Four Poems by Niall Campbell

Jesus Returns in the 21st Century

And of course, the disciples were pretty scared
by this guy appearing beside them
but then he said look at my wounds – and they believed.
Only, he went on – look at them. My wounds.
Please, please look. My wounds. And they looked further.
And on he went – Oh do you see them. My wounds. My wounds. My wounds.

Bear, Dancing

It wore the bracelet of the clamp, and danced,
awkward as a wedding guest; its fur
wearing the dark of rice and milk –
great bulk,
swaying in the corner of the market,
beside the sunlight’s bowls of turmeric.

We saw it three times, I remember: twice
it danced – but once, the owner stopped the music
and, wooden puppet to its case, it slumped
to rest. I saw strange things: the brown-eyed soul
apprehend itself in its looking-glass;

I saw the empty night-fall market place
close up: board, shutter, stall to stall, the rhythm
that’s there and isn’t. I saw the dropped bear,
weighing its stillness: sad, intelligent,
fur and paw and clamp – and, in its stillness, dance.

Houdini

I would have come across the water
to have seen you dressed
in the stiff jewellery of irons,
the cold and zero-ed chainlink,
wearing the sigil of the padlock
and swallowing its key.

Watching the platform gather lights,
I would have liked to know:
your hands, what do they call themselves:
rescuer or rescued,
as blood is felt in those far stations
of the skin, again.

It seems important, maybe more
for us who stand and watch.
Should we only see the second part,
the freeing act of love;
or should we count the first part, too?
When these hands set the locks.

A Man Carrying His Own Door

Wood [being rare]… therefore was very highly prized. The value of timber can be confirmed
by the fact that, on leaving a holding, tenants were usually allowed to take both the roof-
couples and door with them on their departure.
The Scottish Clearances, T. M. Devine

Ah yes, the man is at his life again.
Or so I think – when watching him,
prince with his duties, easing nails
from a hinge, the hinge from its grooved wall.

He liked this work. The hammer stroke,
the chisel peeling butter curls
of whitest wood – their pattern fall
around the job’s circumference.

And now it’s lifted free – hauled free
into the air – just like those tenants,
who, once evicted, since wood was rare,
were free to take their doors with them.

Can’t you see it? The huge shield-weight
of a door being carried by a man.
Near seventy, now. But just you try
to share the weight, or take an end.

Oblivion – or something softer
and just as dark has said its name.
The rain is knocking, hard as light,
on the wood length held by his ear.

Niall Campbell was inaugural winner of the Edwin Morgan Poetry Award. His collections, Moontide (2014) and Noctuary (2019), have been shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best First Collection and Forward Prize for Best Collection, respectively. He is currently writing an opera for the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra.