The Moleman’s Apprentice
surfaced one Friday night
at the village hall
and asked her to dance,
leading the way
through the crowded floor,
parting couples
who closed in tight
behind them.
All evening she stared
into his small eyes
felt his first beard
soft furred
against her face,
but now that’s not
what she remembers
nor his dirty long nails,
his spade-like hands,
his proud boasting
that in a first week
measured in pelts
he had plucked the dead
from their dark;
instead it’s the incident
near the end,
when some joker
flicked a switch
cut the power,
his shudder and scream
as the night snapped shut.
About this poem
This poem was included in the Best of the Best Scottish Poems, published in 2019. To mark the fifteenth anniversary of our annual online anthology Best Scottish Poems, the Library invited broadcaster, journalist and author James Naughtie to edit a ‘Best of the Best’ drawn from each of the annual editions of Best Scottish Poems.
Editor’s comment:
A gothic moment in the village hall. This is funny, dark and even disturbing. What happened next? Who was he? A poem to keep.
This poem was included in Best Scottish Poems 2006. Best Scottish Poems is an online publication, consisting of 20 poems chosen by a different editor each year, with comments by the editor and poets. It provides a personal overview of a year of Scottish poetry. The editor in 2006 was Janice Galloway.
Editor’s comment:
The opposite of anthropomorphism here, misleadingly humorous till the close. Carruth writes about animals better than most, and this side-long animal poem has the force of a smack. Or perhaps a closing trap.
Author’s note:
I have an image of a moleman from childhood – old man Clarke with his grin, his collection of traps, an array of pelts, and yes sometimes an assistant who would normally be his son. This son would become in time the moleman and also be known as old man Clarke. I also remember that his success rate was important to the farmers he worked for and so he would explain, in too much detail for me, approaches and results in each field. It meant that through my childhood the only moles I ever met were dead. Molemen no longer use traps. Instead they use poisons which I’m told is progress.
The first draft of the poem came as a direct result of brainstorming potential titles for poems. I had recently re-read Matthew Sweeney’s brief poem ‘The Lighthouse Keeper’s Son?’ which I enjoyed as a poem and also loved the title. So I started with a blank piece of paper and wrote down other Somebody’s Somebody titles and filled the page. The only two titles that survived into poems were ‘The Tattie Howker’s Daughter’ and ‘The Moleman’s Apprentice’.
‘Tattie Howker’s Daughter’ looked at issues of inclusion and first love and appeared in my recent collection High Auchensale. ‘The Moleman’s Apprentice’ is destined for a future collection.
As far as the development of ‘The Moleman’s Apprentice’ was concerned I started with the title at the top of the page and the rest of the poem wrote itself from start to finish with me following on some way behind. The resulting first draft ended up being very similar to the final version. Looking back at it now, the poem probably captures my teenage angst at attending local dances and that mix of bravado, inappropriate chat up lines and nervous insecurity. So possibly on reflection ‘The Moleman’s Apprentice’ is about me. Great – another poem and another piece of free therapy.
