Ayrshire poet Rab Wilson introduces today’s choice. “Johnny Stariski was in charge of the powder magazine (supply of explosives for blasting purposes underground) at the Barony Colliery, Auchinleck, in the mid/late 1970s early 80s, when I worked there. His family emigrated to Scotland before the First World War, when there was a huge influx of Poles to Scotland. His family had been boot and shoemakers.

Johnny was of short stature – but possessed of a marvellous physique. In the 1960s he had followed the famous Charles Atlas body building course and was also a champion high-board diver. These attributes no doubt played a part when Johnny did his famous handstand on the top girder of the Barony Colliery ‘A’ Frame at Auchinleck (now a monument to the Ayrshire coal-mining industry).

I have a filmed conversation with Johnny where he tells his story of this remarkable happening. It is this actual event that is celebrated in my poem, The Great Stariski.

The Great Stariski

(A legend o the Barony Colliery)

The Great Stariski maks his entrance bow,

Poised oan the Cross-beam o the vast ‘A’ Frame;

He aiblins sees imaginary crowds,

Gawpin at his daith-defyin stunts.

Mair’s a hunner feet up in the air,

Nae spider’s wab o safety-net is strung,

Tae sauf him frae unsocht oblivion.

The Great Stariski luiks tae aa the airts,

Sic magick tricks depend upon their ritual,

An curtly bobs tae each pynt o the compass;

Tae the north, Ben Lomond’s silhouette,

Tae the west, Goat Fell oan Arran’s isle,

Tae the east, ayont Muirkirk, Cairn Table,

Tae the sooth, Sweet Afton’s bonny glen.

The Great Stariski birls an pirouettes,

Then, tae admirin glances frae ablow,

Syne gangs tapselteerie, heelstergoudie,

Stauns oan his haunds, disdainfu o the risks,

An lauchs oot lood in life-affirmin joy

At aa thae wee black specks doun oan the grunn.

The Great Stariski, balanced oan his girder,

Seems tentless o his parlous circumstance;

Up here he’s free, can rax an touch the heivins,

An feel the wuin an rain upon his face.

The Great Stariski leeves athin the moment,

Taks in his queer inversion o the warld,

Syne wi some skeelie dancer’s gracefu mien,

Lichtlies doun as saft as thistledown;

Dichts doun his stoorie, creashy overalls,

Sets at a jaunty sklent his auld pit helmet,

Recoups his yirdlie equilibrium,

Descends the ledder – an’s mortal aince agane.

Rab Wilson