Robert Leach : Sour Cream

Published by Dionysia Press, Edinburgh; 58pp.

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On Sour Cream: ‘The verra best o ‘Sour Cream’ is airtit at precision. There’s braw observation, as in the wunnerfu ‘Spider’ ... Leach oan burds an animals maks us see the animal warld mair vividly ... Whit Leach is daein in the hale buik is darin. He risks a slaw gait at times in his poems as he treats experience lik atoms, brakkin thaim doon intae wee-er snatches o drama ... at its filmic best, fu o impressionist images and weill-gethert soun. Whit’s conceived is brent-new.’ – Maureen Sangster, Lallans. ‘... the macabre imagery of ‘Auschwitz Fantasia’ ... compellingly horrid ... devastating.’– Peter Day, Poetry Monthly ‘... never more in his element than when observing and capturing, in verse, the given moment. A true artist who paints with words, with remarkable empathy for his subject matter ... cadence and lyrical quality is superb ... one can see that it is actually what this poet so incisively infers that gives the greater wealth of meaning to his verse as a whole. Here, then, is a well-established writer, one who readily communicates; a reflective poet; a poet with ‘a voice’. I can readily recommend this excellent collection.’ – Bernard M.Jackson, Quantum Leap (from Sour Cream) PEREDELKINO (Village near Moscow) Impossible white bride For a day between workdays – Incandescent ice pool Of brilliant January – Thirty below, and getting colder. Snow crisp as caustic powder, A few feathery snowball corpses Scuff the wooden fence By the graveyard where A bloc of iron-railed resting-places Squat, uniform, unanimous. On each headstone, not just a name, Date of birth and death, flourished emblem Of Leninistic piety – A photo, too – a kind of Soviet passport To the other side. Grim-faced matrons, Fair-quiffed fellows, scared militia men In faded titfers, glare out, Documented, stamped, correct. Suddenly – Pasternak, Long face dust jacket familiar, Eagle nose, pelmet of hair ... Now he eyes us quizzically. Like almost always. A writer incarnates hope. Even in samizdat, Even in suppression – A long longing to share, A challenge. We stare. Then shiver. Sky’s darkening. The white bride Greying at the edges. Wind Fluffs up a pepper-shake of snow. Are we equal To a long winter? Can we outstare the glare Which Arctics art? We trudge back to the dacha: From wooden, hack-sawed eaves, Icicles drip tears. We drag Boots off, let socks Steam by red hooraying flames. There’s vodka, black bread, caviare. We laugh, bravado-wise, Like characters out of Pasternak, while from the chimney Wisps of smoke Set us coughing.