[Duncan Gillies MacLaurin]

to be sung to the melody of “Tangled Up in Blue”


I was from the western coast
at Scotland’s very heart.
You were from the eastern coast
in Jutland’s northern part.
You gave me my new direction.
I would give you yours.
It was like there was a deep connection
between our distant shores.
We soon became each other’s mate,
both documentarists.
I believed that it was fate,
an’ you believed in twists. Our lives began,
Mrs MacLovely Ann.

That was the name the others gave you
working with safety at sea.
Though someone had to come an’ save you
when you fell down suddenly.
You’d nothin’ but the highest praise
for the fishermen you met.
Not once in all your many days
did you perceive a threat.
You were the only woman around.
They cherished you because
you'd instantly become renowned.
They understood there was no one better than
Mrs MacLovely Ann.

L12 was: ...none better than

When you turned to writing thrillers,
a fisherman was the one
who shrugged off all the psycho killers
with no need of a gun.
You wished I’d translated that,
but I never found the time
because I’m a) a lazy cat,
an’ b) obsessed with rhyme.
I somehow doubt you’d ever find
me wanting. You’d prefer
I followed what was on my mind.
The truth is that we were each other’s fan,
Mrs MacLovely Ann.

You never listened to Bob Dylan.
I admired him so.
To you, he was a snarling villain.
For me, he was Li Po.
Pink Floyd, the Jam, Dire Straits, the Cure –
you always felt they sucked,
while I was always pretty sure
without them, I’d be fucked.
We both enjoyed a bit of Runrig,
Leonard Cohen, Sting,
but most of all we just had one big
blast with everything. We had no plan,
Mrs MacLovely Ann.

One day you said a proper Dane
would build his house himself.
I’d rather make a daisy chain
than fit a bloody shelf.
It took ten years to renovate
the villa that we’d bought,
an’ then you told me, far too late,
it wasn’t as you’d thought.
“In fact,” you said, “it was a Finn
I meant.” I said, “I see.
Well, maybe Danes should now begin,
inspired by such as me, your handyman,
Mrs MacLovely Ann.”

We mellowed in our later years.
You were still divine.
I never quite stopped drinking beers,
but you stopped drinking wine.
We used to walk. It kept us trim.
We lived close to the beach,
an’ in the summer we’d both swim.
You’d write, an’ I would teach.
We got a dog, quadruple-crossed,
so full of love an’ grace
we gradually kind of lost
all interest in the race that others ran,
Mrs MacLovely Ann.

L9-11 were:
We got a dog, quadruple-crossed
an’ full of love an’ grace,
an’ gradually we kind of lost

It’s been a while since you been gone.
It hurts me every day.
I write my songs an’ carry on.
There is no other way.
I’m not afraid to show my grief.
It’s just because I care.
It sometimes brings me some relief
to know you’re somehow there.
You told me that you always knew
you’d come back home to die
even before the news came through.
You taught me I ought to try the best I can,
Mrs MacLovely Ann.

[Alessio Boni]

Hi Duncan!


The ending is gut wrenching, and of course, juxtaposed with the nostalgic tone of yours and her peculiarities having played out in both of your lives described in the upbeat tone of the Ballad, it serves as a perfect conclusion to remind the reader, as most tragic ballads do, of the eventual depression at the end; That of her death, though only distinctly mentioned in "Even before the news came through," as someone could maybe think she had just departed before 'news' is read, and, for some reason, 'news', a sombre word in itself, was enough to signify where truly she had gone. This is at least my interpretation of the poem, and I have to say, the ending comes as a sort of shock. Perfectly affective in its potence.

The ballad is nice, although there are certain lines, which I think were mostly made so on purpose, that follow the metric a bit too loosely, and might interfere with the continuous sound. However, this is just a small detail, and if the slight deviation from a linear tone would be the price to pay for the communication of this sad Sad tale, then so be it.

Great poem!

P.S, I have a hard time identifying the metric, sometimes it seems trochaic, as in the first verse, but then iambic in the second. Although I could just be reading it wrongly. Was this done on purpose?

[Duncan Gillies MacLaurin]

Thanks, Alessio!

The metre is loose iambic, i.e. iambic with a sprinkling of anapaests. A few lines begin with a headless iamb or a trochaic substitution.

The news was that my wife had terminal cancer.

Duncan

PS Ballad metre is a line of iambic tetrameter followed by a line of iambic trimeter.

[Alessio Boni]

Hey,

I'm very sorry to hear that. Spero sia in un posto migliore!!

Also, thanks for the quick reply. Yes, I noticed that it was in the common meter, which is, in my opinion, the best and most classic form to write such a ballad.

And for the first verse, I hadn't thought about the headless iamb, and so I immediately thought "I was FROM the wesTERN COAST" started off trochaic.

Thanks for the clarification, it's something I seemed to have missed.

P.S Actually, forgive my ignorance, but the above could also start off with a trochee, which of the two would it be? Headless or trochee?

[Duncan Gillies MacLaurin]

Nevermind.

[Alessio Boni]

Nevermind?

[Duncan Gillies MacLaurin]

I posted something I regretted and then deleted.

[Alessio Boni]

I mean, I hope I'm not making some stupid mistake in asking this, but "I was from the" is trochaic. I'm just asking what would the general difference be between using a headless iamb in this case, and a trochee.

[Duncan Gillies MacLaurin]

"I was FROM the WEStern COAST" could be regarded as trochaic, but in an iambic setting we would say that the first foot is a headless iamb.

[Alessio Boni]

Ahh ok. Got it. Thank you!