Liz Lochhead Poems
|1.||My Rival's House||8/16/2016|
|2.||A Glasgow nonsense rhyme for Molly||8/16/2016|
|3.||From a Mouse||8/16/2016|
|4.||For the Centenary of The Scotch Whisky Association||8/16/2016|
|7.||Photograph, Art Student, Female, Working Class||8/16/2016|
|8.||In the Mid-Midwinter||8/16/2016|
|10.||Scotland to Queensland, Glasgow to Gold Coast||8/16/2016|
|12.||For my Grandmother Knitting||8/16/2016|
|15.||Poets need not||8/16/2016|
|16.||Some Old Photographs||8/16/2016|
|17.||Hell for Poets||8/16/2016|
|18.||Trouble is not my middle name||8/16/2016|
|19.||View of Scotland/Love Poem||8/16/2016|
View of Scotland/Love Poem
Down on her hands and knees
at ten at night on Hogmanay,
my mother still giving it elbowgrease
jiffywaxing the vinolay. (This is too
ordinary to be nostalgia.) On the kitchen table
a newly opened tin of sockeye salmon.
Though we do not expect anyone,
the slab of black bun,
petticoat-tails fanned out
on bone china.
‘Last year it was very quiet…'
Mum's got her rollers in with waveset
and her well-pressed good dress
slack across the candlewick upstairs.
Nearly half-ten already and her not shifted!
If we're to even hope to prosper
this midnight ...
We would be snaking up Loch Lomond, the
road narrow and winding after the turn at Tarbert,
and we'd be bending branches as we slid
through the green and dripping overhang of the trees.
All the bickering over the packing, and the - as usual -
much, much later-than-we'd-meant-to leaving,
all that falling from us,
our moods lifting, lightening, becoming our good mood
the more miles we put