MacLaurin - From moonrise till dawn: a cycle of poetry and songs

FROM MOONRISE TILL DAWN A Cycle of Poetry and Songs By Duncan Gillies MacLaurin Nord sten Nord O sten Books www.nordosten.dk

From Moonrise till Dawn. A Cycle of Poetry and Songs Duncan Gillies MacLaurin, Nordsten Forlag NordOsten Books 2013 ISBN 978-87-91493-39-3 Cover image: Night Adventure, 1993, a water colour by Julia MacLaurin Typeface: Verdana Nordsten NordOsten Books License Statement: This ebook is licensed for your personal reading as a printout or read on an ebook reader, tablet or PC. If you would like another person to have this book, please purchase an additional copy. Thank you for respecting the work of the author, translator and publisher. Nordsten Forlag NordOsten Books www.nordosten.dk Nordsten NordOsten Books English ebooks: http://www.nordosten.dk/E-boeger.html#englishebook Mais les vrais voyageurs sont ceux-l seuls qui partent Pour partir; curs lgers, semblables aux ballons, De leur fatalit jamais ils ne scartent, Et, sans savoir pourquoi, disent toujours: Allons! True travellers are those alone who leave For leavings sake; their hearts, as light as dust, Will never swerve from what the three Fates weave. Don't ask them why.

Just call it wanderlust. Charles Baudelaire, Le Voyage

to Ann Bilde At twenty-four I felt the draw of your magnetic field. Inviting me across the sea, youd be a catalyst for eloquence, your bold defence of common sense your shield. At twenty-four I felt the draw of your magnetic field was warm and kind. And soon Id find your open mind concealed a one-time twin; you welcomed in this skinny Latinist. At twenty-four I felt the draw of your magnetic field inviting me across the sea.

Youd be a catalyst.

The sun must be tucked in by twilight to be up with the lark, while the moon can retire anytime around midnight and resurface the next afternoon. Danger wears a bloody mask that hides a lovely garden. Arrive in any town you like, your feet will find a river. Spineless waves, rolling ashore, this is the oak you kneel before and fawn upon. How feeble you are, ruled by the moon, not even a star! Stupid old oak, to think youd endure in aeternum ! Are you still sure giants are strong and waves have no spine now you cant boast the ghost of a sign? for Niels Holm Olsen Why go to work in winter when its time to go to sleep? Why wrestle with a splinter when its penetrated deep? Why aggravate a giant when its guaranteed to fall? I envy the defiant hedgehog curled up in a ball.

Why hesitate to tarry in the shelter of the trees? Why volunteer to carry more and buckle at the knees? Why strive to be compliant when the benefits are small? I envy the defiant hedgehog curled up in a ball. Id like to be the master of my individual fate. If only I were faster, not forever running late, Id soon be self-reliant, not at peoples beck and call. I envy the defiant hedgehog curled up in a ball. Why pay to feed an army whose endeavours you despise? Why risk becoming barmy chasing one more stupid prize? Why argue with a client over nothing much at all? I envy the defiant hedgehog curled up in a ball. Now all this endless bustle leads to loneliness and stress; its like a Willy Russell play, or two in one big mess; imagine Dr.

Bryant driving Shirley up the wall. I envy the defiant hedgehog curled up in a ball.

Oh dear, little cat, youre a little too fat, unless youre about to have kittens, but no matter which, thats one hell of an itch youre trying to scratch with your mittens. Do you think you could fly like that bird in the sky if no one was clipping your wings? Or do you just wish you could swim like that fish, or dance like those butterfly things? No, you wont ever be those creations you see, not even if sometimes you catch them; for a life thats fulfilling, you have to be willing to carry nine lives and then hatch them. The sparrow arrives from nowhere, unscheduled, a tiny bundle of vibrant flesh and feathers urgently looking about. A fleeting wink from a questioning sparrow is worth more than diamonds.

Sparrows, they have a fielding-plan different to trickling humanity. Magic wants to spin through the world in vast, spiralling streams transforming dull hearts into zithers and quivers the colour of poetry. Dream you are a jazz musician learning to trust yourself with song. Imagine yourself a sculptor of sound.

the last piece of wood stacked neatly with the others a frog sits naked After Sappho and Catullus Him over there, is he Superman or what? Truth is, poor old Supermans out of his league. How can he just sit there and watch you like that? How can he listen to that laughter of yours and not be transformed into a zombie? Whenever I see you, girl, its the same.

The words Ive been counting on scatter in tatters; my tongue turns to ice; a sliver of flame seeps through my limbs; my ears tintinnabulate with a sound all their own; and my eyes are twin towers in darkness.

I met you, girl, the day you turned sixteen. I was caught in a whirl; you were smiling and serene. All of my senses suddenly fled; how I wished I was somebody else instead! I met you, girl, the day you turned sixteen. I guess that I ought to have seen Love fixing his troublesome dart. Although I was but seventeen, I felt Id been pierced through my heart.

Corrine, you were so pristine I thought you were my fairy queen. I loved you then; it wasnt just my imagination. Corrine, you were just sixteen. I wish I were still seventeen. I guess that I ought to have seen how gaily you wished me farewell. Although I was but seventeen, I thought Id been sentenced to hell.

Corrine, you were so pristine I thought you were my fairy queen. I loved you then; it wasnt just my imagination. Corrine, you were just sixteen. I wish I were still seventeen. Id be lying in your arms all night; Id be flying to your charms all day. I loved you then; it wasnt just my imagination.

Corrine, you were just sixteen. I wish I were still seventeen. I guess that I ought to have seen my path could have led to your door. Although I was but seventeen, Im not seventeen anymore. Corrine, you were so pristine I thought you were my fairy queen. I loved you then; it wasnt just my imagination.

Corrine, you were just sixteen. I wish I were still seventeen .

The bed in my rooms been the head of a tomb since I met you, a burial ground, not the merry-go-round it once was. Too shy to protest, Ive been trying my best to forget you, but now Im revealing just how Ive been feeling because I cant understand that you arent close at hand or beside me; you know we were made for a slow serenade cheek to cheek. That we two will fit youll soon see when youre sitting astride me right after weve kissed. Id be daft to resist.

Im too weak. Your parents have sent you away to Paris to study today. My storys been told by balladeers of old in measures much sweeter than these. But just as the sun is new to everyone, so too are the birds and the bees. You guided me through a kaleidoscope view of your garden; my heart skipped a beat when you started to eat a red plum. You turned with a smile.

My cheeks burned. You said: Ill beg your pardon? For no reason at all I was squeezing the ball of my thumb. Your parents have sent you away to Paris to study today. My storys been told by balladeers of old in measures much sweeter than these. But just as the sun is new to everyone, so too are the birds and the bees. Even if I never come to visit you in France, Ill still be here when you get back, and then well have a second chance.

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