Don Paterson (b. 1963) is a Scottish poet from Dundee, where he still lives and plays jazz guitar in a band. He has taught poetry and was appointed Officer of the Order of the British Empire. His poetry unique on two T.S. Eliot Prizes and the list of awards goes on. I read a remarkable ode to a love affair that has died:
But what lovers we were, what lovers,even when it was all over—the bull-black, deadweight wines that we swungtowards each other rang and ranglike bells of blood, our own great hearts.We slung the drunk boat out of portand watched our sober unreal lifeunmoor, a continent of grief;the candlelight strange on our faceslike the tiny silent blazesand coruscations of its wars.We blew them out and took the stairsinto the night for the night’s work,stripped off in the timbered dark,gently hooked each other onlike aqualungs, and thundered downto mine our lovely secret wreck.We surfaced later, breathless, backto back, and made our way aloneup the mined beach of the dawn.