Grant D. McLeman is Scottish, born in Glasgow in 1952 and now living on the Clyde Coast. He started writing in the 1970s, won diplomas in the Scottish Open Poetry competition, appeared in several antholgies and then stopped writing. Resumed in 2002 encouraged by Edwin Morgan, and wrote pieces in collaboration with U.S. photographer for broadcast during 2003 on U.S. cable T.V. programme Coffee House. Since then he has been involved with Limerick based Whitehouse Poetry Society with whom he has read and been published. Published in a number of other outlets both print and on-line. Some of his work is in the process of being translated into Persian and Spanish by the poet/academic Saeid Hooshangi. More info can be found on his web-site here.
I get on at Bastille,
the carriage is as hot as Algiers
and about as busy.
Nobody is talking except
the twins who sit near the door,
discussing their route to wherever
they may go
I would marry you because
you have dimples when you smile.
No other reason
I watch them act out their small drama
and listen to the way they talk,
the one on the left has all the plans.
Nothing else exists,
and then, I hear the brakes squeal
the doors slam open
and they are gone.
I wish your dimpled smile had stayed,
we could have gone to Algiers,
to the glistening white of the old town
and the camel trains of the desert...
� Grant D. McLeman
BRANCHLINE
a train roars
out of a tunnel,
it squeals
to a halt
and nobody gets off.
A man kicks a turnstile,
curses loudly
and lies in a corner
as the train slides away.
The subway
is this country�s
fifth time zone
its hallways of light
beggar belief
in the underworld.
A token will buy
its thunder
and a glimpse of its
cave painting.
� Grant D. McLeman
RETURN TRIP
I watch you come down
from the train,
adjust your face from dreaming
and negotiate the platform with
your overnight bag.
You are wearing the silk scarf
I gave you on that special birthday
and a half remembered energy
jolts my heart.
My mind takes a taxi
to the time when the station
was a place of arrival,
a journey�s end, a friend.
You reach the barrier
and we embrace like strangers.
My mind comes back to today and
I curse Return tickets and
the inevitability of railway lines
for I know we can�t go back
and this will soon be a place of departure.
� Grant D. McLeman
SNAPSHOT
as our train passes
the star-dark houses
that mark the edge
of some large town
I look at you awkwardly
sleeping, perhaps dreaming
of our earlier drama
in another city.
I think about leaving
my seat and walking
back in that direction
for a few minutes
through the crowded carriage
passing the lazy chaos
of restless people
of magazines and Max-Paks
suitcases and sandwiches
fights and fondness,
but change my mind.
The train will soon arrive
at the station
...you are starting to wake
maybe we should settle down
before we become
mere extras
in this pageant of players
that criss-cross the country
with their sultry ways.
� Grant D. McLeman
ISLANDS
evenings down by the waterside,
rum sipped near trees.
South and the song �Flamingo�,
deep blue sea (rumba, waving wind).
So far from Kinning Park, Govan Cross,
just island names on subway station walls
and blues on tenement streets.
So far from the grindstone through
the winter
and the cold cough mornings.
� Grant D. McLeman
A LATE AFTERNOON IN GLASGOW
a lone trumpet plays
on the hard pavement,
it is four-thirty
a newspaper vendor
yells his wares
and as evening approaches,
the faint smell of woodsmoke
from one of the parks
confirms it's Autumn.
A few late shoppers pay
the ragged player
as if they are hearing
the Last Post,
I hurry past and try
to catch my bus.
� Grant D. McLeman
DEATH ROW
And I have killed a man
and I have killed a man
I repeat it to myself
as it was a world ago
before the Long Wait
I remember the blood caked hands
congealing the blood in my heart
his final frozen face filling my head
and stealing my life away
I remember these things because
I have killed him a million times
and each time now it�s different
and each time I�m nearer my own murder
but They will have no caked blood to remember
Only a chair
� Grant D. McLeman
PEACE TALKS
I�m cold, very cold
no roof above me
now.
The stars are bright
overbright
like eyes set for fever
but no noise like last night
maybe God is thinking it over�
if he is merciful
he will keep me warm, blessings be upon him...
�but he will not breathe life
into my cow
� Grant D. McLeman
EASTERN PROMISE
in a sky of eggshell blue
an early morning moon hangs
over the still sea.
I watch a fishing boat
lying off the sleeping hills
and I am transported to
a Chinese watercolour
I once saw in a gallery.
But the geese have been replaced
by seagulls and soon
the sun will burn the mist
from my eyes and I�ll be back,
going to work on a crisp Spring day
in Scotland.
� Grant D. McLeman
OVERSEAS
Right! dog tags off,
we don�t want to be known here
and silence in the ranks:
news travels fast in these parts;
Oh ! and there�ll be no singing,
this is an orderly house
that we�ll be visiting
albeit on a tour of inspection.
When you been on as many tours
as I have you�ll know the game
and you�ll learn that playing it
is half the battle.
� Grant D. McLeman
ON MEETING AN OLD FORGOTTEN FRIEND
IN A ROOM LIT BY THE MORNING SUN
yr face is cut to ribbons
by the broken light
from the window.
I approach you , yr voice
becomes familiar
and your face heals.
