Marsailidh Groat
ImperfectionI have often looked for a voice
other than my own, and used words that leave a bitter aftertaste, thinking mine would not be heard or understood. Often each word would burn itself into my skin, the way a farmer brands its cattle; a list of names and numbers for me to carry. Sometimes I would try to tear them out. And I would dig, and think that maybe when I hit bone, I would feel better. Cleaner. Purer. But here, now, I am as you see me. It has taken years, and miles, for me to learn, and see, and try to love this rough exterior, and see beauty in imperfection. The PartyI press my face to a window, my breath clouding the
glass, warm with confusion, and watch the people inside. Their marble faces morph before me, laughter grotesque and indulgent, as they sip champagne from goblets rimmed with extravagance - And why not? We all crave beauty. I love the feel of luxury against my skin. Should I try, with all the might of a child learning to run, to break this frame, this veneer? And, if my skin should not tear, take a sip, sharp and new, like the white wine in my orange juice poured by my grandmother; a taste I didn’t understand? I came here from a simpler place, clumsy and honest; the affliction of youth. Did I learn this vulgarity, hone it, till I became an insider looking on? I still tremble; but not as much. Here, a face turns to me, warm, welcoming. Cold, calculating. Come in, it says, enjoy the party. Glamour
I clapped my hands to a mirror
and waited for understanding. Skipping ropes swung as I waited for last night’s lipstick and a taste in my mouth. Grown ups asked Questions, and I waited to know how to respond. Hair and sweat and spots. I waited, passing time with ladybirds, treasures in my schoolbag, we fed the fairies and painted snail shells, still waiting for red nails and Convolution. That glamour I saw, when I was too in love to be happy. Ida
I felt once a strength
that people listened to. I held, for a second, a voice that carried me through skies and into Possibility. I was a child tasting champagne; I didn’t understand the taste, or that which comes Later, a bitterness, loss, obsession, fingers gnarled in Senescence, voice Forgotten. I saw once whole halls filled with understanding, not of my life but the purpose. Now, I speak only to give others voice. Portobello Road
A little piece of history, to carry with me.
A coat someone’s grandmother wore, when she was first kissed. A cinema ticket in the pocket; it smells of popcorn. She wore it with lipstick and pearls. Shoes that walked before me, down cobbled streets, footsteps light and inconsequential. Here they lie, scuffed from experience, laced with stories. A child in her mother’s wardrobe, dabbing powder on her cheeks. A dress smells of Ginger, its beading coming undone, and I feel like a widower remembering the beauty of his bride. Each threadbare stitching holds a secret, and still each pocket could hold mine. A Lesson
I had a feeling, once
When the Earth moved That a kiss would lead to promise Just as young girls do; I had a feeling, but I didn’t know how to be misled I moved from city to city with A lost limb, pleading as it bled. Loss ran thick and hot Down my bed, my room, my street My bedroom an abattoir, My blood beneath the sheets. HomeI sit in a small pub, sipping my cheap pint,
and smelling the smells of the people around me; we do not resent each other for our bodies, our skin. We are not pressed against each other in swarms, sweating angrily, indignant that we are not where we should be, and not fast enough. Instead, we sit, the heat of bodies warming us from the Edinburgh chill, the kind of cold that shortens your neck and tightens your jaw. We are not in transit; the place we are is the place we intend to be. Two of us are playing music, their fingers and mouths casting the stories of people that did for years what we are doing now. I feel that there have always been cheap pints, and warm pubs, and bodies, and stories, and beauty in the everyday of a farmer and his ox. Voices are soft and relaxed, and none of us are special; home is not a privilege, and does not need to be earned. |
The Small HoursI awake in the small hours from a sleep fitful and restless
into a time of muffled colours and softened sounds. The peace doesn’t soothe me, but serves as a backdrop on which to project memories of my unquiet dreams. Many times I have felt trapped in my reflections by the honesty and deepness of silence where there are no distractions from nightmares and the world sleeps on, oblivious. The light is not uncaring, but unbiased as it watches a merging of extremes, radicalism fading to a sleepy ambivalence in the grogginess of the space between asleep and awake. And who exists in this time? Those who are acquainted with it, by profession, whose movements are routine, but with cushioned edges. The stumblers, stunned by sudden silence, music still pulsing through their bodies. And, perhaps, two people so entranced there was too much to talk about to fall asleep. The Chase
The sounds we chase
Give us life And questioning this We breathe. A thought arpeggiates And here, we play A loss, a love, as our own. We hold our Calloused hands, our wooden Lovers, and sing Our vows. We didn’t Choose this, but We are. Silence
I drown in
convulsive discussion; when we carelessly assign every person a word, and take each as your own, my own, and lack distinction. Our vivacity and excitement must be here, must breathe, even if we have Nothing to say. And to find so seamless an existence that my thoughts, scattered and impetuous, I need not voice without cause. That which I have found, and lost, and will find again, so exquisite a taste in each pause. London Underground
Sometimes I fall, deeply,
Into myself, and forget There is life outside. I navigate myself with the same degree of skill with which I navigate This City. I turn corners and find Places I have never been before. Confusion. Lost in a maze. The London Underground. I have This one little body to carry me through. Remembrance
The passing of memories
Like heirlooms, sweetened with time. A name, frozen in youth Footsteps that echo the sounds of adventure. The recklessness of belonging to no one, unless we chose. We did not owe. We were not owed. A candle burns With quiet warmth amongst flames. We remember every lesson, every name. The Between People
Between places
Bus stops, airports Where details merge And intricacies lie, forgotten, Whilst we Go, hurry. There is always An aim. Destination. I came here for a Purpose. What if we, The Between People, stay too long, become buildings Windows, doorknobs? We are never the reason. We are never sure. My City
I left a city,
Once Drove for hours And found a new walk With new music Louder than before. I loved a city, Once Its familiar streets Short cuts I found Years ago, every step Taking me home. I shared my voice with Neighbours, friends, people I knew. Here my tongue Is foreign, awkward Trips up in my mouth. What’s that word? I laugh at a joke I once told In bed, with you Before I cheated on My city |