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Stuart A. Paterson is an award-winning poet in Scots and English. He lives in Kirkcudbrightshire after returning to the area in 2012 following 14 years of working in north-west England. An Ayrshireman of long descent, he founded and edited the international poetry and prose review ‘Spectrum’ from 1989 to 1996. He was given an Eric Gregory Award in 1992 from the Society of Authors, recognising the UK’s finest poets under the age of 30, and a Scottish Arts Council Writer’s Bursary in 1993 to spend time travelling and writing in France and Greece. Most recently, he was awarded a Robert Louis Stevenson Fellowship from the Scottish Book Trust, enabling him to spend November 2014 working and writing in the Hôtel Chevillon International Arts Centre at Grez-sur-Loing in France. He was appointed the Scots Language Society’s Virtual Poet-In-Residence for 2015-16.

 

Stuart was the Scottish Arts Council Writer-In-Residence for Dumfries and Galloway from 1996-98. A booklet of work, ‘Mulaney Of Larne and other poems’ was published by the University of Leiden in 1991 as part of their ‘Scottish Writers’ series. His first full collection, ‘Saving Graces’, was published by Diehard in 1997 and short-listed for the Saltire Society’s First Collection Award. He was one of the new generation of Scottish poets featured in ‘Dream State: The New Scottish Poets’ (Polygon 1994/2002), for which he wrote the title poem. He’s also had work featured in ‘Scottish Literature in the Twentieth Century: An Anthology’ (Scottish Cultural Press), ‘A Year in Poetry: A Treasury of Classic and Modern Verses’ (Random House) and, more recently, ‘Scotia Nova: Poems For The Early Days Of A Better Nation’, (Luath Press 2015). His work has also appeared in The Herald, The Cambridge Journal of Comparative Criticism, The Long-islander (USA), Australian Poetry Journal, Chapman, Lines Review, Lallans, The Poets’ Voice (Austria), New Contrast (RSA), La Brita Esperantista and many other publications.

Stuart A. Paterson

 

Border Lines

 

ISBN 978-1-909357-95-2

 

Indigo Dreams Publishing

 

Poetry

 

138 x 216mm

 

36 pages

 

£6.00 + P&P UK

 

PUB: August 2015

 

 

ORDER HERE

 

 

 

 

 

 

AT DOUGLAS HALL

 

Twice daily the tides are here, sometimes

breenging shoreward like an army

of small, mad angry locals,

at others, creeping in on tourist feet.

They are their own beginnings & endings,

stories that tell themselves, borderline ballads

of loss & finding, war cries or sobs

or occasional lullabies, all midnight

& moonlight, tender vessels of tiny waves

bringing shallow white words & drifting

tributes ashore, washed up at

the very end & very start of it.

 

 

 

 

BORDERS

 

That sound outside, near Sandyhills bridge,

along Barnhourie Burn, a high wild wailing

winding down to a long low growl of echo,

has me up in my chair, neck hairs tight.

 

You’d tell me it’s a heron out on the scope

for sprats, perhaps a dog fox losing its head

to the vast dark freedoms of a Galloway night.

 

Part of me wishes you here with your

brush-off urban logic, dismissing

superstitious whims of banshees, bogles,

shades, you who are out there, somewhere,

unaccounted for too.

 

Yet part of me thrills, the part

still too unsure to rise & draw the curtains,

like a vole forced into the bright

desperation of winter moonlight

on untrammelled snow, fearfully

seeking proof of something other

than its tiny self on the go,

trembling, held somewhere terrible

between warm safety, hunger

& the old need-to-know.

 

 

 

 

19-9-14

 

Last night I saw red in the sky’s

angry fanfare, fiery waterfalls

belching through black cloud,

my upturned white face

catching cold rays of sun,

my hands in my pockets, blue

& sore from clenching

against thin fists of merciless wind.

Eyes streaming & looking

over to Cumbria, caught between

somewhere neither England,

Scotland or me, I felt

for a second like a tiny

tattered flag, battered & blown

to bits, ‘til all that remained

was a ragged hand unclenching,

stretching out fingers to

colour the sunset blue.

 

 

 

 

HIGH TIDE AT SANDYHILLS

 

That night, when everything was full,

the moon, the flaring bay & me,

all was possible, beautiful.

I could have swum to St. Bee’s

in minutes, made for Maryport,

washed myself up in England

before the pub doors closed,

tide-bright & thirsty on the strand.

As it was, I floated a mere hundred yards

on gentle waves to a stake net pole,

driftwood on a fluid mirror of stars,

full as the universe, pin-pricked with holes.

 

 

 

BARNHOURIE

 

The wind has slapped my face & suddenly

it’s not June or July but still November

inrushing past the helpless memory

of months uncoloured, harder to remember

 

except as monochrome. The trail of days

each nerve can’t help recalling quickly entered

but won’t feel end, an hour hand of always,

crawls on to what might be a void, or centre.

 

Impossible … to think of forest floors,

grey fields of mud now, carpeted with bluebells,

the last of May gone yellow with the gorse,

whole beech-boles sanded in with asphodels,

 

holt-wintered otters ploughing through the spate’s

late Spring, a riverbed churned to life.

In watching them is shown what compensates

for drab & dreich – a pair now grown to five

 

pell-melling back & forth, the bitch & dog

I knew last autumn re-emerged, returned

with young, wound up onto another clock,

the hour hand past the tip, the lesson learned:

 

that every darkness keeps a little light.

The wind has slapped my face, brought to the skin

a colour in the cheeks too briefly bright,

a colour nursed like tiny flames within.

 

 

 

PASSING THROUGH

 

Scanning barcodes of Galloway evening sky,

last minutes of pink light limping weakly out

unanswering westward, in reply

I hear the oystercatchers shout

their mad fast movements down the coast.

 

If asked who or what I’d been previously,

I might answer, enigmatically,

basking shark, red kite, stravaiging minstrel,

last of the havering Wigtownshire Picts,

wishing & inventing perhaps

for anything other than now & this.

 

Looking in I really feel none of these,

no claw through coiled flesh, fin through riptide,

savage tribute, towering cliffs, moss-bearded trees.

 

Looking out, I see blind night behind

& racing in front, the singing wings

just visible, purposeful, making

last dashes before the big light goes out;

pasts & futures caught

between that final, tiny sunburst

& the long beyond of doubt.

 

 

 

"Galloway and the Solway, its tides and winds, its ebbs and flows, its times and timelessness speak themselves in Paterson’s poems. He isn’t so much writing poems about his environment as allowing it to speak for itself, and himself becoming identified with it."

Tessa Ransford

 

 

 

 

 

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