Goodbye John II – a previously unpublished poem by Roddy Lumsden
Goodbye John II
Not November 1785. But 'Burn's Week' so the Rochester
Castle informs and offers neeps which the chalkboard
explains – oh chalkboard of the western world which is so
torn over the naming of turnips – we will self-strangulate if
the swede is ever evenly snug in nomenclature. My head's as
thick as a tramp's phlegm. It's been a dodgem weekend. My
head's not natty. There's bickering brattle. The habbie is in
wilt. I am sinking a jug of Great Scot, with Robin on the
facing, Scott being the name of my lady friend's person-
friend who tried it on with me when she was in the deep of
zedding, her hard-working bras rowed on the radiator, the
ginger cat zipping the garden and her, lady, of sorts, unaware
her chap was acting on her rumour of my specific machinery,
how it would fill his throat. Chest pains. A panic? House-
moved? There are things I would tell none of you, but I
cannot see them in this picture. That I can move to The
Amersham and try to see the clears above the lily-spread is
proof enough that I am real. I woke yesterday and the mad
one asked me, 'which of us was sick in the night – you, me
or the cat?' The answer being none, but probability had
brought the vommy tang to the room. Burns' monkey gone
to heaven, shaking paws with the mouse, home at last. No
schemed are laid. Paint dries in minutes since the century
turned. Burns looks trig in his painted breeks – oh the view
behind him. But there is nothing much to his crotch – a little
pouch of ploughman's snuff. 'Nine inch will please a lady'.
Aye, but Robin, how did you figure that? My Person from
Porlock in this poem was a retired goldsmith from
Monseratt, deftly manic, our manic magnets attracting. This
is a half and chaser thing because I stopped to yabble with
him. A rumour skirred that Burns had never known a mouse,
that Salinger had not struck out through chest-high rye. I
lingered over what I had snuck into the wallet of lies. I
thought 'nil by mouth', but my mouth is prone. Like you tell
a bad kisser that they are okay and schtum on some things,
some times. Larkin killed a hedgehog; Jennybear wants one
as a pet. These were the days of Islamic State, Jaegerbombs
and driverless cars. I wished for a lark-diffed field I could up
and down, some kind of worker. John can't move to Reading
– company move – why would he? Goodbye. The idea of a
raft, of drifting near to Ayr, fur-snug, no need of nestie-
bigging. 'What are you reading?' 'Burns. Robert Burns. Have
you heard of him?' 'Oh, and to save time, let me say my
middle name is Chalmers and my parents are 13th cousins.'
The toothsome girl sat by me is reading Brecht – a man who
said he needed coffee before he could face a coffee. I practise
my 'famous last words.' 'Don't let the awkward squad fire
over my grave.' Dammit, Burns got there first. 'I told you I
was ill.' Dammit is the name of a goldfish which I buried
with a love who bursted me, near Brunel's great bridge.
Enough apostrophes? Hello Robin. I wouldn't've, but I'm
close to horny on clitic phrasing. The mad one napped next
to me and I slipped my hand down, more for warmth, not
naughtytude. Warmth. She wriggled in her nest. Burns, I
wonder for the underwear you might have slid off various
Jeans. Oh knickers, I am truly sorry. I get it, yes, you bastard
pedant, that social union is the hub of those habbies. But I
think of a mouse in knickers, cold, her teensy structure done
for. I was not there, but I feel her on my shoulder then at my
thrapple. Nuzzle me, sweetkin. Tell me what the bad man
did to you.
NOTES
- This poem was sent as a late addition to the Roddy Lumsden Archive (still being catalogued at time of writing) and was found by AB Jackson among a batch of poems that missed the cut for Roddy’s final collection So Glad I’m Me (Bloodaxe 2017).
- The original layout of the poem, like many prose poems, uses Justified Text – with the left and right margins of the lines aligned. However, WordPress (which the SPL website runs on) doesn’t allow Justified Text in its layout options. So we’ve had to leave the right edge of the lines unaligned.
- We’d like to thank Paul Barnaby who is dealing with the Archive at its new home at Edinburgh University for permission to use the poem here. And thanks also to Roddy’s friend and champion, Mark Reed, for showing us the Archive at the SPL, and for helping facilitate permission.
