New Poems by Hugh McMillan

Poet Hugh McMillan has written two poems in response to the current pandemic, which he has shared with us. He says of the poems:

‘My first instinct to a lot of things is to try and see the funny side of it. Not just because it’s a successful tactic for poetry readings where people are absolutely desperate for a laugh, but because humour disarms and makes the serious stuff that comes after, or before, or during, even more effective and lasting. I think Billy Collins said humour forces open the door. It’s a strategy, not an end in itself. I write as many ‘funny’ poems – or at least ones with funny elements – as I do serious ones but I would judge them all serious, in a way. 

‘I’m treating this current house-arrest as an opportunity to read other people and broaden my perspectives. I’m publishing a blog every day with as many different poets included as I can. I’m certainly not going to write a daily poem in response to the virus. The two I’ve written already – one funny, one serious – will be my viral opus I hope.’

You can read Hugh McMillan’s Pestilence Poems blog here.

Public Safety Advice oan the Brent-New Pestilence 1348

If ye hae been fair awa
or hae met onyane traivellin
frae a kennt hot-spot
ie Asia Minor, the Crimea,
Genoa not Venice
an ye begin tae shaw
the followin signs:

Myld filever,
spreckle-lik spots,
pechin ,
byles in the oxters

an if it isnae possible locally
tae thraw a jew
or a humphy-backit wummin
doon a well, dinnae fash –

adopt the following meesures:

buy or mak a mask wi a big beak
an bide cosy in yer hoose!
There is nae evidence
the disease spreids tae pets
sae dinnae fret aboot yer rottans ,
looses, golachs, sclaturs
or mites they will be jist braw.

The New Old Age

I am looking at the contents
of my coat pocket:
a train ticket, a pencil
plucked from the playground,
a receipt for a steak pie

and large glass
of Sauvignon blanc,
and I think I should put
these on a shelf as symbols
of a lost and easy age

of innocence.
It is enough almost
to make you weep
this sacred detritus,
rubbish pregnant now

with such meaning.
When we emerge
blinking into the future
with our long hair,
our chipped teeth,

our bandaged specs,
will those months
of self-help, yoga,
soda bread and scrabble
swell our brains

to the size of a new world?
Will poetry have seen us through?
I think, jealous
of their high-fiving freedom
through our long days

of want and envy,
we will swarm out to find a rook
to strangle while nature
scatters with a collective sigh
of here’s this lot on the piss again.