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Poem of the month - July 2007
The Tiller
I am dark and smooth, polished by many hands,
but the one hand that I loved has gone,
so let me swing to the rudder’s motion,
moored in the lee, alone.
I knew the change of weather by his grip
and felt his hunter’s passion like a tide,
and the herring scales he rubbed on me
were jewels that I wore with pride.
I pitied him when wind and rain
pressed him, huddling to steer,
up against my nakedness,
the only language we could share.
There’s not a man in all Kintyre
will point me to the open sea;
I’ll bear no other master’s hand,
but burn instead – unship me.
Angus Martin
Poem supplied courtesy of the Scottish Poetry Library |
About the Poet
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Angus Martin was born in Campbeltown, Argyll, in 1952. He has had thirteen books published, including four of poetry. His first collection, The Larch Plantation, received a Scottish Arts Council Spring Award in 1991, and some of his poems have appeared in anthologies, including The Faber Book of Twentieth Century Scottish Poetry. |
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He is married with three teenaged daughters and has worked as a postman since 1979. He edits the biannual historical journal, The Kintyre Magazine, and his interests include archaeology, local history in its many forms, natural history, hill-walking, and reading. |
Angus Martin writes of the inspiration for the poem
'When this poem was written, more than twenty years ago, herring-fishing was one of the dominant themes of my writing. When I left school in 1967 to become a fisherman, I represented the fifth generation of Martins so employed. I was also the last, but I consider myself fortunate to have experienced the end of herring-fishing and to have known, and recorded, the last of the old men whose lore and learning predated the rampant technological advances which ultimately destroyed the herring-fishing. I don't remember fishing boats with tillers - only steering-wheels - so this poem was a celebration of the Loch Fyne skiffs which disappeared here before my birth, and probably also of my grandfather, Duncan Martin, whom I never knew and whose skiff, the Fame of Dalintober, I never saw and never will see.' | |
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