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Down
Town
Wet street, Glistening cobbles. Wet pavement, Turning dark. Sodden blanket, Huddled dogs and man. Polystyrene cup, Small change. Could ye spare? Walk on Bye. Deryck
Foulner |
Waiting
Room
They are mostly old, like me, leaning on sticks. We are all rather the worse for wear. I can see pain in their eyes and resignation. Mine too? We were brought up not to fuss: we do not expect miracles, only perhaps a little more mobility and less pain. Our lives are fading in a minor key, circumscribed by frailty. The magazines are old too and the chairs hard. We wait, patient patients for our turn to come for an X-ray or just for reassurance that our bodies will see us out. We accept that old bones break and old hearts fail. I dread the undignified fall and the fear of falling which keeps me immured, alone on a sunny December day. Pauline
Whitfield |
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Home
(past the pub)
Sweetly stale smells of ale Waft from open doors. Out pours the gag Of piss and puke and fags. A sharp shatter and a dropped glass smashes And a cheer explodes and roars and fades to dull applause. High pitch girls bitch and pick with sharpened claws. Juke box bumps with electric jangle. The cash till bleep beep beeps kerching. A stilted croon Familiar tune….. …..Karaoke! Hokey, cokey! Fat hips sway. Flat feet tap. A slow clap. Geddoff. H
L Foster |
She used to play the blues, and play strip poker in the common room at school; watch Grease and the Wizard of Oz, and go to musicals. She
used to know all the gossip, She
used to skive off school, Rachel
Shirley
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Libraries Books linger Deep shelves of thought. Deluges Quiet pools Libraries Sian
Hughes
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Recycling First she emptied her words of all feeling then she gave then to me – like you empty a cup of water, she extracted the life force. I hope you
find something suitable, she said, But before
her words could reach me they Over my shoulder
I saw her collect them H
Doherty |
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| Flat
Cat They offered me a flat cat. Handy, I thought. I could fold him up and put him in a drawer when I go away. But would he stick sharp corners into me? Silly me. They meant Pauline Whitfield |
Letters For a start, you were always somewhere exotic, with strange animals on the stamps. You would tell me what was happening there, that it wasn’t as hot as everyone thought, about the food, and some news from home that I’d somehow not heard. And you’d tell me what you missed, like Irn Bru and proper chocolate. Moreover, you gave me advice, and taught me essential Arabic. Rachel Shirley |
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| Odd I look odd. I’m nice, lonely, but I look odd. She looks Sian Hughes |
Imprints You grasped the pen tightly in your hand and pressed on it so hard when you wrote that it left its mark, not just in ink, but an imprint, like a distant memory on the page after, and the page after that. That night when I opened the book Catriona Mackie |
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| A
Female Friend I told someone how much I cared for you They said I should take care. I ask why? They answer, The trouble with having a female for a friend is There may come a time when you’ll Fancy the female A lot more than the friend. Frank Smith |
Mother Silky crushed like poppy petal, Slack skin ageing folds underarm, Sink in slow gravid seduction Cheeks and eyes feature seasons’ line, Barley hair brushed hourglass silver, Hands road-mapped, fingers still bone-strong: Loving ripened self reflection. L Kiew |
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| Ken
the Driver Kensit We took an Urquhart trip up North, and sallied forth across the Firth, We never will forget our Driver - his name was Ken, aye Ken McIvor. He kens the way from here to Garve, he kens his people wouldna starve. He kens the places we would stop, ev'ry toilet, café, shop. He kens just where to go for tea - where to drink and where to pee. He kens his roads and routes of course, he kens the ways you ride a horse. What facts and folks does Ken no ken, wouldna mak to number ten. Ken kens each glen, each moor and ben, the which, the
what, the where and when. He kens our history as well - what made the Jacobites
rebel. Hotels Ken kens and how they fare, what is here and what
is there, He kens his poetry and verse, in Scots, in Gaelic and in Erse, He talks of Ossian, even turns, to link that Bard wi Rabbie Burns. We kent each day he'd give the gen, there's nocht that our Ken didna ken. To end this Ode to Ken McIvor, we ken no finer Guide and Driver, Ronnie Crichton |
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| False
Witness Why did you lie those months And minutes flaying With each untruth, Gagged neglect tearing skin, Slipping broken words Into soft private places, leaving so finally A frayed skeleton Corroded by concealment. It would be kinder to deadhead our love With the bald and brittle truth. L Kiew |
City
Centre Cab Ride I’m taking a cab in the autumn- the neon lights fuzz in the rain. "Where are you off to, my darlin?" The rain hammers hard on the pane. "Horrible weather we’re havin" I smile and have nothing to say but should I be controversial I’m sure that would ruin his day I wish we could say what we feel and enjoy the awkward silence at least we could keep it real stop sensitive subject avoidance. "Back to work th’ morrow?" Another week of the same "A pleasure to meet you, honey." I grin and take my change. Rosalind McCaig |
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| Arthur’s
Seat Along the Radical Road, air cuts the lungs. The frost has chipped out faces in the rock: Easter Island, long-boned arrogance sneers into the sky. Above, a kestrel slits the updraft, whetted on pedigree and cold to a sharpened wing. And the wind, slicing tears from the eyes, running on the limit of eyesight. This summit, basalt-stepped, is as remote Dave Pritchard |
Calton
Hill That day I was moody. Do you remember? We climbed to the top of Calton Hill And sat and smiled and cried On that ancient monument above the city. That day we knew you’d soon be gone, And the stone arches soared in celebration Of things half finished or only half begun. And as the city moved below, The grass shivered in the breeze. The people came and went. The shadow of our pillar grew and lengthened, Until it tumbled down the hillside to Holyrood; And still we sat. The columns climbed above us, brave and obsolete. We stood below on massive steps; Small, Half finished, Yet only half begun. Lisa J Young |
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| I
forget Just a line to say I’m living, that I’m not among the dead; Though I’m getting more forgetful and mixed up in the head I got used to my arthritis, For sometime I can’t remember, And before the fridge so often So remember that I love you Mr C Morrow
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Architecture
by a walk back from Warrender Park Baths. 'The Buildings of Scotland: Marchmont: A square site..long blocks of four-story baronial tenements .. Scoticized…their architects cannot all be mentioned - only those who within the prescribed formula managed to be more different than the others. The winner, with his fondness for quirky detail,.. is Edward Calvert.' Marchmont on the Meadows has hats on! They'll jump each other, one day. This is called symmetry - approved by B Addison |
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| Angry
Cars A poem to highlight the growing problem of motorists parking on the pavements in the streets of Edinburgh. Yer car’s angry mister, Alistair Potter |
Rapture
City Outside St Giles Samurai drummer Is moved on By a twitchy wee Policewoman Second try Samurai Piper pipes down Samurai asks weans Helen Dunwoodie |
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| Poem:
No-one Can Touch Me No-one can touch me if I keep them out of reach if I don’t let them close I’ll be safe I can’t be touched No-one can touch me No-one can touch me No-one can touch me Patsy Noble |
Time Time is like a patchwork quilt. Dark bits, bright bits. Dark bits, Under the stairs, the bombs falling Husband three thousand miles away. Bright bits. Weddings, christenings, time together. Time does not march with steady tread. When together, it cannot be held back. When apart, nothing will hurry it. Time varies. When retired, there is plenty of time. And in the end, Evelyn Harker |
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| Winter’s
End No-one mourns the death of an icicle, Shedding its lifeblood, Drip by drip, On uncaring ground. Only the fallen leaves Bear witness As winter’s fangs are drawn. St Clair |
Beer Garden in the beer garden of a pub I never took you to there is a sign by an old yew tree which says that in 1490 a nun and a monk were hanged and buried there for unbecoming conduct I think of them and miss you Rachel Haines |
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| Invaders I am a little earthworm, slimy to the touch. I spend my days beneath the ground, so I don’t see very much; But I hear there are invaders who have come across the sea, Antipodean flatworms who like the taste of me! I think that they are stinkers, I do not like their smell; They may come from New Zealand, but I’d send them all to hell. Donald Miller |
Ghost
Picture Your face super-imposed on the world that I see, you idle on this side of the lens behind my eyes. I am a November night. Your name is the luminous trail of a sparkler. G Will Smith |
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| Zebras
in Focus I think of zebras in Zimbabwe, See shimmering, stripy signatures On rotund fairground horses On Hwange’s endless plain. You think of the same safari, Mounted on black in your album, I smile and remember the zebras You hadn’t even noticed. Juliet Wilson |
Graffiti Clearly alone. Down a long path to a grey boulder beach. Between vertical rock and cold slapping sea. No living beings to mourn a fall. Too cold to sit, too hard to scramble. Pretty shells Splintered to dust. Rocks blue grey Smooth, rough, immovable. Black talking water below across one cold stone face “Susan loves Ricky” sprayed unevenly. In pink. Miriam Dolby |
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| Punishment
for Living too Near the Hospital Every time A siren Goes down My street I feel it From the tips of my ears To the toes of my feet. Julie Clark |
What
is a Bus A bus is a figment Of your imagination If you are in a hurry. Iain Harvey |
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| 11/11/2000 Remembrance Day, Edinburgh Saturday
morning, we're on the number 82 bus, going into town to take a look at
Jenners, fabled store my friend from Nottingham has never visited. We
comment approvingly on the smart restaurants and chic clothes shops seen
as the bus goes along George Street. And then we pull over. Halt. In between
official stops. Why? Driver needing to lose time? Suddenly, we understand.
It's the eleventh of November, it's nearly eleven o'clock, we're about
to observe the two minutes silence. The passengers stop talking, save
for a couple of Australians, in town for the rugby, perhaps. The bus driver
resumes the journey. Penny Goodchild McWatters |
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| Snap
your own time I think of the smoothness of what your thoughts are, and the curl of your smile in knowledge and yes. What completeness there lies in the circle of you, how you breathe and crotchet the beat of logic and passion that touches your spine. Mostly I think of the touch that is us and the smile and the laugh innuendo that is two. The step on the beat brings now no tomorrow, now time while the look says no further, and Feelings say Mine! Each now is the instant we have, now it's gone To have more, let go - Snap your own time. Bella Stewart |
Teuchter
Uber Alles Hedrum Hodrum Whisky and Kilts Haggis and masses Of bonnie young lassies An tartans an drovers An sheep that speak Gaelic An English owned papers wae fake Scottish names With McGregor this and McDonald that Oh cum oan yi Sassenachs Did yi no know am t-total That ah cannie stan haggis An don't wear a kilt Ah don't live oan a croft on some remote island Murdering lobsters for your appetite Ah live in a City Ah listen to Buddha Ah watch television An programme computers Ah read John Paul Satre Ah drink herbal tea An you like a fool Try tae stereotype me! Alexander Neilson |
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| Soldiers
Eyes Before the sniper took him by surprise What did he see with those sad dead eyes Was it this never ending hell The wire the trenches Or where his best friend fell Or when he was down and dying on his knees A far better place he perceives Where there was peace and joy And blossom trees. Tom MacKay |
Cut and Pasted There she was Sixty-five if a day Boobs bandanaed into bikini top Big denim shorts Held together bum and tum Where the sand had sunk. She chasséd along, confident, colonial On thin legs Bare feet splayed Flat sunhat Shades, deckchair. Cut and pasted straight from Crete On to Bellevue’s London Street. Irene Brown |
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Rosemary Bowman |
Extremes
Meet The North Sea’s last laugh after a hot day in the capital haar haar haar John Drosten |
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| The
Stages of Growing Up Strange feelings Sore belly too I’m growing up just like you Mum. Two pointy pyramids Begin to form A rounder belly And a higher form. Grumps in the morning Greasy hair Blackheads you just can’t get rid of yet Use some ‘Tea Tree’ it works you’ll see! Fall outs with friends And arguments follow These are the stages of growing up. Hannah Fraser |
Waiting Chunks of my life are spent waiting for buses. Time is not the issue; I have plenty of that and to spare. I have never wasted time until now. At 82 you could say I am waiting for death, not buses. My grandmother sat, serene, lace cap and knitting, waited on hand and foot. I sometimes wonder which will come first: death or the bus? Pauline Whitfield |
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| Chip
Shop Venus chip shop Venus make-up’s loud tight-fit overall pulls a crowd serving tables haddock teas pudding suppers mushy peas behind the counter sweated face vinegar shaker knows her plaice chip shop Venus rebuffs each trier you’ll just get food - her dad’s the fryer John Drosten |
I’d
Rather Be (We have all been invited to a social function at one time and, for one reason or other, been reluctant to attend. Once there, however, it has turned out better than expected.) We’ve been invited oot tae a party Frae people I dinna quite like, I’d rather be dipped in iced water Or crossing the sea on ma bike. I’d rather be put in a snake pit Or roast in the hot fires o’ hell, I’ll take a wee stroll doon by Seafield, And savour the ‘heavenly’ smell. How about being thrown tae the lions As the Christians were long, long ago, Or listen tae songs sung by Cilla, But on seconds thoughts – maybe no’! I’d rather be chucked oot an aircraft, Sky-diving is really ma’ scene, Or rowing the Wild North Atlantic With a complexion distinctly – pea-green How about wrestling a grizzly Or swimming with piranha fish, Meeting a gorgeous young mermaid And only having one wish. I’d rather go doon tae the dentist And cheerfully face the big drill, I’d rather eat some o’ yon curry That makes me exceedingly ill. But wait; just hang on a minute This party’s no quite sae bad, The people are really quite friendly, It’s one o’ the best nights I’ve had! Jim Cunningham |
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| Messed-up
in Preston In desperation and panic, I reached the second staging point of this epic journey. Dry-mouthed and shaking, I (person who hates people, sociopath, I guess), terrified of the consequences of being late, have arrived almost three hours early. I have my ticket safely tucked away in my pocket, my passage for the final leg and find myself a seat. Wooden and hard, I have to remain here for the next couple of hours before I inter myself into the woollen and metal tomb which will be my home for the next six hours. I watch an entirely cosmopolitan crowd squeaking and slipping their way across the wet rubberised floor, fag-ends scattering before their toes. Alien languages pique my interest but nothing can be gained from their clamour. Teenagers and the youth, self-glamourised, meet in racketful reunion, resplendent in shit-stoppers and beige baseball caps. Heading towards a more interesting and rewarding night than I can possibly imagine. Enforced classlessness throws the middle-aged, middle income in with the drunken, abusive homeless and the heavily politicised student. The old and retired rubbing shoulders with the drug addled schemies. Middle class dignity is stretched to breaking point and panic attacks are only just submerged behind the faces of the well-heeled. Skin colours galore and stunning ethnic attire clash with the shabby, haphazard, couture of British urban youth. Today’s shoppers line up like cattle in the slaughter-house, peering through drizzle-soaked windows for the short hop home. Branded plastic bags akimbo, they panic as the stunted bus arrives and start to jostle for the best position and , hopefully, a window seat. Staggering, and almost coming to blows, in a scene reminiscent of swine bent on suicide. Drivers and conductors stride knowingly and disdainfully through the throngs, knowing that they, at least, are not going to find themselves in the wrong pen of the near eighty provided. The ubiquitous, mumbling drunk seeks me out and sits down to chat. I try to explain to him how much I empathise with his situation and try to describe a little of my own, sordid history, but in the end, I can only spare one solitary cigarette and know that, in half an hour, I will have been completely forgotten. Nature calls and I have to stow the liquor which alleviates my personal pain. I stagger, heavy-handed, protecting my life’s belongings, to the urine-soaked den of the loitering pervert, the snottering drunk and the hassling addict Outside, the day darkens as the drizzle becomes a downpour. The thin, reedy tunes of the youngsters’ mobile phones clash with horns and reversing signals of the buses outside creating a discordant and slightly other-worldly symphony. The louder voices and chanted songs of the gathering youth gladden me that three hours has now become only one hour to wait. A young man, seated on the next bench to me, studies a shlock video purchased only minutes before, in the hope that it will distance him from the passing tide of humanity. A group of teenagers run and slide, screaming, on the wet rubber, full of glee at their own audacity. A disconcerting amount of tasty snack foods parade by in the hands of be-suited commuters. I find myself entirely jealous, not only of their ability to consume but of their power as consumers. There is beauty here too. Gorgeous women float by, assured of their own shining brilliance, irregular but still enough to stir my loins. The huge clock, suspended above me, reminds me that I’m returning from paradise to purgatory through several hours of physical torture. One o’clock arrives and the entire tempo of the station alters. Cosmopolitan concourse becomes a pre-pubescent paradise as the place is flooded by teenagers. I suddenly realise that I am not, in fact, headed for purgatory, I am already there and simply awaiting my transfer to the other side. Back in the cradle of dis-civilisation, police sirens meld with the political protest on our stereo, creating a die-orientating quadrophenia. Twelfth floor level and still closer to the street than the concrete wasteland I left, my back aches from toting my worldly belongings and my neck aches from craning to clock the gorgeous visions I am, simply, not used to. There I could walk for several miles (and frequently did) without seeing a friendly or even vaguely attractive face. I step off the bus here and, within ten minutes, I meet a close friend I haven’t seen in many years. I haven’t really ever left here, I’ve simply been ‘missing in action.’ Niall Simpson |
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| The
Kodak Kid My mother and my father Faded now Curled at the edges But in the middle I am bright A dress of cotton white That laces to my body Then full to shoes They saved for. Just like my parents I am Faded now Curled at the edges But in the middle I am bright Flashlit by memory The album in the drawer Still holds their love And so do I. Anne Marie Connolly |
Sonnetelegy Hilly up and hilly down Steepy stairs and wynds and closes Deedily dark historial town Dud volcano in rood park re-poses Like a damp squib. At Christmas helter skelter rides And ferris wheels from noon to moon Princes’ trees strung up like with lights Blackpool manifests like Brigadoon For Hogmanay plc. Where’s the old fire? Where has it gone? The fizz of Hume’s mind The romance of the stone. Lily Crawford |
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Making the Connection A website for the dead? Why not? Everything is possible; emails – infinity.com - Surely it is not beyond the power of IT brains to make the connection. They must be queuing up to send a message to us, bereft, longing for a loving word from husband, wife, lover, children, once familiar with games played ad nauseam on computers. They will be the first to reach us. Whether you believe in God or science work on it, Bill Gates. This is your chance. Pauline Whitfield |
It’s
No Fur Me Joy Gray |
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