[lit-ideas] Re: GOOD FRIDAY SUNDAY POEM

Your true Scot is sometimes crabby, often stoic.
Some blame our scratchy woolies; others, the rain.
A good history could be written, maybe even an epic poem,
on how these qualities and fieryness
travelled from Greece to Inverness.

But not now, not here.

I am a pretty calm person...for a Scot.
People come up and say, "Gosh, you're a very calm person...for a Scot."
When, for example, my computer swallows words,
or McCreery ignores my thoughts on Mau,
do I run for my sword,
calling for disembowelment?
I do not.
I smile.
I shrug it off.
I am more clearly fallible than you,
but pretty even tempered...for a Scot.

This is just as well because last Friday I had
an ankle tendon develop balky tendencies,
independent notions about the lengths it was allowed to go.
In a generous and disinterested way, I of course said,
"Mayhap it's a passing fad."
Right!
The pain was strong, impedimential;
and we had a boating outing booked.

But aren't anti-inflamatories wonderful?
Like buck privates, the tendon's tendencies were forced into line.
I got everyone and everything into the car--
three girls and a friend,
three crab rings, two coolers, food,
spare clothing, wire for the chicken thigh bait,
water, hats, wellies,
licenses, coats, gloves.

I don't know if you've ever crabbed?
To judge by the crowd on the water, you would perhaps be the only person in
the entire western hemisphere who decided on this good Friday that killing
crustaceans was not your thing.
Every un-Christian soul in Oregon was out,
plying the waters in their Smokercraft boats,
chucking in rings.

We let Julia take the helm and, alas,
before you could say, "Any disciples want another glass o' wine?"
we were all tangled up, with thick line wound around our prop.

I think the look I gave Julia was forgiveable.
I confess to muttering one or two wee words.
But we all knew it wasn't her fault;
at the tide's turn all the pot ropes were slack and sea room was tight.
A little inexperience and inattention was all it took.

I leaned out to unwind the line.
Working upside down, hanging with one hand,
I loosened with the other.
It's a kind of inverted crucifiction position,
with cold currents taking you at their whim,
and, of course, everyone's safety at stake.
Piece of cake.

Then, we lost a buoy.
They're bright orange and numbered clearly.
Impossible to lose.
It turned out that some twit had upped and taken the thing.
Realizing he was wrong, but being a moron,
he dumped it far across the bay.
Before we found it, I dreamed of giving him a kiss.
A Glasgow kiss.

The whole haul amounted to no more than we could eat,
which was perfect.
We thanked the Great Spirit, and all the slightly less great spirits,
before we threw our catch into boiling water,
waking their demise with wine.

Call us savage if you wish,
but we had callouses and aches to pay.
And, after all, you must agree
that it was restraint and windblown cheeks,
bonhomie that got us this particular good Friday feed.
The savagery was restricted to crabs.

David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon


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