Thursday, September 8, 2016

Scottish Poet Roy Moller

Poet Roy Moller considers himself an outsider in life in general, having lived with dyspraxia all his life and the co-ordination and social difficulties the condition has brought with it. He was born and brought up on the east coast of Scotland and lived in Dunbar, near Edinburgh,

He is a self-taught poet and has had work  featured in Neu! Reekie! #Untitled Two, And Other Poems, Ink, Sweat and Tears among others. He has one collection, Imports, published in 2014 by Appletree Writers' Press, and a pamphlet in preparation.

Your Driver

clamps a cigarette
between red lips;
she straps her seatbelt over
then reaches for the lighter.

She’s marched you up the Spanish Steps
to sit among the students,
to stall a while with those who 
work less, 
                work better,
                                    and beat you
at surrendering to pleasure.

She’s brought you mists of 1910
on stairs at Rue Foyatier.
You caught Lapin Agile
and then she brought you down again
to breathe in the boiled rice 
glued on plates of paper.

She’s strapped you in the back seat 
of a sleek, sick and numberless car.
Direction: city limits.
Destination: waste ground.

The Leisure Jets

From rattling steelworks fences,
gusts give way to rumble.
Shonky dawn detects
cheap thunder ploughing on, 
the grim sound of business.

The urgency of leisure jets
roars above a dirty shirt
behind whose flannel 
light bulges, belly forward;
light spills and spreads and sparks 
tobacco. Light ricochets off crutches.
Light disappears off radar

in red brick parks
where plastic bags 
play tattered crow 
propped dead in bitter branches. 

And rumble, rumble…leisure jets 
scramble for Winter Sun.

Scottish Poet Roy Moller

The World is Waiting for the Sunwise Turn

offers precise location 
of my dumbest utterance,

worst-judged kiss
and saying no when I 
quaked for yes.

splutters out map reference
for acts of wasted capitulation.

Sleep comes
in fits and starts and fits and starts,
like all my other effort.

My eyes take the pulse
of inanimate objects.
I will myself to a drugged horizon, 

lit like a prison ship,
welded to silence 
till sky starts squawking.

Building riffs from stuck ignition,
birds scream various shades of murder
and kill the hour of confession.

1 comment:

  1. It was Roy Moller’s ailment, dyspraxia, something I had never heard of, that prompted me to read his poems which I admire a great deal. Also his suggestion that he is a “self-taught” poet. I always thought “self-taught” poets are the only kind and then I remembered all the MFA programs and degrees in creative writing available to aspirants. This confirmed my belief that “self-taught” poets are the real ones unless someone with that native ability spends the money to pursue one of those degrees. Maybe to teach later in one of those programs in order to eat while writing poems. I still think you either have to write or you don’t but if you have to write you may not mix well in a poetry workshop.