NEW HOPE INTERNATIONAL REVIEW

As the blurb on the back of James Sinclair's collection GULF STREAM BLUES tells us,

James Sinclair was born in Lerwick in 1963 and attended the Anderson High School. He worked in the ship-repair and boat building industry as a welder-plater for 25 years.

In the opening poem DA WADDER EYE, the persona states

	Dey say at a'm a prophet
	dey dunna ken whit der spikkin aboot.
	Fur forty year my een hae glowered apo da sky
	bit fur aw my perseverance, dir is nae answer.

The poem WANDERINGS contains descriptions of five people: Sailor, Daughter, Scholar, Creel Man and Crofter. Creel Man presents a wonderful description of a man who emigrated to Australia from his homeland, but cannot forget his heritage:

	Wilbert, youngest brother from the Herra
	a dab hand at catching crabs in Walfirth  
	wandered wayward across seven seas
	to South Australia and her rocky shores
	hauling baskets of crayfish from Batemans Bay
	he spent the rest of his days writing home.

	There you were
	stock-still as a statue
	on Easter Island,
	winter's wind tugging
	at your heavy coat
	cascades of hair flying
	in freshening breeze,
	salt crust crystallizing
	on tender lips.

	Sensuous hands caress
	small tight buns lightly powdered
	fingers fall between the crease to ease apart.
	The fire in my head has reached baking point
	as I feel the dough rising.

	Prices poor, too much fish on the market,
	took on ice, fuel and stores.
	Left Lerwick at noon, sunny day, westerly breeze
	good forecast for next week, light southerlies.
	Steamed north all day, arrived home at 2200hrs
	sail again, midnight Sunday.

	An fur sikkin a bonny hied o hair
	da colour o corn ida simmertime
	an whin da twalloos leme wis set by,
	we aksed whit hed brought her aw dis wey.

	cloud-blackened stump

	shit-flies and maggots feasting
	over bleached bones.

	Teasing fingers slipping into my hand
	I feel your warmth course through me
	while at that moment sun breaks out of cloud-shackles

	to sprinkle glitter on the water.
	We watch Foula recede into the distance
	recede into nowhere.

	clambering, stumbling, falling
	upon the faithless rocks of Silvery Geo
	heavy with child and searching for stolen, selkie treasure.

	I would climb up on to that wooden stool

	insert my steel key into the ornamental face
	make three full turns, no more, no less.

It's an enigmatic finale to the collection.

In such poems the precision of Sinclair's writing is a recurrent delight. Sinclair's real but unaffected love for his dialect and heritage is registered in language which, very naturally, makes of such admiration evidence of self-consciousness and self-discovery. There is an occasionally breath-taking responsiveness to simple beauty in Sinclair's work, just as there is the unflinching awareness of the hardships undergone by fishermen and sailors. Sinclair avoids any excesses in either "facts" or his response to them; certainly he refuses to see them as anything but a way of life lived in extreme conditions. In short, this is a fine collection from a poet unafraid to put his experiences, dialect and emotions to good use.