Fir Tom Leonard
Dear Tom, d’ye ever hink
aboot how the streets in Spain urr dark
an there’s a vicious cat posse at the entrance tae Kos,
unna light way doon
the alley
ay a back street
in Boulevard du 20 Aout
unna smell ay perfume
so sweet it’s makin me shake ma fist at the ruins,
wummin plying their wares,
when they used tae just be girls too…
D’ye ever hink aboot the furthest part ay the desert in Egypt?
How there’s ridges ay sand –
that huvnae seen hoof or foot or bike or tortoise or bucket or spade,
fuck’s sake
they huvnae even seen
the shadow ay a plane
in seven million years!
The stars
are so bright on that spot…
ivviry night
they ur shinin!
D’ye ever hink…
aboot a lassie up a mountain
wi moonshine
brewin in the basement
an dugs at her feet
that look like fuckin wolves
an fireflies in jars,
and wooden spoons
in an auld tea tin.
D’ye ever hink
how much art ye’d steal fir her
if she smiled at ye
jist yince?
How ye’d kill the president stone dead
if she ivvir
asked ye tae
whilst laying in her bed.
D’ye ever hink how the ocean’s currents are aw runnin?
Fishes swimmin
deep down in the darkest ay depths – right now
flashin electric,
blue an pink an green an huge fuckin eyes
racin out ay yir black abyss
teeth glintin as they slink and glide – on by.
D’ye hink aboot space?
How dark matter fucks us like eighty tae one and how death wish
comets are racin each other tae oblivion.
D’ye ever hink ay aw they dark restaurants – after hours?
Or, mannequins at four a.m. in Brooklyn Queens
by the Smokey Bacon Factory?
Or a nail bar in Peckham.
Or an art gallery just quiet as fuck when every cunt’s finally gone!
An aw the wee dive bars wi two people drunk an holdin ontae each other
like everythin is in their airms at that minute,
and quiet conversations
in poor neighbourhoods, an prisoners in right uncomfy beds
an guns held up steel an cold and metal
tae naked heids,
an hands pressed in prayer,
faces kissing earth
or tongues tracing the salt ay skin.
D’ye ever hink ay the elephants?
How thirr traipsing right across they plains
an how they are buried
yin ay their ain an were slated
by a novelist
wi a bat attitude,
serious – bat as fuck she is,
an how it wiz kindae slanderous
how fast she’d drive
on the A1
past Fort Kinnaird
on a Monday at tits-up-a.m.
D’ye ever hink
aboot aw they bairns –
takin their virry first breath
whae
huvnae learnt yet
tae no trust the agents ay this earth –
D’ye ever hink
how we owe aw ay them…
so much mair
but how there’s still a kindae
fuckin serious
as fuck
splendour
tae every minute ay aw ay this?
About this poem
This poem was included in Best Scottish Poems 2022. Best Scottish Poems is an online publication, which includes 5 poems in Scots chosen by a different editor each year and with comments by the editor and poets. It provides a personal overview of a year of Scottish poetry. The Scots editor in 2022 was W.N. Herbert.
Editor’s note:
When Jenni Fagan asks Tom Leonard gin he’s iver thocht o the first few items on her ever-expandin list poem, ye micht think, ‘Well, he seemed tae think o maist things, sae…’ But as the poem extends ayont Kos, ayont (possibly) Paris (I widna ken), tae consider the edge o the Egyptian desert and the bioluminescent fush ablow the laichest pairt o the ocean, ye begin tae think: mebbe he did and mebbe he didnae but this is a braa poem fur makin ye think aboot aa kinds o limits in yir ain and ithers’ thocht. By the time ye’re considerit the elephants and hou aathin seems tae be happenin at ‘tits-up-a.m.’ ye realise maist o us are still at wan wi the new-borns ‘whae/huvnae learnt yet//tae no trust the agents ay this earth’. It’s an exhilaratin ride thru the possibilities o the language Leonard’s work opened up for aa o us and a reminder no tae bather jist scrievin things Tom Leonard aaready kent.
Author’s note:
I was hugely fortunate to have a friendship with the extraordinary poet and literary titan Tom Leonard. We met at a reading and he just shone@ Tom Leonard was fierce, uncompromising, so clever, so brilliant, so funny and fascinating that it was always a joy to talk to him.
We talked about a great many things that were nothing at all to do with writing but also, of course about our journey as poets, which works we adored, what we aimed for, how the life of writing works when you are unwilling to dilute what you do. We talked about our backgrounds. We talked about what we did not like in the world of literature as well. I liked Tom so much. He was the best kind of person. He was also one of the best Scottish poets and thinkers we will ever have, his essays, his plays, his political awareness, his lack of tolerance for people being treated as secondary citizens. Tom Leonard’s work should be taught on all school curriculums.
Tom made me feel like a poet, which is rare. He completely got my work and me in a way that I have never experienced before or since. The value he placed on what I could bring to the page made me feel more seen than I have ever experienced in the poetry world and his belief in me gives me solace and hope, community and that touch of fire that is vital to continuing this work. He got why I did it, what it was about, and what it takes to continue to live your life this way.
Tom Leonard inspired me in every way, as a one-off utterly brilliant mind and writer, also an equally wonderful person.
I will always be grateful for our conversations and especially for one thing in particular that he said to me not long before he left us with his extraordinary body of work.
I wrote this poem because I miss him and I wanted to talk to him and poetry was the only place to honour the influence he has had on me.
