Angela McSeveney
Biographical Note
Angela McSeveney became a Shore Poet in 2003 and Treasurer not long after. She lives in Edinburgh and her most recent publication was the pamphlet “Slaughtering Beetroot” published by Mariscat Press in 2008. Click here for more information.
Infirmary Street Baths
They were built in 1895
when it was still believed that cholera
was caused by dirty paupers
not tainted drinking water.
Calling them Public Baths
got across at once
that they were meant for the municipal cleansing
of the working class.
When I swam there almost a century later
my immersions were only ever recreational.
(Back in my shared flat I had a bath,
toothbrush, soap, not to mention
the local launderette and the NHS.)
So I never had call to go upstairs
till an Open Day long after the Baths had closed
and the old Victorian building been revamped
into the Dovecot Tapestry Studios.
Leaning over the railings of the upper gallery
I looked down into the drained basin of the pool.
Three weavers sat at their looms
and plucked at the warp as if it were a harp
where I used to shuttle up and down
counting out the lengths
and the weaker swimmers darted back and forth
filling in the weft.
Handprints
I’d guess they were a man’s
by the hand span and finger length,
perhaps the very chap
who trowelled on the wet cement
and saw his chance before it set
to parody or emulate Hollywood.
Pegged out now on the pavement
like a child’s poster paint print
set solid in the grey concrete
perhaps it’s not the same thrill as finding
similiar prints against ancient cave walls
or the tracks of feet in prehistoric mud,
but whenever I turn this corner,
sun kissed or frost pinched, I’m greeted
by a pair of open hands, outstretched,
the rain collecting like an offering
in the hollows of the upturned palms,
the impression of someone waving.
Concerto for the left hand
Tonight the programme notes introduce
a concerto by Ravel,
composed for Paul Wittgenstein
who took a bullet in the elbow
during the First World War.
A tour de force
the conductor Deneve says
before he raises his baton
and at the end
there are tears in the eyes
of one of the strings players
as the soloist takes his bow.
He has both hands,
his right arm redundant
only for tonight.
He holds on to the edge of the piano stool
to remind himself
that his phantom right hand
has gone, it’s cadenzas and glissandi
silenced like the guns,
his shirt’s empty white sleeve
pinned to his breast where once
a medal doubtless shone.
