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Norman D. Garriock
Orcadian by birth, I left the islands to follow the music. Along the way I picked up a wife, two children and two cats. We are now settled in the Mearns, where I teach English. Publications are varied, but writing slowed when teaching took up my energies. At last I have been inspired to write again and have begun to assemble a coherent collection. Selected publications: Moments in the Glasshouse, The Abbey Anthology, Sunken Well, Chapman 60, Chapman 72. Also lectures on Hardy, Heaney, Larkin, Shakespeare and The Orkney Landscape in Prose and Poetry delivered via Aberdeen University and the University of the Highlands and Islands.
Poems
ERASURE
Crouched alone he measures the ebb
Familiar grit between curled toes.
Slowly he strips the clothes from his back,
As the astringent air bites soiled flesh.
He savours the ironic salt-sewn wind,
And steps from his footprints at last.
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OASIS
Sandstorm-lost and crawling I was
When she gave me hope and trust;
She gave me a glass of water
Sated my desperate thirst.
The glass was condensation cold
Delicious to the touch;
I grasped it tight and gulped it down,
Drained the final drop.
In selfish haste I swallowed all
Handed a vacancy back:
Desert-dry she’d rescued me,
I left an oasis of dust.
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WAITING ROOM
For weeks communication has been
Silence, an interminable pregnant pause -
Waiting, always waiting, never wanting
To shape the shifting shapeless news
We desperately dread and desperately need.
Now we wait, the family as one, bound
By this uncertain slow-breathing bed.
Inside this un-ripening frailty
Some inexorable thing is thriving,
Eating its way to his certain death.
Beside his slow unwinding watch
His wedding band, too big now, yawns
A silent ‘o’ from the dark of its box.
As visitor, I know this silence well
This struggle to speak politely,
Speak lightly of weather and soaps.
But, peripheral to his perceptions now,
I can’t imagine this waiting for him:
As each sudden, tightening, crush of air
Purples his parchment sallow skin,
His every breath is a waiting space.
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THE BOASTING FISHERMAN
Once he felt it, the perfect weight
Balanced then as never again
In his deepest expectations.
Contained, constrained, his life remains
Wrapped in that lost perfection.
In every life these moments exist,
They wait for us in darkness’ hope,
In darkness’ hope we trust.
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END OF THE AFFAIR
i
Calm depths echo soft
April storms across a pond –
She ignores his sigh.
ii
The flower’s blossom
Disturbs the bee; she smiles brightly,
Study in her eyes.
iii
A cold autumn breeze,
Rustle of leaves: coffee cools
By an empty chair.
iv
Ice envelops all,
Webs the pond and numbs the world:
Stilled, she sits alone.
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A BORROWED BOOK
A palpable presence informs the text:
Each page I turn is warm from your touch;
I feel your hand where the cover is bruised,
Soft from the breathing heat of your bath.
The same soft edge rests here in my hand
And I feel you near me, hear the words
In your head. As the story unfolds, emotion
Takes hold and vicarious pleasure sighs.
But touching from a distance this raw
Entangled soul, I lift the page to my face,
Inhale the room where you read, and see you
Naked, immersed in the moment – alone.
I might never share your narrative, but am
Aware of your tracks across every page.
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A POETRY OF DEPARTURES
(De profundus clamavi ad te)
You pinned a palm leaf crucifix here
And walked me tall through pain:
Bow low, don’t talk– embrace your guilt -
Your closest companion’s not worthy of this;
This sacred trust, tabernacle of dust,
Is yours to protect from all things profane.
To search, to seek some confirmation –
To grasp the wraith- is humanity’s curse.
But the empirical arc needs must remain
Within the reach of an outstretched arm.
Around moments like this, anger coheres.
In separation, I am bound again:
Out of the depths, I call to you,
And with a crucifix, you pierce me through.
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