The Hidden Gardens

Written by Alec Finlay and others
Renga Schema by Paul Conneally

Twenty-Four Hour Hyakuin Renga

Summer feet enter hover at varying heights above stone chippings murmur of children building bird boxes, we make warm verses hearing aid feedback cymbal sounds go on and on the cat’s and the dog’s noses twitch reading each others minds a lunar eclipse draws a russet curtain on summer’s plans viewing the apple orchard’s transient constellations why try so hard when our words fall into silences and so will the leaves? starting to speak at the same time eyes glance down it doesn’t matter yet truly I did think he would be interested a bouquet of crocuses on balance, a bad idea so a blue tree there in the top corner en plein air au Barbizon Paris in Springtime without loneliness

across the table the children exchange arguments and kisses there’s a face you’d leave home for he says of the waitress pulling her mink tighter fur buttons too fat for their holes bored by the long break in play they throw snowballs at the spectators teeth gritted then the song that gets everyone up on the floor dazzled by the glitter ball over silent fields a famished wasp charges its ring tone on the last bramble that waterdrop sparkling web invisible? anything but ignoring the blind spot and pulling out, the passenger’s right foot twitches smoke, wrote Brecht, while you drive — if it goes out, something’s wrong in late summer closing the door of her mother’s house for the last time a flat palm smashes open the garlic an angled lemon outshines the chopping board green tea and Qigong on the long haul prevent jet lag in the quiet the monk offers the traveller a blow-job after the ceremony there’s nothing to do but eat early potatoes already sprouting but there’s lead in the soil salt ‘n’ sauce? both hesitate unsure of the others’ tastes forgetting herself a mother on day release cuts up her lover’s meat after breakfast they send out for more oysters whether with or without our noticing the sun’s almost gone the night was made by Provost MacTavish and his good lady boxes crammed with bread, vegetables and cans of mixed fruit salad floating amongst it all a big dollop of vanilla the Lismore ferry — vehicles, and fattened calves heading for market stuff your bloody correctness you’ll lick arse if you have to sixteen shirts every week they don’t iron themselves you know flat white drifts crunched in footprints dog shit melts a hole in fresh snow his paintings emptied till they were all sky two stars tell us the night is cleared for darkness some theorists forget that thinking is a bodily function he throws the beach ball higher so she’s forced to stretch the lines of labour written on her belly in the loft the last train to Partick runs all night fumbling through his euros at the Skye Bridge toll at Sligachan we trace the first and last of the snow on Sgurr nan Gillean Meg asks can she see Sorley’s room the window that looked to the west now the weather’s warmer she shortens her skirts for Blythswood Square after the demo paper everywhere — another man’s job hosing down the corpses pale human flesh — Che, Marat, Christ I am the lamp which guides me even when you can’t see beyond your nose follow the smell of smoke lighting cigarettes in the rain hunched together the callgirl’s nickname for Henri Toulouse-Lautrec was teapot reading the leaves marriage, briefly an out of tune piper lamenting the dead at the gates marked Private she can just see bluebells Spring Bank Holiday everyone hits the road signposted Solitude too many cooks spoil the pancake race in the evening nodding off on the sofa startled by the phone father in Australia talks mostly of cricket dew freezes the outback radar is ranging the moon commuter’s day — leave before sunrise return after dark casting catch nothing casting The Waterfall of the Maiden icy in June damp patches on her blouse a mother’s surprise supply on demand we’ve come to expect food, fuel, gratified desire the leaves come off a glut of green tomato chutney mulch under wellies kicked into the porch the cats hope to impress us with small overnight deaths left on the mat from the oak a candle falls down and out we’ve brought a nightlight for the little one’s next visit leave the frogspawn alone you’ll get all sticky the tadpole succumbs to a carp — so much for evolution picking the samphire at low tide a selkie you say? already wondering how she’ll taste her past lovers lie heavily on his side of the bed a torrid night in the attic the moon slips through the panes sweating up The Rest and Be Thankful wishing for a flat tyre let down once too often from now on the failures will be beheaded clear-cutting the rainforest the whole tribe gets whooping-cough from under their shrouds feet of men, feet of women feet of children at the school nativity the angel kicks the donkey tempers rising Ted slaps Sylvia back even in the silly season poets don’t make the headlines you miss one week and the recycling box takes over the hallway pungent wood smoke from next door they say he saves the ash shrivelled little figs that never made it to the table swirling a late cup of milky tea what she’d like is sunshine wedding day breakfast coffee with whisky then whisky eggs over easy on rye like sprinkled pepper these moles on your back or stars after weeks of deciding they named her Cassiopeia now she sets ablaze the horizon of his eightieth year new clothes for Easter dancing in the street all mouth this spring lots of flounce but nowt left hanging allotments flourish all the way to the summit.

a hyakuin renga in Summer night of the full blue moon the hidden gardens (nva), tramway, Glasgow (noon) 31 July — (noon) 1 August, 2004 nine poets Larry Butler Ken Cockburn David Connearn Gerrie Fellows Alec Finlay Peter Manson Dick Pettit Beth Rowson Colin Will renga schema Paul Conneally with thanks to Anne-Marie Culhane, Morven Gregor & Linda MacDonald

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Some Thoughts on Twenty-Four Hour Hyakuin Renga

A group of poets gather in time-space.

What’s in a day?

100 verses is 4.5 verses an hour; is one every 15 minutes; is a natural rhythm

From noon to noon things change.

The minutes go so slowly.

The hours go so fast.

How much sleep can you do without. How much do you need?

‘I stayed up until I got a verse in’.

Time away from the platform may do you as much good as time spent trying to, and failing to, sleep.

A hyakuin renga is a key chain; one that is unlocked by the sun setting, the moon rising, the moon setting, the sun rising.

Think slumber party.

Expect to feel grumpy, and ecstatic.

Someone will always go to sleep beside the renga.

Eat together after.