Private Poem to Norman Macleod

1

Norman, the same wind

Of gannets and the malt

Whisky is blowing over

To how you are there

In North Carolina.

I hope it brings you a wisp

Of me sitting here

At my writing table.

Do you think we could get on

After that long time

In New York years and years

Ago when Vivienne was alive?

I see you now through

The early Madron morning

With rooks speaking Cornish

And getting into a high

Discussion above Strick’s

Trees. My dear Norman,

I don’t think we will ever

See each other again

Except through the spaces

We make occur between

The words to each other.

Now your trip is over

And you are back at home.

Of course, here I am

Thinking I want to say

Something into the ghost

Of the presence you have left

Me with between the granite

Of my ego house.

Your visit was a great

Occasion. It is with me now.

I’ll always remember you.

2

Early wading on the long

Strand with oyster-catchers

Going peep-peep I looked

Up at the Gaelic Ross

To see a gigantic American

Out of all proportion

Standing against the west

Of Skye making his memoirs

After making his poetry

And genius editing. I

Waded through the Atlantic

Kelp washed up by the west.

And here I stand and I

Would dearly like to have spoken

To Norman Macleod but the gales

That blow in the memory

Change everything round.

I speak from myself now.

3

Macleod. Macleod. The white

Pony of your Zodiac

Trots down here often.

I look at him. He is only

A thought out of a book

You younger made. He’s far

Trotted out of his home.

That distance from your boyhood

He nuzzles. Good boy. Good boy.

And after you went back

I thought I could have behaved

Better or was it you.

But it doesn’t work like that.

4

Communication is always

On the edge of ridiculous.

Nothing on that, my Beauty.

I walked up Fouste Canyon

With a pack of beans and malt

Whisky and climbed and shouted

Norman Norman Norman

Till all the echoes had gone.

In the words there is always

A great greedy space

Ready to engulf the traveller.

Norman, you were not there.

5

Remember the title. A PRIVATE

POEM TO NORMAN MACLEOD.

But this, my boy, is the poem

You paid me five pounds for.

The idea of me making

Those words fly together

In seemingly a private

Letter is just me choosing

An attitude to make a poem.

6

Pembroke gentle and un

Gentle readers, this poem

Is private with me speaking

To Norman Macleod, as private

As any poem is private

With spaces between the words.

The spaces in the poem are yours.

They are the place where you

Can enter as yourself alone

And think anything in.

Macleod. Macleod, say

Hello before we both

Go down the manhole.