POOR - OLD - TIRED - HORSE: ‘The Wild Hawthorn Press ‘9d per issue (plus 3d pe p) money: number four 24 Fettes Row Edinburgh Scotland. Subscriptions: (12 issues) 12 shillings or $1.75 (6 issues) 7 shillings or $1.00. Winter's Night Show has fallen. After midnight, drunk with purple wine you leave the dark sphere of men, the red flame of their hearth. O darkness! Black frost. The earth is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars close to evil signs. With steps of stone you stamp along the embankment, round- eyed, like a soldier who storms a black entrenchment. Bitter snow and mo A red wolf which an angel strangles. As you walk your legs clash like blue ice and your face is set in 2 smile full of sadness and pride. Your brow pales before the frost's delight or bends silently over the sleep of @ watchman who sank back into his wooden hut. Frost and smoke. A white shirt of stars burns the burdened shoulders and God's vultures tear your metal heart to pieces. O hill of stone. Still and forgotten the cold body melts into the ailver snow. Black is sleep. The ear follows the paths of the stars far into the ice. ‘As I woke the bells in the village were ringing. From the East gate stepped the silvery rose of day. De Profundis ‘There is a stubble-field where a black rain falls. There is a brown tree which stands alone. There is a whisper-wind which circles empty cottages ~ How sad this evening. By the hamlet ‘The gentle orphan still gathers her meagre ears of corn. Here eyes are round and golden in the dusk. Her womb awaits the holy bridegroom. ‘The shepherds returning home Found the sweet body Rotting in the thorn bush. A shadow am I far from dark villages. Trani. God's silence from the spring in the wood. 1 feel cold metal on my brow. Spiders seek out my heart. There is a light which dies in my mouth, ‘At night I found myself on the heath SHff with the excrement and dust of the stars, From the hazel-mushes Crystal angels called again. Georg Trakl, 1887 - 1914 (Germany) trans. by Jay Corbett (England) Nest ‘The giant bird has left the attic/ alone the attic empty/ neat no longer a nest in the pillows / you're not there/ the bird tas flown / the bird has no longer a weexend / we are alone the life is dry in the room/ 4s a garden whose litle girt swims with the eat into the pool / ‘onto a plain Of poplars full of all the times you reached the einem and found the bird ia the front row in love with the ice cream dragon / Spike Hawkins (England)Like This For all Lovely ladies, and one In particular. ©, he says, My Lady's belly Lights up at night whiter than any snow of this or the next year, Liars, who claim T'll not see her again, like this--but true, my eyes were deceived: I thought, surely, it is the moon, bout it was day Impossible, she says, never to have him stay the morning here with me. But when the night, goes pale on our skins, we cry: The Day! It is here. . He said it the last time, and it was cay No counting, he thinks, no counting, and in our sleep, too-~ but later, her tears running down, as all uns. . but I tied, what comfort, a man Her arms around me. ‘And again it was day No counting, she says to herself no counting the times he has seen me, Like this, He pulls down ‘the sheets, he has to see me, all there is, and fa strange thing: he does it again and again... But now it is day Heinrich von Morungen (Germany — 1222) trans. Anselm Hollo (Finland) 8. 10, a, 12, 13. 14. 15. 16. 4. 18, 19. 20. au. 22. 23, 24, 25. 26. 2, 28. 28. 30. The People of the High Plateau Journal of a Trip to Ethiopia A real country is a country forever. It is not a land of present make-believe. Even if it is only just, people do LIVE there. ‘They are distinct from the blood~drinking tribes. ‘Their land is very high up ~'three thousand years up at least. At first they lived there for reasons of security. |. Now they find it difficult to get down. There are no roads, no villages, only the forest of spears. . The altitude makes every step forward an effort. You might say they are all stuck up. They have large round black eyes. ‘They stare at you as if to read your soul like a cash register. Bven if you think you have none, you cough it up all the Same owing to the altitude. People get done here, not things. ‘The national industry ts begging. ‘The most common tree is the outstretched palm. ‘We watched beggars queuing up to contribute to the Duke of Pinochle's Memorial Fund. Some gave their sticks. Others gave their teeth - for they had none left. (One had given his leg and couldn't get home. ‘The Duke is the symbol of the forgotten man. He will be remembered like that. ‘There is also a king who has descended from Solomon and cannot have much further to go. ‘The next chief industry is of coarse love. Red and green masks open up at night like Dixon's Blazes. Love's roaring fires are kept well-stocked. Eis an old home-industry dating back to prehistoric times. It is love on the instalment plan. ‘There is @ net discount for cash, which is sometimes gross. ‘The bush is littered with local rush-houses, mosques and palaces.SL. The air shimmers with dancing sequins in sightless eyes. 32, And the legless crawl about to escape the flies. 38. The hills are littered with blue trees. 34. The churches turn inward like Chinese boxes. 35. Symbolically, you can never get on the inside. 36. Woollen and cheese factories abound on the rocks. 87. Automation has been introduced. 2B. One shepherd now watches twelve wool factories instead of as formerly twelve. 39, It is more difficult with goats as they have been decentralised. 40. People also saw wood into various sizes, especially at dead periods. We all saw some. 41, After all revolt is impossible. 42. Yet though hardly revolting, the people are oppressed. 43. The past is as throttling as the altitude. 44, The country is as ancient as sin. 45. The alphabet has letters that curl to attract attention, 46. Yet nobody can read. 47. Papers appear minus the news. 48, Words mean whatever you say. . The heir to the throne is a Prince of Innuendo. ‘Things will never change unless the altitude does. AMORPHOPHALLUS ABESSINICUS HAS INTERCOURSE WITH ITSELF IN THE DARK. 5. F, Hendry (Scotland) There Was A Sang ‘There was a sang That aye 1 wad be singin’, ‘There was a star; An’ clear it used tne shine; ‘An’ Liltin’ in the starlient ‘Thro’ the shadows T gaed lang syne. ‘There was a sang; But noo, I canna mind it There Was a star; But noo, it disna shine. ‘There was a luve that led me ‘Thro! the shadows -~ And it was mine, Helen B. Cruickshank (Scotland) Street Song Tam what lam, Iwas made like this, So T laugh too loud ? Just as loud as I wish, love who loves me ‘And don't feel to blame, Hf the man that I love Isn't always the same Iwas made like this, What Tam, I must be. Hf you're Looking for more, Why bother with me? So I'm made to please And my heels are too high, And I shorten my skirts ‘And mascara my eyes? So my shape’s too much shape And my breasts are too firm? So God made my shape, ‘Why don't you ask him? So what's it to you JE Lam what Tam And please who I please ‘And please who I can? Why must you know How I got this way? Of course, it was love. Of course, he loved me. Like children in love We knew how to love, To love and to love... ‘What the hell's it to you? I'm here to please you Just as soon as you've paid. What else can 1 do? It's the way things were made. Tom McGrath (Scotland) reconstructed from Jacques Prévert (France) Do not miss next month's Poor, Old.Tired.Horse. AMAZING FREE GIFT in EVERY COPY!The Horse ‘The horse won't open her eves soon enough, she lies on her side. Snorting and twitehing she stares startled through half closed blood blown eyes. ‘The old man screams,pulls and kicks the horse and yells, ‘But the horse shudders then dies. ‘The old man swears and curses, prods the carcass, sits down and signs. ‘The horse did not close her eyes soon enough, for the flames shooting oat threatened the whole town, Machines and children and moths howled through the fire, alas the whole country wasn't burned down. ‘But Surburban mothers actually nugging thelr children, Fed them from thelr own breasts down by the river. Bernard Kops (England) Horan sora — 'n Polaris Horan sora - ‘n erodehn gloch Jederin gloch-in ach rerast ‘deodocgh leredh in och Polaris Soror isct tem acgh orr. Cleaghtglegin nans serin nas os Cleughtglegin nans serin nas iby Ho co hereachten asthintae Cleughtglegin nang serin nas terrinafchter. Verog semenagh petuuh polaris! Dinasenj 7 Espach int Yank ? Aach in "y reragh a etirin tams insporerae Ho So Horar sorar a 'n glock. Alexander McNeish (Scotland) The Situation Every time I go out there I get my nose sliced off. It just ‘n't fair ~ Ido my best to grow big and strong, but as soon as m any size at all, I've got to start again. Night time is the ost time — I like the darkness, and I fairly shoot out then — ‘rong, sharp, and healthy. It doesn’t make any difference ‘ough ~ first thing in the morning — off with my head! I'm just ot going out ~ I refuse! The others can go if they want to — vve liad enough, quite enough. Well, I've lasted two whole days without being noticed, but 1 forgot T needed air ~ lots of air, or I'll suffocate. I suppose TL have to go out tomorrow ~ he'll notice me anyway if T don't [Wonder how tall I'é be if he'd let me grow? I might get soft 00, instead of hard and prickly. Here goes then! Out I come — it's dark, isn't it? I'l see how much bigger I ean get before T'm executed in the morning. It's @ good job 1 have two heads— fone underneath the other one otherwise I can't Imagine what ‘would happen to me. ‘The Wonder Like a field of corn when the wind is passing lightly over it. You kmow what 1 mean -- each head of corn is bowing gracefully, and a ripple is passing, almost running over the ‘whole field. Suppose that the wind were to stop, that some~ thing out of this world happened, that the corn stayed In this graceful position? Now a beautiful lady comes, gliding along the motionless wind. Who is she? I don't know who she is, but she starts to pull the corn out by the roots, Not all of i. just leaving a few stalks hore and there about a yard apart. ‘As she gathers her crop, it disappears. Where does it go? Tdon't kmow where it goes, but it isn't there any more. The field of corn looks bare now — just a mere sprinkling of stems all bent towards the lady, who is smiling sweetly at something. Look! the field is shrinking, the corn is shrinking with it! Where is the lady? Where is the wind? What is that ‘warmth — that living warmth? Here is my cornfield - isn't the corn lovely and soft? And what a wonderful shade of gold ~ the lady did her job well — a perfect miniature, and all for me. Suzan Livingstone (Gcotland) Florida — 1 Always north of him Tsee he's close to orange, flower roseate bird soft air the state I'min 2 Flocks of headkerchiefs the plumed flamingo gone the vanity of women slacked Lorine Niedecker (U.S.A.)