rock-n-roll hotel

Ode to the Outer Hebrides

This last week I left Ft. William on the west coast of Scotland and traveled through the Isle of Skye and the Outer Hebrides.  I was able to capture some images and write some bits of verse, but I didn't actually use any of the poetry that I wrote along the way for this post.  Instead, something else expressed itself.  I think it's time to head for the Med...

The Great Glenn

About a week ago we set off from Inverness and are walking 75 miles down to Fort William along what is called the "Great Glenn Way".  It's so much more spectacular than my photos can give an idea of.  Throughout the trip I've been feeling Christina and our relationship and what it means to me, because 13 years ago along this very way I realized a love for her that I never did let go of.   I'm realizing that it is not a mature love on my part, in that it is not in "now", it is still in "then", but it is a poetic love and I am curious to see when, if, and how it will find the courage to mature into its full flowering self.  The photos follow the course we have taken so far, up through the mountains and down into a relatively flat area where I was greeted by the "Monument of the Seven Heads."   

 

I wake missing you,

in the morning coffee time,

cream and sugar time

when we wake up time

and  pipe full of tobacco time.

In the early sunshine, 

missing your light

in the wee places of the inside

and the music of the orange juice hours before the noon. 

Missing you

at the noon time when I eat

a sandwich or a bit of fish

and the eggs we used to share:

you in the garden,

me on the lanai work-working

on the school books,

and the heat of the day is clinging to your body

and your beautiful flower-fruit breasts and legs,

and I want to lick you and lick you dry.  .  

 

 

Missing you

in the evening

when the day grows long

and the quiet time descends down

like a snuggle on the couch

after coming in from a dive

with the turtles in the bay,

and everything is hush-hush

as the sun sets

and the moths start to come out for their

evening dances.   

Missing you,

in the late night

after kung-fu time,

and the curling into bed beside you time

to smell you on the sheets begins;

your hair throughout the pillow

your feet and toes reaching out to touch me,

your body pressed in under the sheet with the air still

and salty and full of island flowers.    

Missing you

late at night

when I’m sleeping and alone

in dreamtime’s embrace

the vision of you is deep in my eyes

and me ride-riding the surf down down deep

into the waves underneath

where memory and missing and now and forever

are mingled into a great heaving, sighing, reaching

out in the dark:

And I wake missing you. 

Great Glenn Way

Teach me how to be a child:

Teach me that strength is not more important than being nice;

Teach me that cool is not more important than being thankful;

Teach me that having a good time is not more important than peace.

Teach me that imagination is more important than precision;

Teach me that friendship is more fulfilling than sexiness,
And thankfulness more efficient than proficiency.
Guide me back to my first loves,

When the world was sweet and the excitement of my smile

Was not self-knowledge

But rather lust for living without fear,

in one great flow of angel wings and the 

smiles of the clouds and the sun and the wind and the rain.    

Five Flights to Home: Ode to Princes Street Hostel

Just through this doorway
Is one of the best hostels on earth:
But beware ye brave traveller
There's five flights to the birth
that all must undergo
before they can find therein berth: 



The sign's out the front,
And welcomes you in,
The mates are down center,
And beckon within.

The stairs are damn daunting

But you surge on ahead.

The first flight is over,

And you're not yet dead.

The road was a long one, 

That brought you to here:

From London or further

The call you did hear.

"Come to Princes Street Hostel

The world is your throne.

Come to your haven,

My daughter, my son!"

But the second flight's down,

your legs already are weak:

You'd like to look upwards,

But you're feeling too meek. 


Wo to the visitor
Who's packed a full case!
Wo to the traveller
With stress on his face.
Wo to the packer
Who's ladened with gear!
Wo to the short-legged

Or the drunken with beer.

But the third flight's behind you,
And you could go for one now,
That's why they put a pub here:
"The Royal Order of Buffalo"!

Another pint down

Don't fear we'll make more,

There's plenty to go 'round

If you can get through the door.

The fourth flight is tempting:

Another hostel is here,

The sirens are calling you

to the rocks that are near.

Push on mighty pilgrim!
One flight more to go,
Soon the way is over
and you'll be through the door!

Just then the thought strikes you
Like lightning through wood--
will there be a bed waiting?
You didn't reserve like you should!
Oh, to be turned away,
After five flights of hell!
But even worse is- you realize-

That they might accept you as well!

Then what will you do?

And where will you go?

Every morning and evening
You'll have to climb this damn stairwell!

Too late! It's been done,

And you crash through the doors:

And there at reception

You must make your choice.

But just there to greet you

Before you can turn back from pain 

Is the devil himself

Wearing a grin,

"Come right in! Come right in!"

He waves with a smile,

"You've survived the stairwell,

Yes you've survived the first trial.

No worries, though mate,

There's more yet besides:

Every time you will smoke,

You must go outside!"

"Oustide in the court yard?"

You say like a dope,

"Or out on the veranda?"

you add with more hope.

"Ha-ha," chuckles Satan,

"Just sign right here...

Very good you can check out

Any time you so care.

But there's only one in,

and only one out,

and that's through that doorway

and the stairwell without."

Then before you can answer,

More bust through the door,

And you shoulder your pack

and head for your room,

wondering if maybe

it's not a good time

to quit smoking!