About the writer
Maxine Rose Munro is a Shetlander adrift on the outskirts of Glasgow. After spending the first eighteen years of her life exclusively on the islands, without even a small break for the holidays, the culture shock experienced on eventually seeing the wider world rocked her to her core and is still rocking some decades later. However, as the end result appears to be poetry, she is fairly ok with this. She has been writing poetry in for a few years now and her work has been widely published, including in Northwords Now; Glasgow Review of Books; Pushing Out the Boat; and The Eildon Tree. More recently she has begun to publish poetry in her native Shetland Scots, something very close to her heart and much, much harder to do than she would ever have believed when she first started out. Forthcoming Shetlandic poems will be found in Poetry Scotland and Three Drops from a Cauldron. Find her here www.maxinerosemunro.com
The wild time
It took me years to find others didn’t see
music like me – as a space to enter, in which
to move between/with colours and shapes;
a place to drop off the edge and explore
with your fingers, hips, shoulders, moving
around sounds, reaching out to embrace
fizz-violet snare, swivel-hips encased
in treacle-dark base, spine snake-snapping
fuzz-twitch electronic chaos, acid-squelch
staining skin neon, tasting feel-good pastel
bubble-pops or heavenly gospel brights;
feet attacking the floor causing cracks
to crash across to meet in the middle, drop
you into smoke filled depths, so easy
to be lost in the wild time. And the mix begins
over, builds bridges that take you further,
to die and be reborn, faster, harder, better,
a million ways again and again, stretching
through all lifetimes, all chances there are,
to be taken, to know you’ve surfed waves
of potential, you’ve touched the intangible.
And when it ends,
to know you have been alive.
The behaviour of sheep
I remember a heatwave, and when
the rains came, sheep in brittle yellow
fields stood with heads raised, miles
and miles of them, saluting the flood,
holding their parched faces up, stock
still in bleached grass patches, until
the deluge passed.
Stuck inside my ailing car, too hot
to breathe, too wet to open a window
for fear of soaking ancient upholstery,
I felt an envy of sheep I have never felt
before, nor since, and more, I saw that
sheep had secrets they keep
hidden from me.
We will cover your expenses
Please, if you have a heart – take a poet
to the disco. These poor people, ignored
so often, derided, even, for lack of rhythm –
love to dance. Each to their own beat.
Some poets pay particular attention
to their feet, intricate patterns flashing
over disco-lit floors. Others love to strut
or strike a juxtapose – placement
is all. Or nothing. It varies really
what your poet will be like though
many have obsessive-compulsive fixations
and might, embarrassingly, take notes.
I’m afraid your poet could dance all night
striving for that perfect move/tune combo.
Best leave him/her to it. It’s probable
she/he knows what he/she is doing.
But maybe not. Poets are a rare breed
and should be protected. So please – support
our cause, take a poet to the disco.
(we will cover your expenses)