Charles Tomlinson(b. 1927)
Mr. Brodsky
I had heard
before, of an
American w h o would have preferred
to be an Indian;
bu t no t
until Mr. Brodsky, of o n e
w h o s e professed and long
pondered-on passion
was to b e c o m e a Scot,
who even sent for haggis 4 and oatcakes
across continent.
Having read him
in Cambridge English
a verse or two
from MacDiarmid,5
I was invited
to repeat the reading
before a Burns Night Gathering6
where the Balmoral Pipers
of Albuquerque would
play in the haggis
out of its New York tin.
Of course, I said
No. No. I could not go
and then
half-regretted I had not been.
But to console
and cure the wish, came
Mr. Brodsky, bringing
his pipes and played
until the immense, distended
bladder of leather seemed
it could barely contain its water—
tears (idle
tears) for the bridal of Annie Laurie7
and Morton J. Brodsky.
A bagpipe in a dwelling is
a resonant instrument
and there he stood
lost in the gorse
the heather or whatever
six thousand
miles and more
from the infection's source,
in our neo—New Mexican parlour
where I had heard
before, of an
American w h o would have preferred
to be merely an Indian.