This is The World Is Round, But Don't Tell The Pigeons - Colin's writing editorial. Here Colin will upload his poems & examples of his writing for the first time. The title is inspired by the flying rats who prey hell. But not every entry will necessarily feature them. This section will also host guest contributions.

The Human Inconvenience

Speeding along inside of this meticulous human design 

Jackets of bark cling on to their sprawling owners, parting their way

Together with the fields, they are safely set aside from us

We are are the more transient ones 

We travel in carriages

Place names pass by on rickety fences

Signposts that neatly represent the happy and sad locales

We travel through the space in between

Fields exhale oxygen

And livestock tear at the supply

A castle with turrets is pointing at a luminous sky

It stretches out to a future known

How long do you wait until somebody jumps onto the tracks?

Despite the wait of their life as lived before they jumped

there will be always be insufficient time to erect a signpost to mark the spot as it happens

Although such a thing would forever prick curiosity - but who could have planned for it?

This, the place where death decides to visit

The train driver's clock takes the time of death

This cutting off of one human supply

The enduring bark, steadfast, wins the day once again

When it comes it will be a shocking display of finality

But we will feel nothing in the carriages other than the dent in our onward plans

And the news of this plundering will represent another fateful locale

A meticulously planned end

And the train-spotter's notepad 

Orderly and lined

Will have a designated page at the back to document these spillings of blood

A column where the tip of the pencil will not waver in the hand

But

All accounts will say nothing of the well-planned trees

And the different shades of the fine, aged bark, and how they creak to one another at night

They will fail to mention the meditative stare of the busy horse on the seated cow's back

Or the small towns and their faces brought to a comic standstill by our passing through

These reports both verbal and digital will not mention the many and variously complicated onward paths 

of the lives that are affected by the act

They will not speak of the previously upheld success of the worker's maintenance of the tracks

This once ordinary route now made inconvenienced and noteworthy

This bastardisation of a worker's area

Where trains speed through

Carrying lives whose ancestor's will have mapped out their course

Along which a human act of escape can make a merry mockery of a timetable

Ultimately, there will be no one to say how beautiful was her leap onto the tracks

She, the untidy prick of a system punctured

This fallibility of a world that we are all now a part of, even the horse

In that, we have all joined a club

That in itself is a pig-pen of sorts

A way of keeping us tidy

A place where this gathering of human livestock can be made orderly

Filled into oblivion

Housed

Aligned within tracks that wind along a meticulously-designed earth 

Fragile and forever vulnerable to it:

The beautiful leap.

Copyright. Colin MacIntyre 2007.

A New Front

A great muddy cloud has entered my head

A search for a soul that is easily led

Let it fight 

Let it oppose

Let a new weather begin

For a soul has a spirit 

And a heart its wind.

Copyright. Colin MacIntyre 2007.



Subterrania

The London Underground 

relentless,

The Victorian's sad joke of infinity of destination and bad manners.

We can all still dream of personal space.

But late in the evening it is a success,

Arms and faces and legs folded

and able to breath, 

Sealed human envelopes in recognition of a day lived,

Faces translucent, 

their energy sapped,

But having achieved.

Urban delights can be found below the pigeon-soiled pavements:

A well-spoken commentary.

There is a search for a crock of gold

that may be a home,

or a wife

or a lover, waiting.

Tiled bricks of homogeneous design and dimension,

and arrows like pointing fingers

will guide you to such a destination.

There can only be two outcomes:

you go backwards or forwards.

Step back on the train and limbs are once again

rendered redundant,

or go home feeling mortal.

Is is a will to guide or be guided,

A Victorian possibility realised.

A modern vision of forever, renewed,

and revealed in daily lives,

living and moving below some others.

Copyright. Colin MacIntyre, 2007

The Unknown Sailor

A work of fiction by Colin MacIntyre

Alexander thought of his grandfather as a kind of fisherman, but his grandmother would often comment that the old man was afraid of catching too many fish. Alexander wondered if that meant his grandfather was lazy, but he knew his grandfather was not afraid of the sea. In all weathers he watched him row his old wooden boat skilfully through the lines of moored craft. Tacked to the northern entrance of the village harbour the old man slipped between the battered sea wall and the dark rock promontory. He fished around the edges of the Hebridean Island on which they lived and often continued out to the beginnings of the shifting Atlantic tide. His working life had been in crofting, but it had failed him, he told his grandson, and now it was to the sea he escaped.

‘Eliza’ was the name of Alexander’s grandfather’s boat and it was not much longer than he was. It was named after Alexander’s mother. She had fallen seven years previous from the brooding grassy headland next to the harbour and died on the rocks below. It happened in 1959 when she was only nineteen and Alexander was one. At the base of the dark granite facing from which she fell, where it reared up from the sea, just above the high water line, there appeared the words ‘God Is Love’ painted in white, six-foot letters. No one knew who put them there and you could only view them from the sea. Alexander had never seen them.

Occasionally Alexander would be allowed to sit in the boat on dry land before his grandfather set off, but the old man was not keen on having company on the sea. It was as if he liked to be alone with ‘Eliza’, and Napoleon, his dog. “He might be small,” he would say to Alexander, “but he can bark an order. Must be learning from your grandmother.” Alexander liked sitting in the boat. It was as close as he could get to his mother.

One bright morning the light on the sea was blinding. Alexander screwed his eyes up and followed his grandfather eagerly, just far enough behind, trying to walk like him in long grey shorts and old Wellington boots that jarred at his knee. He noticed how his grandfather always walked forwards-leaning and wondered if his arms were heavy. Alexander’s grandfather walked as if he was requesting of the world out front to become vertical and rise to him. Alexander smiled at the sound of his grandfather’s dark blue oilskins, which squeaked like an army of mice. He was at first a spectator of all the various rudimentary tasks that his grandfather always undertook: packing his lunch, boxing the bait, preparing his rods and bailing the rainwater that had fallen overnight. Alexander’s grandmother had said that his grandfather was protecting himself by thinking that if he maintained these rituals then nothing could get him. But it already had.

“I’ll try a creel,” his grandfather said, as he tied one onto the back of the boat, “see if the lobsters are interested.” Alexander looked to the fishing boats going off in search of bigger catches. Occasionally they would sound their horns and his grandfather would raise a hand just long enough not to miss his stroke. The Daisy Bell, The Dawn Breaker, boats of red, blue and black paint, which during the off season would be propped on the shoreline to be repainted for another year’s assault at the sea. Not that the off-season lasted long for these hairy men who marched in packs, a single, bushy mass of eyebrow, puffing on roll-ups and blowing the remnants towards the inferior mainland. Alexander was only eight but understood his grandfather to be always in their wake, their wave.

“Get in,” his grandfather said, straightening his deerstalker’s hat, then rubbing his beard, which joined up the various extreme regions of his ears, nose and Adams apple.

“Eh?” Alexander felt his heart thumping inside; usually at this point in proceedings he would be told to get out.

“It’s time you felt the sea underneath you,” his grandfather said, his Adams apple moved violently as if to applaud the rare occasion of his words. Alexander couldn’t believe it. His grandfather passed him a life jacket. “Mmm, here,” he motioned, his beard encrusted by pig fat. Alexander surveyed the jacket, which was bright yellow. “It’ll be a wonder if the fish don’t see you coming.” Alexander let his grandfather apply the jacket and felt his body shake with excitement: he was going to the sea. His grandfather let him stand up to undo the rope from the railings on the main street, in so doing disconnecting them from the island.

“Okay sea, here comes two fishermen,” his grandfather said, releasing his grip on Alexander’s ankles. Alexander watched wide-eyed as ‘Eliza’ left a V in the water behind them. His grandfather looked at him but never returned his smile. Alexander was old enough by then to have heard various family members, including his grandmother, mention that his grandfather seldom spoke because of that day when Eliza died. Frustratingly, she was only a name to Alexander, like a character in a fairy story. He wished his grandfather would tell him more things about fishing and hoped this trip was his way of finding out. His grandfather always kept a bible in his top pocket but never talked about that either. The whole time Napoleon was with them, sitting diligently, his foul morning breath only partially disguising the old man’s bacon farts.

He was in his sixties by then but Alexander’s grandfather could still row like a man half his age. As their island became smaller Alexander realised his grandfather wasn’t wearing a life jacket over his oilskins. He took that as a sign of his grandfather’s connection with the sea.

“Right,” was all that was said when they’d reached a spot far out where one of his buoys was bobbing, the elements over the years having turned it from red to pink. Alexander looked back at the island, it was the first time he had ever left it, and wondered if this was what the astronauts he had heard about felt as they saw the earth become a globe for the first time, transferred to a whole that they could cup their hands around. His grandfather usually took a small radio with him and on most mornings Alexander would watch him setting off and when he couldn’t hear the radio static he knew his grandfather was no longer of his world. But now here he was, part of that other world, and his grandfather hadn’t turned the radio on at all. Alexander hoped that meant his grandfather would rather hear him. The creel was not granted any special launch into the water more ceremonious than a kick from his grandfather’s boot.

“I hope the sea is hungry,” the old man muttered, as the rope uncoiled after the creel.

“Ha!” Alexander leaned over to watch it disappear and felt a violent tug on his belt.

“Here, careful with that leaning. This is a boat not a bloody hobby horse,” the old man said, re-fixing his hat. Alexander sat back more carefully, fearfully, and watched his grandfather applying worms to the hooks, his fingernails’ bruised with peat. The first rod was cast and then the second.

They bobbed for an hour and nothing was said. Alexander had been told that his father had left the island a young man, when he heard the news that Eliza was pregnant. His grandparent’s had decided it was better left that way. The truth would only lead to shame for them, and for the boy.

“You hungry?” the old man finally asked. Alexander nodded, his knees tucked into his chest. It wasn’t a cold day but winter was still pulling on summer’s tail, his grandmother had said that morning. Each of Alexander’s grandparents had a form of poetry about them: his grandmother with her words, and his grandfather with his lack of them. The weather had turned. There were greyer clouds hovering above and Alexander felt light rain on his face, but he didn’t mind, he was in awe of the water’s expanse and all of his curiosities were being answered.

Alexander’s grandfather unwrapped their lunch which he’d made for them himself. He removed his boots and Alexander saw his grandfather’s woollen socks had expanded to make his feet look like those of a giant. He watched his grandfather look back to the island, at the murky outline almost lost to the low-hanging clouds, but still it commanded the view; it was part of something but at the same time as distant as perfection. Then he looked to the mainland, a faint, lumpy expectation on the opposite horizon. At 66 years old Alexander’s grandfather had never been, his age having narrowly denied him service in both World Wars.

“See that rock face next to the village,” the old man chewed, motioning over his shoulder. Alexander turned around to face their island and nodded. “I can’t hear you,” his grandfather said.

“Yes grandfather.” Alexander tried to clear his mouth of bread and ham.

“Skipper, call me skipper on this boat.”

“Yes, skipper,” Alexander managed. 

“And the paint on it, can you see the letters?” Alexander squinted his eyes; he was already short sighted but could see there were strokes of paint on the rock face. “I painted that after your mother fell, my daughter,” his grandfather announced to the distance. “She was picking daisies. You were just a baby, back with your grandmother at the house. It should have been me that fell.” He fiddled with a rod. “It should have been me.”

“What does it say?” Alexander asked. He had never heard his grandfather talk like this. The old man gulped; his hairy Adams apple danced like a traitor to his emotions. Alexander watched him place one of his big hands on his breast pocket.

“It says ‘God Is Love’, his grandfather replied, “he gave us three more days with her. She should by rights have died instantly. I’ve counted: she fell 120 feet onto the rock below, but still kept her pulse. That was miraculous,” he nodded. Alexander winced, not at the fall, he couldn’t really feel that, but because his grandfather had.

“But why I like it out here,” his grandfather went on, “is because if you look just above the rock you can see a light. I’m asking you if you can see the light, or is it just me?” His voice was pitched higher than usual, sounding almost desperate. Alexander stared to above the dark rock face; the painted letters were still a blurred white.

“I can, skipper,” he nodded. The rain had stopped. He couldn’t see any more light there than he could see elsewhere above their heads, but he wanted to see it; he wanted his grandfather to know he had seen it.

“I can touch it,” his grandfather said, raising his free palm. “Some days on the way back to shore I can clasp it in my hands.” Alexander wiped away his fringe and looked harder. “Okay, enough,” his grandfather said, reaching for his boots; one held a bitten sandwich. Alexander was disappointed; he had never before heard the full story of his mother’s death. When he was a younger child he had believed his grandmother’s explanation that angels had carried his mother away. He wondered now if God had also had something to do with it.

“Well,” his grandfather said, taking a final bite, “she’ll be in a place now where flowers grow. She still held them in her hands,” he nodded, “lying on the rock.” Alexander could see there were tears in his grandfather’s eyes, but he turned away so his grandfather couldn’t see him looking.

For the rest of the expedition they checked the lines, re-baited them several times, and before they left, Alexander’s grandfather tied the creel to the buoy and pulled up the one he had set the previous week. His face creased with the endeavour. Alexander saw there was sweat gathering in the dirt grooves on his grandfather’s forehead.

“She’s heavy,” the old man wheezed, flashing his rotten teeth, the only time he had ever nearly smiled at his grandson. The creel emerged from the water like a sea goddess who had held her breath for a thousand years, wrapped in seaweed, and in it was a lobster.

“Look!” Alexander shouted. He gasped with awe as his grandfather pulled the creel fully onto the boat and leaned down to look the lobster in the face.

“Reminds me of your grandmother, similar claws.” Alexander giggled and his grandfather poured a measure of whisky from a bottle he kept on the boat. He gave his grandson the only glass and swigged several times from the bottle. Alexander couldn’t get the foul liquid beyond his lips and his grandfather looked at him knowing that. There was silence. Then the old man said: “You could have called me Dad.” Alexander wasn’t sure what his grandfather meant. Napoleon had slept for the past hour but now sat up and barked.

“Ah, the little dictator,” Alexander’s grandfather said, clearing his throat and corking the bottle. He began working the oars. “He calls for home and defends the woman he loves. We should get you back.”

They approached the island, having prepared a path that the bigger boats would later follow. Several fish had been caught and they glistened like strips of silver in his bucket, some still wriggled, their eyes desperate and bulging. Napoleon was allowed one and had already torn the stunned head off. As they neared the coastline Alexander could now read the letters on the rock face that he had never seen before, each one a capital and bigger than he was himself. It was the only thing he had ever seen his grandfather write. He couldn’t stop himself looking to the rocks below.

As they turned into the bay and grew closer to the moorings Napoleon barked and jumped off for the shore. Alexander’s grandmother was waiting there, leaning on the white railings with a shawl around her shoulders. She smiled at the emerging wet coat, which was at least happy to see her. The boat came within ten feet of the shore, where the tide could be measured in inches.

“Here,” the old man took Alexander’s elbow and forced him up, “you can travel on foot for the rest of the way. I’ve forgotten something.” Alexander looked down at his grandfather; he was quick to follow the order but didn’t want to leave ‘Eliza’. “Take this to her,” his grandfather said, untying the creel and placing it in the boy’s arms. Alexander wadded towards the shore, he looked back and his grandfather was already twenty yards further out. Napoleon barked continuously and Alexander looked up to his grandmother, who leaned down to take the creel.

“Well, what a gift,” she smiled. Then she turned for home and Alexander followed.

Two weeks passed and Alexander’s grandfather had not returned. To Alexander it seemed like an eternity. And then it was four weeks. The fishermen worked their boats as rescue vessels, the local newspaper printed search updates, holding off on any announcements, and Alexander and his grandmother were comforted by their extended family. It became two months that Alexander’s grandmother endured of staring in expectation, which became hope, then longing, and finally wonderment, at the sea, the mainland, to the direction in which her husband last rowed. Each morning Alexander walked down to the seafront at dawn in his yellow life jacket, his knuckles gripped and turning white on the railings above the shore. In the evenings he lay in his bedroom, which had once been his mother’s, in a shape he hoped was her own, awaiting the sound of his grandfather’s returning clunking boots. His grandmother stared at the sideboard, at the only picture she had of her husband. Alexander didn’t know what to do but try and escape the hushed adult voices around him.

Napoleon was the only one who didn’t seem to grieve; it was as though he knew it was going to happen and was keeping some form of pact with his departed leader. Until one day a month or so later there was a knock on the door and the dog barked. Alexander opened it to see one of the local fishermen standing in orange oilskins; he looked to Alexander like they all did, his face an ageless mask.

“Here,” the man said, “give this to your grandmother.” He turned and squeaked away. Alexander took the note. His grandmother was sitting as usual, her false teeth now removed permanently in grief, leaving Alexander alone in a house with what looked to him like a Hebridean glove puppet. Her teeth she had taken to distilling in whisky. She took the piece of paper from her grandson and unfolded it. A tear fell from her cheek as she quietly nodded.

“What is it?” Alexander asked.

“It’s his final bearings when last seen,” she replied. It was written in the handwriting of those hard men of the sea, in keeping with a tradition they upheld when they themselves lost a man overboard. “It’s what they call a Recognition Notice. They’ve finally considered him one of their own.” Alexander’s grandmother pulled out a handkerchief from under her cuff. She stood and rummaged in a drawer, then moved and taped the notification in the window of the front room. The writing on it faced the outside.

“The highest of honours,” she managed, as she smoothed it to the windowpane. “He has been acknowledged by Longitude and Latitude, Alexander,” she announced to the light coming in over the failed croft turned peat bogs. “He is immortal now. He’s got what he always wanted, he’s one of them, the silly old…” She broke down. Alexander opened the front door and gazed up at the note from the outside. 66 years seemed to him like it was forever.

On a morning several weeks later not more than 200 yards from that dark granite rock face with the big white letters that had barely faded, the grave Alexander’s grandfather instructed by erected in his honour was fixed into the earth. The inscription on the stone was the one he had wanted, which he paid for posthumously, with the proceeds of caught fish. ‘The Unknown Sailor’, it read. His instructions had been found by Alexander in the peat shelter on the croft, written on a page torn from a bible. There was no body beneath the stone. After the small gathering for the service had departed Alexander looked to the sea and wondered: Skipper, are you still out there? With each ripple from his grandfather’s oar he had sent back the makings of a legend. Alexander enjoyed the feeling that gave him and looked to the grave of his mother in the plot beside his grandfather’s stone.

“They are together again,” Alexander heard from behind him. His grandmother had returned for him. She was being remarkably resolute, albeit with the aid of scented teeth. Her pride in her husband’s elevated status in death now competed in a balancing act with her sense of anger at the nature of his sudden departure, and at what he had done all those years before. “He has gone to the sea. It understood him better than I ever did,” she said, putting an arm around her grandson. Alexander looked to the sea, and to the blanket of sky above it. He saw a light beam pierce the clouds and his Adam’s apple jumped like his grandfather’s used to. He couldn’t tell his grandmother what the light meant, he felt if he did it would break a spell of some sort that had been cast out there on the sea.

Alan McMillan

C/o  56 N37, 6 W05

24th April, 1966

Aged 66 years

R.I.P.

Illustration by Jo Burton