We Are The Weather E-Book

Jim McElroy

• Herausgeber: The Poetry Business
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 24

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

We are the Weather is a mature and coherent first collection by a distinctive and compelling writer. The poems present vivid and often pungent scenes of rural life in exuberant and hardworking language, with childhood and family relationships at their heart.

Leseprobe

Published 2022 by

Smith|Doorstop Books

The Poetry Business

Campo House,

54 Campo Lane,

Sheffield S1 2EG

Copyright © Jim McElroy 2022

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-914914-06-5

eBook ISBN 978-1-914914-07-2

Typeset by The Poetry Business

Printed by People for Print, Sheffield

Smith|Doorstop Books are a member of Inpress:

www.inpressbooks.co.uk

Distributed by NBN International, 1 Deltic Avenue,

Rooksley, Milton Keynes MK13 8LD

The Poetry Business gratefully acknowledges the support of Arts Council England.

Contents

Hoor

The Oak Tree

Doodlebugs

Bully

Sacrificed

Coal Hole

The Attic Room

Hard Knocks

Spray Gun

Sheep Carcass

Pouring the Yard

Weatherbeaten

The Auctioneer is Selling Our Cow

Enough

Noirish

Audit at the Slaughter House

His Work

Everything Related

The Crows

Shit Happens

My Father’s Store

Unmaking His Chair

Second Chances

A Message from The Dead

i.m. Bernard McElroy 1927–1990

Hoor

He called Widow Welsh that poor oul hoor,

in winter he’d send me up with fresh eggs;

next door, Joe McNab was tight oul hoor,

said he would count every bleedin’ penny;

the right oul hoors lived on the Rock Hill,

I was let play with their right wee hoors.

Passing pedlars, scammers, were all cute hoors,

the tax man, a connivin little hoor’s bollix.

I followed his hobnail crunch, oily overalls,

round the farm, annoyin his hoorin head:

too many questions, go ask your mother.

At school, if I passed exams, he gave me

right quick wee hoor. Out on the moor,

neck veins bulging like baler twine,

he’d scrum hug boulders into position,

build ditches; at stubborn stones, sleeve

off brow sweat, stare at its granite belly,

christen it a heavy oul hoor; over lunch,

on top of stones, he’d share out soda farls,

cheddar slabs, pour our cuppa tay, tell me

thank your Mother; as he lit his pipe,

he’d point out hedges needing trimmed,

the opening crops: ripening corn, barley.

When I left for the city, autumn’s thresher

was gulping sheaves of wheat; I watched him

grimace as he kneed obese seed bags up

to the trailer; through the belt slew, baler hum,

he yelled mind yourself, to watch out for all

them cute hoors. Later that winter, the switch

put her call through, told me, your mother’s

on the line – I was to come home quick.

Still in his overalls, he lay on the bed; fresh

muck clung to his hobnails: right oul hoor

found him slumped over granite; I bent down

for our first kiss – his hoorin head, cold as stone.

The Oak Tree

In the field, we climbed into the oak bough.

The eldest took the bow-saw to its crown.

Branches splintered off, whished to earth,

became farm machinery that we attached