriac heart chilled
by the spittle of toads that croak
on the moon’s cryptic hemisphere.
But yet, loft-haunter, tunnel-groper,
interloper among men,
I am the Titan & my pen
wet with blue ink or black
alone can tell them what they thought
and think and give them back
the theme, scheme, dream whose head
they broke, & left for dead.
Crown, King, Divinity: all shall be mine
to take, twine, make into a masterpiece
of fine thread, strong line.
Yes, let me write my life
ten volumes in one book
of good and bad friends, women who will
and will not walk with me,
The warped, harmonious, happy, sick & dead.
While I have eyes to look, so let it be. Amen.