Jane Bonnyman

UNTITLED (SPINSTER CALEDONIA)

She looks beyond the kailyard and midden,
beyond the aged frame to that day full of sun,
sitting with him on the beach at Stonehaven,
when she felt as if she were outside herself,
watching the beginning of things: the sand
spilling through her fingers; the herring gulls
calling from the cliff; the sea scattering
cowrie shells across the shore — and God!
she never thought years later she’d end up
stuck in a blanket bog, among the sedge
and deergrass, wondering whose fault it was,

and though she knows it’s more to do
with untaken paths and the fear she’s kept
for so long wrapped in a thornproof cloth,
she finds it easier just to put it down to
the weather, the months of rain and smirr,
or sometimes, like those other wearied Scots,
she blames the English for her hard luck –
the lonely croft and its failing crops –
and for all the fishing trips, back and forth,
in her salt-worn boat, only to bag nothing,
but the odd sprat or common whelk.

BACHELOR SCHOOL

after Kim Hyesoon

I work at a bachelor school.
In this city, it is one of the last schools that trains bachelors to become eligible.
I lecture in communication and miscellaneous skills.
I run conversation classes in café bars and lead workshops
on synonym writing in which bachelors practise finding other words
for ‘babe’, ‘hot’ and ‘chillin’ with my mates’.
I make them do rounds of 12 bicep curls with laundry bags,
followed by 50 deadlifts with a selection of casserole pans.
I make them unlearn football scores, the names of American Presidents.
I make them uncount the number of mountains they have climbed,
then I teach them how to lie down on the cushion moss and contemplate the sparrowhawk
and field vole, the piece of flint loosening itself from the path.
I teach them how to decipher their emotions, studying each one carefully
the way they might slide a rare vinyl from its sleeve and hold it to the light.
I teach them how to open a car bonnet and tell me they see the heart of a beluga whale.
I have no ulterior motive,
other than to repair the damage done by The Big Lebowski –
(a bachelor who lives in shorts/sweatpants may never proceed beyond Foundation Level).
At the end of term two, I announce
that to qualify for the Advanced Certificate, a bachelor must complete units
on removing limescale and cleaning Formica, and cook three meals from scratch.
It is usual for most bachelors to drop out; only a few will graduate –
those who shine like bullet cufflinks and polished brogues.
They’ll be snapped up like mangosteen.
Years later, they’ll stop me on the street and say their happiness is stratospheric.
They’ll write thank you cards and send them to my office in the old quad
where I’ve been for the past 20 years, at the top of the gothic tower,
up the C18th spiral stair, and far away from the action.

Jane Bonnyman is a poet and teacher from Edinburgh. Her work has been widely published in journals including Mslexia, The Frogmore Papers and The Rialto. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University. Her first collection, Date Show is now available from Blue Diode Press.

Jane said the following about ‘Untitled (Spinster Caledonia) ‘:

This poem begins with one of my favourite scenes from Sunset Song where Chris is falling in love and seems to observe her situation from a distance, as if she is studying a painting. The second stanza is a reflection on why she ends up alone, and I switch from Chris Caledonia to my own experiences. It was fun exploring the links between poetry and contemporary art, as well as delving into the Scottish psyche.

And for ‘Batchelor School’:

For this poem I was inspired by Kim Hyesoon’s wonderfully inventive ‘Ghost School’ and I wanted to try moving from the factual to the abstract while still maintaining a sense of formality and purpose in order to create humour. I love using lists in poems, so I enjoyed exploring how much detail I could include to make it sound as if such a place existed.