Exhibition

Efter ‘Behind the Lines’

I spok aboot this wae Simon, efterwards.
The wey wan object
kin change a whole exhibition.
Withoot hid those Orkney artists’ draaeens
widda been more o whit ye might expect:
a fisherman in a raffle o nets,
creels up the pierheid waal, botts in the basin;
a fermer gannan oot the back o his tractor
at the dreel beneath; dry stane dykes bright
wae lichen and the big skies, af coorse.
And a group o young men,
in-aboot the links o the fourth barrier,
perched oan flat stones roond a peedie fire;
twa couples oan the cathedral steps,
laughan intae thir hands.

Hid wis artworks more
populated than whit wir winked wae—
that wis a differ right there.
Bit the AK-47 transformed the draaeens
completely—jarred so much
wae whit shoulda been—
hitched across backs, hung fae the shoolder,
propped up against oot-buildeens and legs.
Hid waarped the simple act o mark-makeen—
became centre o gravity
and hids negation—double-faced emblem
o guerrilla waarfare and the mercenary

like a dark splinter at thir heels;
young weeman, suppan oan mugs
o home-made soup, dunkan hunks o loff.
And whit else wis at thir feet?
A scafoldeen knuckle? A drain pipe?
If this wis phottos
hid widda been different.
Wir used wae photography’s unsettlement.
Bit this wis pastel and graphite
in a peedie touristy gallery up St Olaf ’s closs,
fudge fur sale oan the coonter,
an Orkney chair huggan hidseal bae the fire.
Years Ago, hid whispered.

Kevin Cormack