Poem
Andrew Greig
PIN HEAD
PIN HEAD
PIN HEAD
Close your eyes.What’s left is practically
the shape and size of the head
of a pin.
Gleaming, round, smooth, it resembles nothing
so much as a highly-charged dance floor
for atoms done up to the nines
where you chassis ecstatically (as you seldom did in life)
with your beloved in your arms.
You turn with your mother in your arms.
You are spinning with your father in your arms.
Every love you’ve ever known, however brief or shaming,
long-gone grandparents, teachers, friends, even the odd family dog
is clasped in your arms as you take a turn round the floor
to quickstep, waltz, the Shimmy and the Hippy Hippy Shake,
while the indefatigable band plays over
the rhythm of your pulse.
All this turns
on something the size of the head of a pin
and it is stuck
alongside a myriad of others
in the dark pincushion of interstellar space
which is kept in a corner of the sewing box
of something so vast and forgetful
it seldom remembers to sew
like your Mother who sits all morning
looking out the window at the passing show,
a few buttons short
on the cardigan she has had so long
she has no idea where it came from,
or when she last looked inside
that sewing box in the corner.
She remembers this much: in the War,
people died, and they all loved to dance
and lived when they could, from the heart.
© 2008, Andrew Greig
Publisher: First Published on PIW,
Publisher: First Published on PIW,
Andrew Greig
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1951)
Andrew Greig was born in Bannockburn, Scotland, and grew up in Anstruther, Fife. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh and is a former Glasgow University Writing Fellow and Scottish Arts Council Scottish/Canadian Exchange Fellow. He won an Eric Gregory Award in 1972, and his first book of poetry, White Boats (with Catherine Lucy Czwerkawska), was published in 1973.
It was followed by Me...
It was followed by Me...
Poems
Poems of Andrew Greig
Close
PIN HEAD
Close your eyes.What’s left is practically
the shape and size of the head
of a pin.
Gleaming, round, smooth, it resembles nothing
so much as a highly-charged dance floor
for atoms done up to the nines
where you chassis ecstatically (as you seldom did in life)
with your beloved in your arms.
You turn with your mother in your arms.
You are spinning with your father in your arms.
Every love you’ve ever known, however brief or shaming,
long-gone grandparents, teachers, friends, even the odd family dog
is clasped in your arms as you take a turn round the floor
to quickstep, waltz, the Shimmy and the Hippy Hippy Shake,
while the indefatigable band plays over
the rhythm of your pulse.
All this turns
on something the size of the head of a pin
and it is stuck
alongside a myriad of others
in the dark pincushion of interstellar space
which is kept in a corner of the sewing box
of something so vast and forgetful
it seldom remembers to sew
like your Mother who sits all morning
looking out the window at the passing show,
a few buttons short
on the cardigan she has had so long
she has no idea where it came from,
or when she last looked inside
that sewing box in the corner.
She remembers this much: in the War,
people died, and they all loved to dance
and lived when they could, from the heart.
PIN HEAD
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