A pie, a pint and a whole load of poetry...

That was what the good people of Newton Mearns in Glasgow enjoyed last Friday. It was part of a week long Food Festival the local council were organising and the local library got in on the act when they asked The Makar Press Poets – Sheila Templeton, Rowena M Love and my good self – to attend and provide the poetry. Unfortunately, Rowena couldn’t take part but Sheila and yours truly were happy to fly the poetry flag.

Around 40 people turned up, a few of whom indicated at the start they had no idea what to expect.

We got so many people approaching us at the end to tell us they enjoyed the event more than they ever anticipated that it shouldn’t surprise us. But it does.

Few people habitually read poetry, even fewer people buy it, but when given the opportunity to enjoy it they appear to lap it up. It would be nice to think that they go home and search out other poets they might enjoy.

Our work is accessible, works at different levels and can be in turns touching and humourous. They’re not my words but comments people have left with us – and we didn’t have to pay them.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that with just a little effort from the great unwashed we poets would be as lauded as anybody in Hollywood, or on the tv or on the sports park.

Ooooh. Did someone just hit me over the head? Like that’s ever going to happen.

Anywho, in the interests of getting more poetry out there here’s one that went down well on Friday. (Hat tip to New Writing Scotland who published it in their collection a couple of years back.)


Wounded Knee

My black trousers stumbled to a point half way
to the skull-grey cap of my knee
while I steered my way through the corrals
of school playtime, avoiding the gunslinger
glare of bullies, who’d queue
to lassoo with threats.


Pencil point stabbed between my shoulders,
beef-jerky breath in my face
and a low growl in my ear…
…."as soon as the bell rings, you’re dead!"

I was faster than any of them
Knees and fists pumping the air,
I was the best rider
the Pony Express never had.

A half-breed scout, I wore
a Colt pistol under my belt
and an Eagle’s tail feather in my hair.
A combination that won
neither friend or foe
from reservation or ranch.

A fall…and the bony plate of my knee
became a wound with hard baked gravel
ground under the torn and grieving skin.

I grew my thumbnail especially
for that moment when the scab was ripe,
when the blood had hardened
to a brown as deep as the colour of apache skin.

I would tease off the scab…
…until baby pink skin winked in the sunlight,
fresh for the next gallop across the prairie
and the race into the unreachable horizon.

In case you missed it...

...the Pope is visiting Britain right now. As a (lapsed) Catholic is was nice to see him being we well received particularly when there was a fear that he would be largely met with indifference. With regards to the politics of his "message" I'll leave that to others who are more qualified.

Anywho I was reading a poem to an audience on the eve of his visit and it seemed apposite to read the one you will find below. When I wrote it ithe poem was really an exercise (suggested by a poetry workshop leader) in bringing together two sensory memories from my childhood - a stolen sip of altar wine - waking up after wetting the bed. It became an exorcism, if that's not too strong a word, as all poems do that are anchored in truth.

As I read it I remembered a comment from an audience member from an earlier reading. He (very politely)accused me of having a go at the Catholic Church. I told him it was a truthful experience and the poem states the facts without judgement. The judgement was his.

Here's the poem...


Drinking Jesus’ Blood


Sister Mary tears me from my dream,
mouth pursed white like the lip of a drawstring bag.
Again, urine had seeped from my Judas bladder.
Pyjamas in deep, wet, cotton folds burn from belly to knee.

Sister Mary, a window-less room and a bath of ice water.
The drum in my ear shivers at the machine gun rattle of my teeth.
Naked, I hide my hairless sex behind bone-thin hands.
‘Get your hands away, you dirty little pervert.’
My mouth opens, my hands move from sin, then back.

Cold water bites flesh. Skin and muscle shrink to a tight sheath.
Her black sleeves rolled up, forearms white as a frosted soul.
She tries to find suds in iced carbolic. I bite on the questions:
will my teeth chip or break from clattering,
how much will the tooth fairy give me if they are in crumbs?
Rubbed with stiff towel till skin heats, blue to pink.

In the Sacristy with Jim Docherty, the other Altar Boy,
itch of shame replaces the nip of urine.
‘Wet The Bed,’ he chants.
‘Shut it, Big Nose,’ I bruise his arm - and don white.
‘Lads,’ says Father Kieran, tousles our brylcreemed heads

and leaves us with a chalice full of communion wine.
The vessel grows until it shrinks the room,
I lean forward to touch it.
Jim’s eyebrows bounce off his hairline, ‘Bet you wouldn’t.’
I grip the stem in answer to his hushed taunt.

Heart charging at my ribcage I moisten lips, and pour.
Teeth and tongue fur sour before I force open my throat.
A blazing bolus flares a trail to my stomach.
Jim, slack mouthed with fear and awe,
‘Oh-oh, that’s a sin. You’ve just drank Jesus’ blood.’

‘Aye, and it tastes like piss!’

A poem on Youtube...tell all your pals

Do I or do I not go to any lengths to keep you guys entertained?

Here is a poem wot I wrote and which that fine young film-maker (well, he's young) David McKinlay has added some atmospheric visuals to.

We've had 9 hits so far....so that's only 999,991 off from becoming an internet sensation. Over to you people...spread the word...evangelize...send the link to everyone on your address book....even your Ma cos there's no swearing in it or nothing...what else have they got to do cos there's nothing on the telly but numpty politicians.

Learning to Listen

It's Valentine's Day - in case you missed it...

The last time I was in Paris it was around about this time of year and everywhere you went in the main drags (you can't really call a Parisien boulevard a drag, Michael) there were large posters everywhere with poems on them.

In the spirit of this offering I thought I would include a poem in my blog today. I don't normally like to put poems here, in case they get stolen - like, who would want to but you never know -however this one has already been published.

I was commissioned by Margaret Thomson Davis to write a series of poems for her novel Red Alert from the point of view of a young woman who was going to art school. Anyway, the poor lass had a hard time...but did it all turn out well? Long enough for her to fall in love, but after that...I ain't saying.

Here's one of the poems in the series I came up with for Margaret...

Inside She’s Dancing

Every step she takes this morning

lands on a cushion of air.

All they did last night was kiss

and today he flavours everything

her mind touches.



His voice sounds in the rumble

of a passing car. The valerian blue

of his eyes watches over her

reflected in every window

from here to there.



A boy with short, brown hair

gelled to spikes, holds his mother’s hand

while crossing the road. She sees him

in the way the boy’s eyes tug at his mum,

checking she is still there.

The boy gives a little kick with each step

as if the promise of a future

nips at his heels.



An old man at the bus stop, round

like Santa. Him in fifty years. Cheeks

bunched in a grin, wearing an apple blush

like him last night when he brushed

her right breast with his arm.



Caught herself smiling at the old man,

wanting to know

how they carry the years,

yet doesn’t want to spoil the dance

of every blood cell through the chambers of her heart,

like millions of tiny breeze-blown flowers.