#Roddy Lumsden

[itsyveinthesky]

[inwitty]

El hombre que pude haber sido

El hombre que pude haber sido trabaja para una institución vital: es una institución vital. Sin él, los muros se desmoronarán, en algún sitio, la pintura se desconchará. Saca partido. Es campestre y dice Vaya pesadilla y se refiere al tráfico. Es feliz viendo una película y está a punto de vivir en una. El hombre que pude haber sido tiene una camioneta Subaru del color de los tomates cherry. Tiene saldo a favor, no anda en lo oscuro. Su madre está tranquila. Hay mujeres que siguen teniendo su foto de bebé en los portafotos de sus carteras. No se le muere nadie. El hombre que pude haber sido posee pedazos de ropa no desgastada antes por tíos. No necesita medicinas. Camina de Powderhall a Newington en veinte minutos. Toca un poco el piano. Sin él, los paraísos ceden, las camas de los enfermos proliferan. El hombre que pude haber sido vive por aquí cerca. Es calladamente algebraico. Sin él, el granito no brilla. Y cuando ve una crisis, no se sumerge en ella de cabeza. Vota, porque cree en su democracia. El hombre que pude haber sido tiene sentido de la orientación. En el Cluedo, nunca le salió la Srta. Escarlata en la cocina con la daga. Conoce el estado de su tierra y siembra su semilla. Llegará a ser padre. No es un experto ni un entendido. El hombre que pude haber sido tiene un pase de temporada en Tynecastle. Vuelve a casa de noche y pone Lo Mejor de U2. Navega. Echa cosas caras en el agua del baño. No anuda su vida con secretos. El hombre que pude haber sido nació en un pedestal. Conoce la historia de Willow Pattern. Tuvo un sueño anoche que te encantaría escuchar y recuerda las letras de las canciones. Su espalda es una silla en la que han cabalgado amantes. El hombre que pude haber sido tiene dentro un soberano discurso que aún no ha pronunciado. Podría muy bien pelearse con un oso. Es un hombre de mundo. Lleva encima el precio exacto. Sin él, trauma surtido. El hombre que pude haber sido, ese, aprende de mis errores. Nunca pensó que fueras a ser tú. Y nadie dice de él tiene una pinta bastante bíblica. No necesita a Londres y camina por mitad de la calle porque es suya. El hombre que pude haber sido es rápido y limpio. No es un Cristo de pueblo ni un César de aserrín. Sin él, el agua salada te entraría en los pulmones. No oye estos xilófonos interminables. No es él ese que yace ahí.

— Roddy Lumsden, tomado de Mischief Night: New and Selected Poems (Bloodaxe Books, 2004). Original aquí.

[contremineur]

Roddy Lumsden, Pagan (in ‘Book of love’, Bloodaxe 2010)

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Hard Work --Roddy Lumsden

Tricky work sometimes not to smell yourself, ferment being constant—constant as carnival sweat (a non-stock phrase I palmed from a girl from Canada, a land where I once saw this graffiti: life is great).

And I have tasted myself, especially when I spilled sinigang all down my arm in a Pinoy workers' caff in Little Manila. I drank sinigang (is soup drunk?) in Big Manila too, with all its dead skyscrapers.

Seen myself? In looking glasses or, looking down, stocky as a shift working cop, maybe a Mexican cop full of beans (frijoles, I mean, not vim), paunch full of sopa de vigilia, pulling over a sozzled bus driver.

Heard myself speak fluently in my own language, have heard myself too described as hard work (as hard to get through as Scotch broth), though once someone rather bladdered told me I was magnetic.

And I may as well admit that I have touched myself (who hasn't?). In a forest, on a train, in New York and Paris with unparalleled handiwork, sinning as I go, merry as an office boy spooning onion soup.

[allyourprettywords]

“Women in Paintings,” Roddy Lumsden

The masters laboured – all the hours of the clock – to clone the ringlets of a marchioness or pull a cape of dark around the head of an ecstatic saint.

Portraiteers talked low and long to captive sitters, so Boleyn’s swan neck can still be kissed, Jill persist in a steel blue frock, the year my parents met.

And in Sous Bois, Corot threw down a lilac twister of a sunstreak, through which the bonneted girl is ever about to step, daydreaming of candied fruit.

Day yields to dusk. The artful lie takes awful work. We strive words from the loath core of our will: You will be loved again. Everything’ll be all right.

[rabbit-light]

Autism

Some nights I catch the smell                           of the lives of others, all that is awry, agley,                           the washers loose, the springs rust-bunged.                           Or the sheerest glee I hope and fear that friends may feel:                           their refound wallet or the cat returned after a week                           and just a little thin. And when I say I smell this, I am                           talking creosote, broth smog, thinners. The room hangs                           round the smell, would bow to its bidding or bawl                           at its funeral. I strain to enter the life of another,                           to bathe them, taunt them, treat. For people mainly think they only                           think they think that no one thinks like them. But I too                           have met against your tarriest thought, your sick ambition,                           lay late with a knife in my mind, or a pulse of appalling glory.                           We are alike as mercury and nickel are, as leopard and gazelle                           might blink in unison. Even my siblings are disarmingly other.                           And as a man walking through all hours of darkness, clearing                           to clearing, stile to well to glebe to turnpike, I catch a gamey taint                           of other beings, softly being, grinding in foliage, cowering in boles,                           zedding to warrens. Paralleling you in bed, I give marginally less                           of myself when sleep grips its pliers. No one has ever known me.                           Is that cute? I hear a woman say, 'I died that night.' A man in the audience                           shouts out in the quiet part of the play. Some self-styled prophet screams,                           full minute, on the beach and all the poppers scatter from the sea,                           gapey-eyed and clinging at Mummy. I count these sifting colours                           of my brief spectrum, halfwise touching each in turn. You should                           believe me when I say that what I am seeing now is something                           you must never see.

Roddy Lumsden

[billherbert23]

Roddy, 3

(From a 2005 review of three books for Poetry London, of which Roddy’s was Mischief Night.)

Roddy Lumsden’s new and selected poems marks him out as one of the most distinctive voices in British poetry. The black wit, the brilliant phrase-building and the instantly-recognisably sensibility add up to a territory he has made his own. Tenderly lusting, capable of extravagent loucheness, ‘damaged goods’ as one poem overhears, he is the King of Lachrymosity, presenting both our nagging appetites and our little uglinesses with an expert eye.

The centre of this book is the decidedly un-Whitmanic song of himself, Roddy Lumsden is Dead , an anatomy of melancholy for our time, taking us from ‘My Reptilian Existence’ to ‘My Realm of the Senses’ in thirty-odd uneasy steps. As he admits, ‘I know I know I shouldn’t know such things’, but nonetheless, how seductively he shares them:

…and tomorrow I will wake in the Japanese annexe:

my pomegranate mouth, my yak flank hair,

the skin of my back busy with mill-sweat,

feet beeling and dinging like buck-rabbits

and a dispirited girl will play a Chopin Nocturne

over and over, through in the sunlit lounge

as if someone had written a script.

Sorry: as if someone hadn’t written a script.

His lines are always crawling with precise details, pitiless with themselves regarding their constant self-regard, and twitching between phrases to graph the sensibilities that lesser poets tuck away. Some readers will perhaps locate more of those in the earlier poems – ‘Then she rolled over, laughed, began to do/To me what she so rarely did with you…’; ‘I’d been guzzling vinegar,/Tipping it on everything, falling for women who were//beautifully unsuitable’. But the more recent work, ‘The Bubble Bride’ and ‘The Drowning Man’ are full of intriguing experiments and unusual shifts in familiar perspectives.

One thing they work with more openly than in earlier poems is the list – a device that will be familiar to those who try to keep up with his spiralling encyclopaedias of trivia in print and on the Net. In ‘The Perfumes of Scotland’, ‘The Kitchens: A Guided Tour’, or ‘Overheard in a Scottish Larder’, the appetite for catalogue is almost as generous as the cataloguing of appetites itself:

Rasps straicht fae the Carse of Gowrie, cries ane.

Rain-fed brambles fae Fife hedgerows, says the ither.

The first goes, dinnae let on what a haggis is,

the ither goes, nivver let on what a haggis is.

A platefu’ o Scotch broth or Royal Game, mibbe?

Naw, a dish o cullen skink or cock-a-leekie!

Says wan, it’ll crawl roond yer hairt lik a hairy worm.

Eat up, yer at yer blind auntie’s, cries the ither.

As the language shift here into colloquial Scots indicates, the energy at the base of Lumsden’s ferocious capacity for lists has much to do with his background. MacDiarmid’s love of lists was merely a late form of that frenzy for particulars we find in Scots writing as far back as the mid-sixteenth century Complaynt of Scotlande. The will to encompass a subject by gathering together all the ways of saying it – all the regional variations of the psyche, as it were – is entirely characteristic of a nation poised between discourses for much of its history. In this sense, these poems enact a slow arc of exile from the self, but return to the sensibility of the nation.

[poem-today]

A poem by Roddy Lumsden (RIP)

Then

For the first time, I listen to a lost and secret recording of us making love near-on ten years ago. I recognize your voice, your sounds, though if I knew no better, I could be any man in any room. After, the rising sounds of rising and of dressing and once as you step up close to the deck, perhaps to pick up shoes, you sing the chorus of Sunday Morning. I call on you to hurry and we leave. It does not end then; the tape rolls on. A few late cars which sigh by might have passed us walking away triumphant, unaware we’ve left behind this mop and mow mechanism of silence to which we may never return.

Roddy Lumsden

1966-2020

Roddy Lumsden died January 10th, 2020. RIP

More poems by Roddy Lumsden are available on the Poetry Foundation site.

[the-mad-reader]

[alwaysalreadyangry]

hi charlotte! random question, but i think i remember you posting a little while ago about poetry workshops and i was wondering how you’d gotten involved in them? finding it exceptionally hard to write in isolation with no accountability & have been trying to scope out writing groups but i am so distrustful of the creative writing industrial complex and can’t afford the £££ it all seems to cost anyway

hiya! oof this is a tricky one because they often are expensive and for years i didn’t go to any at all because money.

first of all, you can find long term groups running as a totally free situation, in friendship groups or attached to universities… they can be good but they can also be hit and miss and i often enjoy having a bit more structure, with a paid instructor. YMMV though. i never found one that fit for me longterm although i did make friends at a university one many years ago. these are either hard to find out about or you stumble over them.

for one off generative workshops, which I have been a bit more interested in recently (i.e. try writing exercises with minimal sharing of your writing), i have sometimes found these attached to poetry festivals, either free or priced as a single session. i recently attended some that cost £15, which isn’t cheap but isn’t the same as paying £400 for a term like some of the commercial places charge. and it’s a good way to try out different instructors and see what they’re doing, what i vibe with and what i don’t. this can involve a certain amount of googling around for poetry news, following lots of people on twitter, etc. poetry stuff is so fragmented, it takes a lot just to know what’s available, you know?

you similarly get stuff not priced so highly at community centres and not-for-profit centres, poetry specialist or not. the poetry project in NYC runs some one off sessions for free that are basically workshops… these have been online recently but have started going back to in person now. i attended one and it was fun! lots of people but not much social interaction because of the size of it and the set-up.

there’s also this generative workshop called Devotion that I’ve attended… it’s usually a few sessions in a season (or whatever you’d call it) and there’s a certain amount of chat and updates from everyone but it’s focused on writing rather than revising. it’s kind of nicely in the space between occasional generative workshops and a full ongoing revision-focused workshop. costs more than a lone session but less than a full class. there’s a discord too and it’s very nice and chill. this might work the best for what you’re looking for? you can see about it here.

i have occasionally done courses though the poetry school in the UK, and after a competition win this summer i treated myself to an online course through brooklyn poets which was outside of my usual budget. these are more expensive as you get more sessions usually or a good chunk of the instructors’ time over a day, and they’re built to form a proper part of their income. the poetry school does offer discounts and bursaries for their courses so it’s worth checking out if you’ve not attended one before. i usually book for these because of a specific topic i like and maybe more importantly because i like the poet teaching and feel like their work somehow speaks to me/indicates that i would enjoy a class the poet is teaching. usually works out pretty well!

for university stuff i took out a bank loan for my MA (NOBODY SHOULD EVER DO THIS) and we paid it off with money inherited from my grandmother. bad idea, bad decisions were made. and my PhD was funded but i am still in credit card debt from it years later and it made me so fucking miserable. if you can find a department that will pay you to go there - enough to live on! - then go for it. otherwise, it’s not worth it.

a decade ago i was lucky enough to be invited to take part in the poet Roddy Lumsden’s weekly group. it was long running and went on for years, charging about £100 a term, for long workshop sessions with people i trusted and respected. I’m kind of in awe of how lucky i was in retrospect - I’ve never really had anything like that again since.

[graywyvern]

( via / via )

Blood Moon Over the Land.

"Soren K

A fire broke out backstage in a theatre. The clown came out to warn the public; they thought it was a joke and applauded. He repeated it; the acclaim was even greater. That's just how the world will come to an end: to general applause from wits who believe it's a joke." --@svenbirkerts

"No weekends for the gods now."

"Between Hallowe'en and Bonfire Night

Just then, encountering my ruddy face in the grand piano's cold black craquelure, it conjured the jack-o'-lantern moon dipping up over the roofs of the Tenderloin.

Only when I have done with the myths— the inner spill that triggers us to flame, breasts so sensitive a moment's touch will call down fever; the dark sea-lane

between limbic squall and the heart's harbour— will I picture you, just beyond innocence, lying stripped by a thrown-wide window, letting the cool breeze covet your ardour."

--Roddy Lumsden

Dereliction 3.

"I never get why people think we would claim to be autistic when we aren't. Is there a cash prize I don't know about?" --@Cyclingwendy22

A Permanent Residence in the Uncanny Valley.

[manualstogo]

For just $3.99 Released on December 23, 1942: The story of the British Battleship HMS Torrin is told in flashback by the men that fought WWII with her. Genre: Drama Duration: 1h 55min Director: Noel Coward Actors: Noel Coward (Captain E.V. Kinross R.N.), Derek Elphinstone (Number 1), Michael Wilding (Flags), Robert Sansom (Guns), Philip Friend (Torps), Chimmo Branson (Midshipman), Ballard Berkeley (Engineer Commander), Hubert Gregg (Pilot), James Donald (Doc), Michael Whittaker (Sub), Kenneth Carten (Sub-Lieutenant, R.N.), John Varley (Secco), Bernard Miles (Chief Petty Officer Hardy), Caven Watson (Brodie), John Mills (Ordinary Seaman Blake), Geoffrey Hibbert (Joey Mackenridge), Frederick Piper (Edgecombe), Lionel Grose (Reynolds), Leslie Dwyer (Parkinson), Charles Russell (Fisher), John Singer (Moran), Robert Moreton (Coombe), , John Boxer (Hollett), Kenneth Evans (Posty), Johnnie Schofield (Coxswain), Franklyn Bennett (Commander Spencer), Charles Compton (Number 1, Tremoyne), Walter Fitzgerald (Colonel Lumsden), Gerald Case (Jasper), Celia Johnson (Mrs. Kinross / Alix), Daniel Massey (Bobby), Ann Stephens (Lavinia), Joyce Carey (Mrs. Hardy / Kath), Kay Walsh (Freda Lewis), Kathleen Harrison (Mrs. Blake), Dora Gregory (Mrs. Lemmon), Penelope Dudley-Ward (Maureen), Barbara Waring (Mrs. Macadoo), Eileen Peel (Mrs. Farrell), Lesley Osmond (Nell Fosdick), Josie Welford (Emily), Kay Young (barmaid), Trixy Scales (Mona Duke), George Carney (Mr. Blake), Wally Patch (Uncle Fred), Michael Anderson (Albert Fosdick), Jill Stephens (May Blake), Everley Gregg (nurse), Roddy Hughes (photographer), Norman Pierce (Mr. Satterthwaite), Juliet Mills (Freda's baby), Richard Attenborough (the young powder handler), John Brabourne (the soldier in the Dunkirk scene), Leslie Howard (narrator voice). *** This item will be supplied on a quality disc and will be sent in a sleeve that is designed for posting CD's DVDs *** This item will be sent by 1st class post for qui...

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 13

For the first time, I listen to a lost and secret recording of us making love near-on ten years ago. Through branches of cherry plums suck a week’s soak, overnight they explode into the hummingbirds. To soil. That. Them through another turn on the decks of the rough on the center pillow past midnight, sick with the thought of beauty from my arms, Faded the shape of beauty from my eyes, Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise – Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve, When the dusk holiday – or holinight Of fragrant-curtains open on the vines bare to the body than that.

[blairemclaren]

Roddy Lumsden Death - Poet Passed Away

Roddy Lumsden Death – Poet Passed Away

Roddy Lumsden Death – poetry London announced the death of Roddy Lumsden.

Poetry London on Monday, 10th of February 2020, mourns and sent their thoughts to the family and friends of the great poet Roddy Lumsden.

Roddy Lumsden has in many ways influenced contemporary poetry in large scale through the way he mentor numerous poets. Our prayers are with his family , may his soul rest in perfect peace.

[finalrestingoftheark]

77. “Goodbye Joe” by The Monochrome Set

I sang this in Borders cafe once. A simple song, easy to play, so you can really stick your heart into it. It all started back in Edinburgh of course, Roddy Lumsden bringing down the 7″ for me and Kevin to play at Sleepless Nights, in between Gram and Galaxie. Coming close to the big time. 

The rest of the catalogue was a bit too arch for me - wilfully clever maybe (or perhaps I just wasn’t bright enough). Proof once again that you only need one amazing song to make an impression. 

Goodbye. Goodbye. 

Waltzer swirls like Rock & Roll Star in exactly the right place. All the pretty girls they drool for him. Two sevens clash in 80. Before my time but right on track. 

[begonedullcare]

15 july 2018

“Simone’s Carouself” -- Roddy Lumsden; “The Burning Girl” -- Mary Karr [1]; “things at which i excel” -- Gina Marie Bernard; “I was at that age” & “Tough to chew her mostly rounded leaves” [2] -- Jenny Gillespie Mason; finished Film as Film -- Perkins.