Read Raw Ltd

 

Promoting Creative Writing in Scotland

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Welcome to

 

The Rolling Poetry Page

 

Do you have a poem you want on the site?  Send it to mail@readrawltd.co.uk and we'll put it up here.

 

To submit something, send it in the body of an e-mail to mail@readrawltd.co.uk along with a few words about yourself.  Put Poetry Submission in the subject line.  There is no limit to length however pieces under 40 lines would be preferred.

 

Copyright remains with the author.

 

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HELL’S GATE   by Ian Thomson
 
In the secret back room of a bar in Rangoon
I at last met the man I’d been seeking.
Poured raw gin in his cup, (stopped his throat drying up)
He gulped some down and then started speaking;
 
“Son, don't be surprised, for my tale was all lies,
But don't blame yourself, just turn and go...
You must know; can’t you tell? There’s no gateway to Hell
It’s all newspaper talk…” I yelled "NO!"
 
I let go his shirt stud and he wheezed and coughed blood
Rasped “You win, I'll tell you what I've done."
I was strangely surprised by the look in his eyes
Seemed like triumph, as if he had won ....
 
As he started to talk my face turned white as chalk,
For I knew that I’d have to be brave...
He had gone to a mine that had closed, since the time
Miners tunneled into a large cave.
 
In the cave, set well back, was a door; massive; black
Covered in yellowed skulls and strange runes
A jab with a pick nearly made them all sick
As the skulls belched out foul, greenish fumes.
 
Then the door was thrown back, with a sickening crack
And this daemon from Hell now appeared
He scowled as he said,” All of my men had fled”
That thing was the nightmare he'd feared..
 
Huge, slimy and green with a translucent sheen,
It saw him through six yellow eyes
Four mouths and six lips showing yellowed fang tips
Each hand had claws monstrous in size
 
He threw spears at the beast, these blessed by a good priest
The third skewered it right through the chest
It collapsed and he knew, it was dead, dead! It’s true!
He kept the skin, burned the rest....
 
“I’m a hunter, like you, but the best I can do
Is a tiger or leopard or lion
Stalking Daemons, with spear, in control of my fear
Why, I’d give up my soul just to try one!”
 
“You’re not so damned clever-you’ve got it forever!”
The old man was dancing with joy.
“The first time a full moon, you will change, and that’s soon!
For tonight is the night, my brave boy.”
 
And so it has been, every full moon since then
Its skin wraps round me, head to feet.
I become the green daemon and stalk any human
To feed my great hunger for meat.
 
IF YOU GO OUT TONIGHT AND THE FULL MOON SHINES BRIGHT,
REMEMBER THIS TALE, FOR IT’S TRUE
BEHIND YOU THE SCRATCH OF A CLAW ON A BRANCH
IT’S THE DAEMON, AND HE’S HUNTING YOU !
 
 
Ian Thomson is a retired mining engineer , living in Ayr. Poetry in rhythm and rhyme  
 
*********************************

 

 

 

 

PEOPLE.

 

This piece portrays one minute of realisation . What is happening in current affairs is shown on a loop as the piece is said.

 

People.

People on a make

People on a take

People on a break

People on a fiddle

People on a diddle

People on people

People on people

They

All fall down.

 

What we see is a montage of everyday life and the weariness of the old in contrast to the exuberance of youth and how the decay and wanton abandonment that is the structural and moral abandonment of society as we perceive it to-day.

 

Aidan McEoin

 

 

 

*********************************

 

Poppies


Long ago, a ghost of a breeze
stole my hair from it’s clasp
Shielding my eye in a curtain
warmed to gold, by summer’s heady breath
Legs lost to sight
in a field of fragrant flowers
Your hand burning hot on my waist
scalded my innocence
Holding me to a time and place
crackling with light
Where bees flitted from flower to flower
lusting nectar, heads dancing
in a sea of crimson waves
Blood red above our heads

Mo Blake

 

Maureen, aka Mo, Blake, lived in London and then in Dublin, but returned home to Scotland as she always knew she would.  Mo is a prolific writer and performer of poetry and short fiction.

 

**********************************

 

Black Cart Water

 

Unseen, unheard, I'm slowly born,

begat of mist, snow, sleet and storm.

Undefined and shallow, broad and mute,

until – in some moss-lined, fetid chute –

I gather speed, and rushing down,

I burst from mother corrie's womb,

and sally forth to meet my brother,

at once released from sheltering mothers.

 

To race along a peat-lined glen, beyond

human sight, force or ken;

this is my peak, my purpose true.

Till further on, 'neath some shady yew,

I grow father, deeper, slower now,

my surface stippled by some errant bough.

This river now it comes to life,

and makes the plain its patient wife.

 

His depths provide now a home,

for trout, salmon, duck and vole.

And 'midst his steady, constant flow,

weeds and mosses, lilies grow.

 

This pleasant scene now wrent asunder;

an angry spate makes good its plunder.

Then battered beaten, torn and sore,

the river falls and glides once more.

 

Smoothing out and flowing flat,

growing ever, swelling and fat.

And winding as a silv'ry band, he moves

through silt, then mud, then sand.

 

Then throwing off the gentle land,

at once he fades, lost. His subtle,

woven braids – untied, unpicked, at last

he dies, buried under moody coastal skies.

 

 

The Headache

 

The best description;

a grey triangle is

glued to my head,

glued to my brain.

 

Like a dark pair of specs,

I'm cut off from the

world; people; caring.

 

With the triangle comes

the pain, the ache.

The triangle turns syrupy,

blood-red, stagnant.

It pools and pulses,

and the triangle grows.

 

 

R. Clark is a student from Renfrewshire. He is interested in a variety of outdoor pursuits, 19th century literature, and philosophy. He has recently started writing poetry, after a break of several years

 

 

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I Hate Metaphors and Similes

(No, Poetry’s Not For Me.)

 

I hate metaphors –AND similes               And who the hell wants to

they make me sick, just like a bad curry   listen to poetry

or a dirty dog’s lick                                 anyway- not me,

                                                              I’ve got better things to do

You know what I mean? Teachers          than read odes and limericks

Shoving it down yer throat                      about the birds and bees

Like yer worst nightmare, exam fright

                                                              I’d much rather dream a leaf

Just when you spent all night                    or two down from a tree

memorizing multiple metaphors                and think about Jennie

in Charles Dickens, quotes from              Willerby,

Hard Times                                            wonder if she likes me-

swallowing Shakespeare whole,               and how can I tell her

you walk in, sit down, write your name     she’s just the cat’s pyjamas?

read the question, then you know,

                                                               Oh, no, poetry’s not for me.

suddenly you know, you’ve forgotten every

metaphor’s meaning and all similes go

for a hike, taking your memory on a lead

 

wandering aimlessly through the park

of your A4 snow-blind mind, a total white-out

a blizzard in the space between yer ears.

 

No, no recall at all….

Yup, I hate metaphors –AND similes-

Lousy dirty stinking rotten trash

 

Who cares what that poxy Moron’s got?

Who gives a hoot fur all that rot?

An why is my English teacher such a big Scots grot?!

 

Who does he think he is anyway, giving me D’s?

When Johnny Williams gets A’s and B’s?

Even when he’s slime- which is most of the smelly time-

 

So I don’t give a monkey’s for all that rhyme

And Ted Hughes can’t think fox because a fox

Moves quicker than a Thought Fox walks

 

 

THE RAIGMORE

 

By my side, a glass of water, a jug, a bag, some books-

a borrowed ‘Silver Darlings’-

 

after the op., I hear the Visitor, a second time, describing, once again

The Dinner:

 

“For two pounds, three courses, a prawn cocktail starter, and look-

even tartan napkins.” Once again, she reveals the Napkin, from

the Handbag.

 

The man she visits is a veteran of El Alamein, Iraq, Palestine,

an ex-Desert Rat, who has landed in the Raigmore listening to

a dinner he was never invited to-

 

his trophy is a leg with a bullet hole, which now rusts the pins

holding  the leg together-

not a patch on a tartan napkin.

 

He swaps tales at other times with another infantryman,

across the room, tales of lifting and carrying

guns, sweating in trenches, some didn’t make it back,

some bled all their blood into the mud.

I listen with intent to applaud-

 

in the shower, with a plastic bag over the arm,

I dream of leading the tanks against Rommel,

maybe as Montgomery’s batman,

reading Spike Milligan’s memoirs for bedtime laughs.

 

A whole two days later, pins in the arm gone,

I exit for a slow bus to Fort William with a hand in mine

and the voice of a douce dark highlandwoman telling me

the doors of perception are wide open while I

refuse to enter

the halls of my soul.

 

She whispers, I fear for you, and I say, I fear

 

Being Squirrel

 

On that brick wall

that bush his tail

feather-bright light brush

over-arching

touching his face and nose

like some feather boa burlesque cockette

 

then twitch, an instant of grey brush-breath

hides the constant eyes' startled brightness

 

heart-stopping single split second

of grey squirrel

shooting across the summer road

I drive the bike on

once almost

under my front wheel uphill

 

on this wall he dances

his body instants of quicksilver

and sudden rock stock stillness

 

I feel this urge to reach, touch

his soft head

blessed beautiful nut.

 

 

c.RA Scott, 2009.

 

My name is Roddy Scott.  I have been writing poetry since 1985.  I am a scribbler of poetry and articles for magazines and occasional short stories.  I started writing after I got a degree in English Lit n French from StirlingUniversity

 

 anteallach1day@yahoo.co.uk

 

 

 

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The Girl At The Window
 
Champagne on ice
reflects on oyster bars
coffee anticipates
in Seattle
 
Echoes laugh within
cloisters of Bute
the girl at the window looks .....
just had to
 
Curiosity kills
love stands still
 
 
Catherine McDonald May 2010

 

Catherine McDonald was born in Glasgow and lives in Portobello, by the sea.  To date, most of her poetry has a coastal theme.  Her first poem on the rolling poetry pages last year, "Chocolate", is now featured in the Arran Chocolate shop (James of Arran).

 


 

 

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Nest

 

Above Red Road

somewhere between them

and indifference

A forest

A monument

Another window

 

He cast three sheets about their waist

Pledged a last thought to mother

The grass was soft, accepting

Like a nest after a fall from grace

With so many mouths to feed

it's hard to tell one bird from another

 

No balm for the dead

The apothercary is missing

Mourners claim disbelief

One hand denies the other

as both arms court solidarity

for a crazy man toemented by the Gods

 

 

Ray Evans has been writing poetry for about 20 years or so.  He currently lives in Paisley.  He has solo collections published.  His work also appears in various anthologies. Ray has won the Sammy Dows poetry competition for the last two years. A selection of his poetry may be found in the upcoming publication of The Scotia Poet Laureate 2010

contact rayevans05@googlemail.com

 

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The Fisherman’s Spell

The fisherman winks
casting a spell over the shore
as he cuts his baited line through
a glimpse of a rainbow

Caught up in the surf
the rainbow breaks
and vanishes into the sea
washing all its colours away

the surf rolls back into the sea
the fisherman smiles

A glimpse of a rainbow
caught up in a moment of time


 

Catherine McDonald  © April 2009

 

Catherine McDonald was born in Glasgow and lives in Portobello, by the sea.  To date, most of her poetry has a coastal theme.  The Fisherman's Spell was first published last summer in the first issue of Lyric Magazine.

 

 

                            Consequences

 

 

                            If I don’t come out of the bathroom

                            Then I can’t go to the hospital

 

                            If I don’t go to the hospital

                            Then I can’t see the doctor

                             

                            If I don’t see the doctor

                            Then I can’t have the operation

 

                            If I don’t have the operation

                            They can’t do the biopsy

 

                            If they don’t do the biopsy

                            Then they can’t get the results

 

                            If they don’t have the results

                            Then I don’t have cancer

 

                            A knock

                            Time to go

 

Journey Home

 

 

I catch a glimmer as I trundle by:

A kiss; a slap; a cry.

I watch for a moment, and infer a life:

Perfection; a one-off; a lie.

 

 

I flick through your windows, like a magazine:

A table, a ladder, a chair.

A life like our own; yet we are unique:

A letter, a rope, despair.

 

 

Subtle lighting,

Fluorescent glare,

Pitch darkness,

Nobody there.

 

 

All that remains

Is my own reflection.

 

 

                            Standing On My Head

 

 

                            I sometimes have this huge urge

                            To leap out of bed,

                            Or off the couch

                            And stand on my head.

 

                            I imagine the rush of blood

                            And with it the thoughts that come tumbling.

                            I imagine the changed perspective

                            Of a world upside down,

                            Where all rules are broken

                            Or up for reassessment.

 

                            But my feet would hit the pictures

                            Or someone might open the door.

                            I might not be able to balance,

                            And come crashing to the floor.

 

                            I lie in my bed,

                            Or on my couch,

                            And want to jump up,

                            And stand on my head

                             

 

                            But I have found

                            If I wait long enough

                            The urge passes

                            And we all stay safe

                            Grounded by gravity.           

 

 

Colette Coen is a writer of drama, poetry, flash fiction and short stories.  In the 90s she won a Whitbread Essay Competition; was published many times in Cutting Teeth; and wrote and performed a collaborative piece with members of the Scottish Chamber Orchestra.  After a long hiatus (3 kids), she is back writing again, winning the 2009 Eileen Gilmour Award.  She has also been published on the internet (http://thepygmygiant.wordpress.com and http://espressostories.com/story). She loves Margaret Atwood, Muriel Spark and Ugly Betty.

 

 

***************************************

 

When

 

I sold Morrison and Boyd

that great green covered text book

of organic chemistry

I didn’t know what 

I was doing

 

all I knew was

I wanted to be a poet

not a chemist

 

poor auld chemists

I thought

there they go

travelling along

a different small street

 

yet small streets

have infinite

patterns and cracks

at their doorways

 

sorrows and joys

in the mechanisms

of their being

 

 

too much room for freedom of thought

 

our heads are crowded

with lives that are not ours

they come from the stars

 from

 inside the stars

  and from

  out of the stars

    and from sleek black golfers

     in neat designer trousers

         and slim slips of girls

          in slight silk dresses

             and strange wan publicists

              in smart dark glasses

                 and wrinkled balding editors

                  in mad woolly jerseys

                     and em-pha-ti-cally honest newscasters

                      in gaudy orange lipstick

                         and healthy-skinned politicians

                          in disingenuous suits

                             and former punk academics

                              in clever doctor marten boots

 

our attention spans are brief

our attention spans were brief

 

we look to the star-favoured

favourites of our lives –

from L.A. and Hollywood

and cliff-edged Latin Soaps

to stratospheric actors dead on dope

to hedonistic rock-stars dead on dope

to super motivated sports-folk dead on dope

and we eat it all up

oh aye, we ate it all up

our lives are doubly dull

our lives were null and void jokes

and we drink it all down

oh aye, we drank it all down

our lives are Friday night

out on the town

 coz oor minds wur crowdit

 wae thoughts that wurny oors

 they came frae oot the stars

 frae ootia big     bright…    empty…      bubble…   [mommy

 

 

unlike descartes

 

 

that’s thi thing wae fuck all

if thirs fuck all there

yi jist canny see it

fuckin marvellous eh

 

emperor’s new clothes

jist bollok, wioot a stitch

fuckin bold though

brass neck uv thi hale fuckin hing

 

problem wae persepshin

this real

that imajined

never thi twain eh

 

point thi fingrr

lukkit it

tellsyi yur alive

thank fuck

 

stull breathin

 

 

Jim Ferguson

 

Jim is a dynamic poet who comes with a HEALTH WARNING.  His poetry is PROFOUND, PROFANE, FUNNY and SEDUCTIVELY MOVING.

 

********************************

 

Duck Egg

As the sea froze
all the waves
got caught up in surf
and that duck-egg reflection
from the East coast sky
came to a halt ....

Then the sea stopped
looking like a poetic dance
as it became a distant memory
fading away beyond newly raked sand ….

Now all the buckets and spades are stowed away forever.

© Catherine McDonald February 2010

 

Catherine McDonald was born in Glasgow and lives in Portobello, by the sea.  To date, most of her poetry has a coastal theme.  Catherine is fast becoming a regular on the Read Raw site.

 

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Acceptance

 

Chattering teeth, foul smell of decay and sweet sickly aroma of something unknown..

Rattling bones, grey horny skin, wet dark traces left on the ground..

 

I can feel its breath on my neck, tickling and burning.

I can see its shadow following me everywhere.

And I curse it and try to chase it away hissing “Go away devil!”.

But it won’t go.

It stays like the most faithful dog.

 

And then I realize…

It’s not HIS shadow, the shadow is mine.

Mirror reflection without a face.

 

And then I see…

My shadow is made of fears, like a patchwork rug,

Laid down on a path of my life.

 

And then I wonder…

How can I lose my ghostly companion?

..looking at the veins in my wrists.

 

And then comes acceptance.

 

I smile.

 

I’m alive.

 

KBoreysza 2010

 

Kasia lives in Glasgow and is a regular attender of The Hidden Lane Cafe where she reads both poetry and prose

 

*****************************************

Proud Mothers

 

Proud Mothers watch the passing Parade,

The drums beat loudly as our boys keep in step,

Shiny new soldiers ready for war,

Training is over , Green berets fly high.

 

What lies ahead no one is sure,

Perhaps they are too young to understand war.

Win Hearts and minds and fly the flag high,

Well thats what they are told when they march forth to Die.

 

Our boys trample down the Taliban Scum,

Proud Mothers await the return of their Sons.

They scream;  “more body armour” and support for our lads,

And Taliban children die in Jihad.

 

Inhuman brutality is beyond comprehension,

Yet we march on with Military pursuits.

God and Country, Hearts and Minds,

Or maybe just Dollars and Politicians Headlines.

 

© Malcolm McDonald,  February 2010,

Crossford, Dunfermline.

Malcolm is aged 51 and lives in the village of Crossford in Fife.  He  holds a BA degree in European History and Sociology.  He is a qualified Mental Health Nurse, Hypnotherapist and works for the Oil & Gas Industry as an Offshore Medic.

 ******************************************



Jigsaw Puzzle

Five hundred fragments
of unfulfilled dreams
one piece missing

Cobble stones
hot scree
white painted houses
Zaragoza, tharagotha, sarogosa
no sea
chipped window boxes
broken venetian shutters
waves and waves and waves
of lovesick sun flowers
all yearning for a vase of their own

White tripe disguised
by exotic names of forgotten places
lurking under tapas trees
only its smell giving it away

Spanish train
murmurs, mutters, murmurs
through seven hours
of desert and despair
held to the rails by smoke
clinging from the end carriage

flamenco fighters, bull dancers
bull fighters, flamenco dancers

A fork of lightning
breaks up the sky

Last piece unattainable
reported missing
if recovered
will wipe out the dream


© Catherine McDonald February 2010

 

Catherine McDonald was born in Glasgow and lives in Portobello, by the sea.  To date, most of her poetry has a coastal theme.  Her poem, "Chocolate" appeared on our rolling poetry page back in October - this one has more of a Spanish feel to it! 

 

********************************


 

 INAPPROPRIATE        

 

 

On yellow lines it stands forlorn

Abandoned old blue banger,

Parking lonely by the kerb

No owner ever seen to drive it.

 

    But the steering’s firmly locked

    wheels held by ostentatious clamp.

    Why?

 

           

 

‘Er… Hullo, hi there, Guys.                                          

Don’t think that I am begging but

please help me with donations              

for I have no-one in this country.’

 

    Speaking in her London accent                                       

    She swiftly works the crowded carriage.

    Lies?

 

 

 

                        Our solemn suited leaders

                        Go jovially for war

                        Khaki clad young soldiers

                        Board transports on command

 

                            The manicured hands at length wield pens

                            Turn bitter war to tainted peace                                

                            But,

    who died?

 

Mary Strick, February 2006

                                                    ---o0o---



Photography Is All About Light.

 

 

From under dark storm clouds a shaft of light

illuminates a tree intensely yellow.

Brave flaming sword protecting Eden’s gate,

defiant challenge to dark pines that frown

and give salute to Winter’s coming gloom.

In awe I press my camera shutter.  Click!

 

 

Next day a lustrous sun in lapis sky

pours light on transformed scene.  A gilded tree

of splendour, robed in russet, red and gold

befitting Midas’ court in royal richness

pays Autumn tribute to past and future bounty

I capture eagerly this different scene.

A difference wrought by light.  Click!  Click!

 

 

Photography is all about light.

 

Mary Strick, December 2008

                                                                      ---o0o---

Life Everlasting.

 

My tree is being robbed

my Autumn tree of splendour

robbed of leaf of gold

cruel winds bullying

howling

stripping

 

Branches dance to storm songs            

challenge ruthless adversary .

some dogged leaves remain  

staunchly clinging

unyielding

hoping

 

I watch high drama through the window

my tree defies cruel Winter

knowing Spring will surely come

and Summer’s warm returning

rebirthing

living

                                                                         Mary Strick, December, 2009.


These are both about a tree in the Glen opposite, which I watch daily from our windows.  It fascinates and inspires me


 


Mary Strick grew up in South Africa. of Scottish (100%!) stock and now lives in West Kilbride.  As Mary puts it:- "Other than chattering away, storing up observations about the world I lived and live in, enjoying letter writing, I was too busy bringing up kids and helping to run a farm to have fancy ideas about creative writing.  Who me? - you must be joking, would have been my response. The poetry bug has sneaked up unbidden and left me and mine with a feeling of astonishment."

 

*************************************

 

 

Nude Sensuality

Desnudo sensualidad – a painting by Francisco Alarcón

 

Dew point

looks to you to chase

 

the delicate moths of mists

on your short tether.

 

To put red lips

on pencilled life models,

 

you don’t have long. 

A glare of winter,

 

a wink long enough

for a rumour to start.

 

 

Dishonesty

Desnudo Pelo Recogido - a painting by Francisco Alarcón

 

behind her back

he is dancing

cheek to cheek

 

rhythm

he never shared

with her

 

she is blinded

in the left eye

by the brittle brim

 

of honesty

she wears

as a shade

 

blurred

by a single

ice blue tear

 

 

Spinning Jenny

 

in a soaring ash tree

hung with coloured ropes

Jenny spins

 

in a ring, a full moon,

singing upside down

on the final note

 

she falls for silk

like a tissue

to catch her

 

 

Nightingale

 

The hour before dawn

falls in fragments

of patterned glass.

 

Dewdrops light

the nightingale’s wings.

His song is dusted with mist.

 

A low echo to the river.

I put up a fresh canvas

and sketch a frieze

 

of drying peppers.

To bring up the sun

and silence the nightingale.

 

Now I can hear

each blade of grass grow

in the morning’s dwam.

 

Hello
 
I divide my writing time between Scotland and Spain. Born and raised in Fife, I now have homes in Edinburgh and Alhaurín el Grande. I have been a member of The School of Poets at the Scottish Poetry Library in Edinburgh. My first collection of poetry entitled 'Catapult to Mars' was published in 2006 by Poetry Monthly Press. I have a poetry blog at
www.catapulttomars.blogspot.com that welcomes poetry submissions. Here are a few poems for Red Raw.
 
Slainte
 
Gordon Mason

 

*************************************************

 

 

Grey Heron at Peninver

 

The grey heron stands

in falling twilight

her white neck strained onwards

one leg wide before the other,

a runner ready for the off.

 

She pulls her neck down and in,

head horizontal with the sea-line

along her body, then a turn

and up, up, up,

like Tai Chi for birds.

 

But from the front she is ungainly,

her knees knock together, busty, a frump.

She strikes a pose

and I’m reminded of my gran,

lost and uncertain in a station.

 

In fact she’s only testing, knows

the time of the tide, the best fish,

when to leave, when to arrive, like any elegant lady,

and how not to ruffle water when dinner is about.

 

But mostly, how not to be distracted by the curlews

or the black backs

or the crash and blast of waves,

or the sudden splash of seal pups,

their belch and shout in the quiet,

or the grace of silent mountains fading with the day

or a million little thrushes, pipits, swallows, larks and sparrows,

or me with my binoculars staring at her hard

the way she stares into the water and pretends she is not there.

 

 

 

 

 

Still Water

 

 

The water in my stomach is the stillest it’s ever been.

 

From rising

 

         off plains and seas

 

to falling

            as rain

                                                             sweeping mountain tops,

 

running

             in rivulets

                        down rocks

                                      into gullies

                                                 to streams and rivers

                                                                    into reservoirs

                                                                                    rippling under wind

                                                                                                          and shooting

 

                                                                                                                        down

 

                                                                                                                         dams

 

 

                                                                                                 into boiling wet infernos

 

then oozing along gargantuan pipes

                                                              to smaller andsmaller ones

 

until it halts a second behind my tap

 

 

                                                            before gushing into a crystal glass in my hand.

 

 

It swirls past my teeth and tongue, down the gullet and into the stomach

 

                 where it lingers,

                                                  awaiting dissemination around the cells of my body

 

                               until at last it is as still as I am

 

                                                                   as I sit in my chair, book and pen in hand.

 

 

 

 

Glendaruel Camp

 

 

I, a woman, became a man that day,

           planning, organising, executing,

                  shuffling huffily when

                                                  my sister and kids did something else.

 

I installed the van, the family

                                in the camp-site then,

           over-whelmed, felt the need to be

                                                                         not there,

                                                                                                  not where

          she and the kids were.

                                                           alone.

 

if she would just do things

                                          my way,

                                                        not hers,

                                    see the damage she is doing them,

then I could smile and offer

                          some witty banter

                                               exchange some pleasantries,

                                                                            intimacies even,

 

 

but this allowance of

              his little man’s stoicism,

              her little girl’s aggression,

              her voice as a weapon,

              his armour a fist,

       this is bad for children and

                                          the world,

                                               the future of

                                                     all worlds.

 

I fulfil my tasks,

   dinner, tidy, wash up, then

                                       sneak out the back way

                                                through bushes and playgrounds,

                                                                  past business buildings, and beyond.

 

the little gate clicks shut,

   the path steep,

       the air noisy;

                           spray soaks my face

                                       and the waterfall reveals itself

                                                                                  finally in a mighty roar

 

 

I give myself to this sound,

                   await a mighty echo in myself,

 

                                                                                    wait

 

                                                                                                          in silence

 

I find it green, very green, in fact

isn’t that a …? and that …?

                            well, does it really matter,

                            the species of the tree,

                            the number of species?

 

                                               the depth of moss that

                                               covers all, its velvet touch,

                                               rocks that made it happen,

                                               the path that someone built?

 

too wet to sit I

                 stand,       still,     just here,

                                                                  then here,           and there

 

until the roar turns to

                      silence and other people’s whispers,

                           moments sad or joyous

                                rippling through my body,

                                    pouring down the veins,

                                        flowing through my cells then on

                                             to somewhere else or

                                                                                       to nowhere

                                                                                                  to nothing.

 

her son meets me on the path

   back down,

worried, enquiring, demanding

                    to be taken to this waterfall.

                                                                  I tell him

                                                                            I will take him anywhere

                                                                                        I am able.

 

he nods appreciation at the roar and

         we return, two men to our sisters

and I see how hard they try

 

how hard it is and

       remember how hard it used to be, living

alone with kids

       and how tired I was then of being both

Mum and Dad.

 

  

 

Rain

 

The sun, when blazing,

raises every last molecule of

H - 2 – O,

spreads them lengthwise

and heightwise,

waits,

until two clouds bump together

like bathtubs thrown by giants

and spill their precious goods.

Down they come in verticals,

diagonals, horizontals,

‘til a maelstrom of a mish-mash

stirs a very potent brew,

and in all the glens of Scotland

the battles still rage.

 

 

 

 

Ba Bridge

 

black burn

brown water

white rapids

grey stone

green lichen

pumping heart

 

 

 

 

such are promises

 

sunlight on mid-morning

a pocket full of rice

the roads are strewn with seaweed

the police have called me twice

 

the blind girl did a sword-dance

the rats are in a flutter

the cars are red and green and blue

I did not hear you utter

 

a single, solitary word

it’s only crowds with you

the doctor came, he brought his wife

and now that we are through

 

with pots and pans and cooking sauce

the chairs are in the garden

the sun’s been on them all day long

my pet mouse ate the lardons

 

pink clouds are at the window now

and bed-time is upon us

my book is falling on its face

winged chariots a promise

 

 

 

 

 

Sue Reid Sexton lives in Glasgow and writes poetry, short stories and novels, mostly about people who're a bit screwy, smell a bit and don't fit comfortably with the mainstream world. Not autobiographical obviously.

 

 

**************************

 

Gawain in the Green Forest


At the centre is the sun
But our man can’t mind the path.

Kids won’t play on his estate
And all that’s left is to tilt
For older, darker lakes.

At right, bronzed selkie brides
Sea monsters, sirens, nix
Hawk their wares
As loach lap the black ink in ratio.

Tractors wallow idle in the fields,
Clung to by moss and rust;
Silage mires their treads, lodged inside
A corona of flecked paint – golden hair
Lionised in the warming sun.

Ahead,
Our man finds him
Like a child found static
At the 1939 world’s fair

Green knight asks if 
His revenant bones
Still gird the worthies round;
If tubers reach for his dead boot-soles
To aid him in his hiding from the cold.

Gawain’s answer, tough as jail
Weakened by temptation to the ground – 
Hasten to me, sir knight 
Our king’s no longer in the green.

 

 

Hello,

My name's Richard Watt and I'm a 28-year-old journalist from Tayside. I write poetry and short stories of a slightly fantastical nature, some in Scots and some in English, and have been bothering grants bodies for money for a few years now.

Best wishes for the decade's end,
Richard

 

***************************************************


 
No.58, Slorkram

 

This stilted house with tacit heart speaks
Out in castigation of the card-counting
Swindlers gambling by the river.

His ferny feet point to secrets buried
Deep in the soil, down beneath the timber;
Where, all earthy, only spiders stray.

Together we watch the sky like television
Screens: lapis days turn back to black
Booted nights but we natter on

Letting colours creep and silence shuffle
Out from the shadows in the shrubs -
Like milk mixing into tea. Tonight

It’s the ether eyeballing us; its winds gallop
From tufts to yarns then settle in yawns –
A telltale sign to canter off to bed.

‘Remember Michael’ (with a voice
As brass as bells): ‘Inside all bones are white
And souls are soft as ripened Mango’.

‘Of course. I won’t forget it.’
And tomorrow can we talk about
That Big City who lost his feathered hat.


 
Owen
 
Reilly, deepest dreamer, sleeping
In the bedroom, petal pink
And handsome: around a thousand
Broken pieces, long black locks
Like dirty cats’ tails; both little feet
Bouncing to hidden rhythms.
 
How he rests this way is beyond me
For whom night comes in teasing chapters:
Light nods, intruded upon by sun
Turned tangerine, on clumpy floorboards.
 
Soon he’s up too
Straight for the rolling tobacco
Lungs like power stations;
Greets day with coughs and chuckles.
Mornings spent tiptoeing
Around resting Reilly
To the sound of damaged vinyl

Are among my fondest reveries.
 

***

Nowadays, we’re out of sorts
Reilly and I, though I still visit
The pictures smiling, framing secret
Words through wine-stained lips.
 
I’m sure we’ve both said it out loud
(a train-station aberration perhaps):
‘I miss you’; afterwards feeling a little
Exposed - like damp leaves or rotting twigs
Laying idle in guttering.
 
It seems his crooked teeth, this crooked tale
Weren’t quite as unsightly as first
I thought. It’s just a matter of fact-finding -
Like discovering the stories

Behind scratches in wood.
 

Door, Roof and Drainpipe.
 

The noises stairwells make are grumbles
of grey, blue and green. In winter they speak
with snowmen, come spring they’re calling
to pigeons or passing gangs of sparrows.
Summer’s a season to watch what people do
and through autumn, it just depends:
if there’s Staffies around they’ll yap away;
if not, a rusty bucket does just fine.

Our antique Edinburgh tenements
have big beastly vocal cords, to bellow
through the gales and hails; you’ll find elders
cackling (having gone a bit senile)
at sheltering infants, drenched to the bone
or traffic-jams festering like old fruit.
It’s akin to how a passing boat salutes another -
one sturdy honk on the horn and a wily smile
pinned to the puss of the captain.

The lighting comes in lantern form and blinks
like candles battling a testing breeze.
Though the smells exuded, distinct from lavender,
pack quite the pong - all musty, musky, wet
and leathery. But rest assured
it’s nothing wicked; more like a little
too much salt on supper.

I think of my favourite stairwells as wise
old men; a thousand creases in the skin
and mottled beards they’re constantly twizzling.
Each like the bard, tinker or storyteller
has a handsome ken - from roving fields and forests
and talking with strangers.

These jovial giants stand shoulder-
to-shoulder with Gulliver and my granddad.
As for the rats, Gremlins and even more
sinister goings-on they host...well
we can’t always choose who comes to visit
or at what hour they call.


News Cast

 

Siem Reap is stitched together
With huts and hovels, electrical wires
And bendy barbed fencing.

Each day begins by the oily trigger
Of a moto-bike ignition; post porridge,
Pre the first garish sales pitch.

People’s want to walk flummoxes the Tuk-
Tuk operators flanked by the bride - as if
They were cowboys pitching to astronauts.

Their red roads come without a welcome mat
Quickly turn to sloppy clay when damp;
Clump, bubble and cook in a sun

As indiscreet as microwaved eggs.
Bees are bigger, beer is cheaper
The coins have absconded for China -

So the poor paper’s all grimy and over-worked
Like scuffled sneakers. Each evening
Conducts its own incongruous symphony

Of capricious deeds (fickle as the habits of fish);
And though I end up bug-bitten and perspiring
Wildly, taken for mug and sometimes lonely  -

I am happy, in this wooden house, reading
A backlog of texts from a brimful list
So many, many miles from all your news.


Gladiators
 

Kosal, with managerial magnitude,
Proffers a bottle of Johnny Walker -
Caramellow-yellow
Like the petrol-filled pockets
Serenading bike engines
On every spooky corner.
This one’s more of an arena

And inside it, lurking, amongst
The gunk, gloop and phlegmy matter
Is a fighting fish: pretty, pink
And pouting, like a cartoon smooch.
An opponent fidgets in his own den:
A plastic bag once turgid now globby
As a sopping marshmallow.

Each delicate little samurai
Patrols his border - bottle up
Against bag - so as the pair
Can rile one and other
In a shimmering showdown.
Only in Asia is there cadence
In the pre-match scaremongering.

As an audience, we’re just as puckered
When the fish-bowl super-bowl
All kicks-off. Fins striking in clashing colours
Like kites sparring in the wind;
Imaginary symbols clang
As we make sloppy figures of eight
And grab at each other’s skinny parts.

They duel a little
But when the showboating crescendos
Into something a tad fiercer
He puts a firm stop to it. Just protecting

His investment; it only takes seconds
For the dollars on the head of a champion
To fold like a bad hand into scaleless
Scars and bird feed;

And these are testing times
For us all.

 

 


My name is Michael Pedersen and I'm a 25 year old writer of Caledonian stock. I've recently launched my first chapbook with Koo Press - the book has received a few anointments including a Poetry Society

Recommended Read.
 
I'm currently self-exiled in Cambodia completing my first full collection and assembling a film script.
 
Hope you enjoy this hamper of diction.
 
Much mirth,
 
Michael
www.michaelpedersen.co.uk

 

*********************************************************

 

Chocolate

Anticipation
as you contemplate
the first bite
expectations
beyond wildest dreams
flow into your mouth

Lips part
as beads of sweat
run from your forehead
chocolate touches your tongue
your face contorts

Sensual expressions
leave you consumed by pleasure

The last piece dissolves
with everything else around you
melted chocolate arouses
as it escapes from your mouth

The plate is empty and hungry
along with your heart …..

by Catherine McDonald  © October 2009


Catherine McDonald was born in Glasgow and lives in Portobello, by the sea.  To date, most of her poetry has a coastal theme….. “Chocolate” is something different!

 

********************************************************

 

 

My birds

 

I have a pair of buzzards

I keep them in the sky

above the woods I pass each day

They circle round like stringless kites

as if they might swoop

down for prey; just not today.

 

But buzzard birds are hard to train

no discipline, wrong kind of brain

I often find they’ve slipped the sky

and wait on fence posts

sharp of eye, for me to wave

before they fly.

 

Rhona Ritchie

 

Rhona lives in Lochwinnoch with her husband and two children

and is just starting an Open University creative writing course.

 

********************************************* 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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