The one where he brings poetry month to a close with a poem ...

I want to bring poetry month to a close with – guess what – a poem. Predictable, no?

But which one? And by which poet?

Then I decided that it should be one of my own. (Because frankly, dear reader, it’s all about me.)

But which one? So many to choose from.

It needs to have already been published – so if anyone “steals” it the impact is minimal. (Who am I kidding? Impact. We’re talking about poetry, dude.)

Do we want funny? Moving? Sweet? (Scratch that. I don’t do sweet.) Hard-hitting? Thought-provoking? Political? Or one about a royal wedding?

Just messing with you. Don’t do weddings either.

Then this poem popped into my head. Probably because I visited the source of it yesterday with the wee fella and the pup.

The photograph is of a sculpture made by one of Scotland’s best kept secrets – the super talented Ronnie Rae. Go HERE  for more details.

Ronnie was opening an exhibition in the gardens of Holyrood in Edinburgh in May 2006 – right by the palace and the Scottish Parliament building. All sorts of dignitaries were in attendance and Ronnie asked the Makar Press Poets (Sheila Templeton, Rowena M. Love, Jim Hughes and moi) to mark the occasion with a few poems.

He has some pieces on permanent exhibition in Rozelle Park, Ayr just a couple of miles from my home. So I dragged the wee fella along for a visit. (He was totally unimpressed. Thought his dad was a weirdo, staring at a clump of hewn stone.) He was eight-ish at the time and said those immortal words "I can't believe you are actually my dad."

The picture above shows one of the pieces and the one that got the words flowing for me. It’s called Golgotha Madonna and the statue allowed me to shift away from a lifetime of hyperbole and brainwashing and ceremony and think about the human story. This was a real-life woman whose only son was being horribly punished – tortured and crucified. As a parent, you can’t begin to imagine the pain she was in.

Like with anything else in life you are rarely aware of the impact you have. Until the kind and the brave point it out to you. Jim Hughes had a quiet word in my ear after the event. "This poem,’ he said, "Really moved me. I sat in the quiet and thought about your words and Jesus’ mother in Golgotha and I don’t mind telling you I couldn't stop crying."

That’s the power of poetry, people.

Anywho, time to let the words speak for themselves and to thank you for allowing me this indulgence throughout the poetry month of April. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

Golgotha Madonna

Her head shelters under the bridge

of a concrete arm.

Lower limbs crushed in silent squat

as if

the simple act of standing

would push up the sky,

make the stars fall

and drown in our oceans.

As if

the simple act of standing

would colour the world

gray with lack.

As if

all she needs

is my touch.

My blessing.

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.

Pees, Pies and Poetry

Last night the Makar Press Poets (that would be Sheila, Rowena and moi) were live in Kilmaurs. Doesn’t quite have the ring of Edinburgh, Stanza or Wigtown, but you would be mistaken if you thought that was A Bad Thing, because the good people of Kilmaurs rock.

We had an audience of over 30 people and such was the reception we received that we left wondering – how come we’re not famous? Basically, cos we don’t come with a bass beat, we’re not “Hello” worthy and none of us have inflated our tits. Let’s face it, poetry just isn’t sexy. Correction, it isn’t widely perceived as sexy, because it can be that and more. Think of any adjective that relates to the human condition and poetry can take you there. The trouble is that most folks just don’t want to put in the effort.All it takes is a little more flexibility of thought. How difficult can that be?

Anyhow...get off your soapbox, fella. The reading was part of a week long annual fete. The local community work hard at keeping a community feel to the town and each summer they organise a series of events to bring the local people together to do things like treasure hunts, 5 km runs and a pub quiz. Oh and a certain poetry reading with yours’ truly billed as Pies, Pees n’ Poetry. Hats off to the organisers. They do a cracking job.

While speaking to one of the organisers, she explained that the previous evening they were trying to drum up some more attendees during the quiz. They were largely met with blank stares and comments like, sorry, poetry isn’t my cuppa tea. An elderly lady beside her then piped up to explain what had brought her along. The organiser had explained to her that it wasn’t like the poetry she had learned it school - it was fun, about real life and we used the occasional swear word. The old lady grinned and said that was what did it for her.

So during the reading, just for her, I threw in a few fucks. Bless.

The M.O. of the M.P.P. is to hand everyone a sheet full of the topics of our poems. Then they shout out a topic that they fancy. It means we don’t choose the poems – our audience does. And this means that no two readings are exactly the same. It also means we get audience participation and an energy flow that goes back and forward between poets and attendees. Know what? It only works.

Modesty prevents me from detailing the feedback we received from people at the end of the night. Modesty and a memory that has all the recall powers and storage capacity of a cigarette. However, one guy did say that it was the best night he’d had in ages that didn’t involve women or booze. Can’t say fairer than that.


What was extra cool about the evening was that a good few of the people in the hall had been there the year before and made it feel like we were reading to a bunch of friends who had brought their pals along. (Apart from a couple at the back: she looked like she was struggling to remember what colour her underwear was and why it pinched so much - and he looked like somebody has just pissed in his pint.)

And what was extra, extra cool was that before the night was over, we’d been invited back to do it all again for 2010. Sing along with me...go Makars, go Makars, go Makars.

Celebrate Ayrshire

“Interesting” is an interesting word. As is “nice”. They are both dipped in positivity, while at the same time being non-committal. Yet there are times when no other words will do the job. Take today at the “Celebrate Ayrshire” event in the grounds of Culzean Castle. It was both nice and interesting.

The whole event was part of Ayrshire’s year-long run of events for The Homecoming. If this event has passed you by, this is the Scottish government’s big thing for 2009 to remind the rest of the world what a fabulous country Scotland is. The message is (more or less) if you haven’t managed to visit, get your arse over here, you’ll love it.

Early summer is often the best part of the year, weather-wise in this corner of the globe and to prove it the sun was in attendance. As were we Makar Press Poets (Sheila Templeton, Rowena M Love and moi). We were part of the entertainment throughout the day as a variety of groups showed off their wares. Strathclyde Police and Fire Brigade had displays as did Ayrshire Beekeepers, Organic gardeners from Stair, Ayrshire Ice Cream from Catrine House, and a Rare Breed butchers was flogging rare breed burgers and steaks.


There was also an archery exhibition and few others bibs and bots. Among the bibs and bots was a cow. A muckle beastie tethered to a trailer. Why? Not sure. The cow, let’s call her Jessie was just hangin’ out taking in some rays and nibblin’ a few shoots of grass. She was positioned next to the ice cream stand so maybe they were going for a before and after thing. Sheila was for standing behind Jessie with an arrow pointing to her udders, while I was to make the milking motion, with Rowena bringing up the rear (so to speak) making shivering shapes and noises. We decided this might be misconstrued and decided to satisfy ourselves with oodles of the after product.


The Marquee was where you could find the poetry and we featured in 20 minute time sandwiches between Maybole Pipe Band and Johnstone Silver Band throughout the day. The day ran from 11am till 4pm. We also had a Robert Burns impersonator kitted out in the gear we’ve come to associate with Burns, complete with ponytailed wig and a ploughman poet’s sideburns and he pitched in now and again with the likes of Tam O’Shanter and My Luv is Like a Red, Red Rose.


The presence of “Rabbie Burns” had a confusing effect on some people. Not with Rabbie himself, but with us. One Irish guy said that one of my poems was so good he thought it was a modern rendering of a Burns classic. Which was nice (oh, there’s that word again) but we had to state on several occasions that we were readin our own original work.


This next comment might be tantamount to treason, but Scottish poetry has more to offer than just oor Rab. Wonderful as he is and absolutely something to be proud of, the danger is that as a nation we concentrate on him just a tad too much. There are a great number of fine writers living and working in Scotland today who could do with some attention and the wherewithal to make a decent living. By all means we should celebrate Burns and the impact he has had on the world, but let’s listen to other voices. Right, that’s me off my soapbox.



It is fair to say that I’m knackered. It takes energy to read poetry in these surroundings, dontcha know. Normally our readings are in confined spaces and we build up an atmosphere in which we and the audience feed off each other’s energy. Reading in a marquee to a transient audience is quite a different matter. First off the acoustics are shit. Secondly, at an invited reading the audience tends to have chosen to be there; in this kind of scenario the attendees were mostly taking a seat and shelter from the sun. There was also the odd barking dog, screaming child and whoosh from the flames at the Fire Brigade stand to compete with.


To be fair, there were lots of people who fully appreciated what we were doing and clearly enjoyed it, particularly earlier in the day. But there were also lots of bemused expressions. Some of which set Sheila off on a teenage giggle. You could see the thought – but it diznae rhyme, passing across some people’s expressions.


There I was reading my poem about the woman whose teeth fell out when she was eating a scone (I cover such a wide topic range. Nothing is sacred, not even the regal scone) which normally gets a big laugh. I got to the funny bit and this elderly couple right at the front (who had just arrived, nursing an ice cream cone each) were looking at me as if I had just announced that Christmas and Easter were changing months, but Santa and the Easter Bunny would stay as is. They were sitting mouths open wondering what the hell was going on. I swear I could see the vanilla ice cream melting among their fillings.


Being brutally honest, by the time it came to the last set, I really couldn’t be arsed. After 4 hours of intermittent poetry readings I’d had enough. I was all for untethering Jessie and asking for a ride home. Sheila was on the fence (yes, you were) and Rowena was up on her feet brandishing one of her collections, with all the energy of a zealot.

However, I am nothing if not a pro and we performed our last set for the afternoon.

Did I enjoy my day? Yes. It was nice. And interesting.

Back from CC

Just back from the delights of Cliff Cottage to see that I have a back garden that needs an army of machete wielding navvies to clear it. OK, I’m prone to exaggeration. One machete-wielding navvy would probably do it. Given enough time (two weeks, say) and some sharp implements. Us poets shouldn’t have to do such mundane things. We should be able to sit with our writing tools to hand, staring out into the blue yonder while our servants get busy with all the boring stuff. Like gardening, ironing, the washing, the shopping, cleaning – basically, pretty much most things that end in ING. Apart from eating and drinking, of course. Oh, and I can think of something else, but that’s too rude.
Oh – and can I change the occupation from navvy to Girl Friday? Might as well have something nice to look at as well. Any takers out there? Just think of the job satisfaction. The pay is crap, but I’ve got a nice big smile with all my own teeth and everything.


Aberdeen was fantastic. Big thanks to EG for her amazing hospitality at CC. What a cool lady. The reading at Books n Beans was also a big success. We had a full house, with such luminaries in attendance as the crime-writer, Bill Kirton and up and coming literary star, Gillian Philip (and her equally talented mate, the shoe queen, Ruth). This reading was part of the Wordfringe Festival, an annual, month-long round of poetry and prose readings throughout the Aberdeen area. The guys who run it deserve a medal for organising the whole shebang. To get more than 40 people in a bookshop on a beautiful night – and to do that every night for a month takes some going. What’s more the audience was discerning, intelligent and appreciative. And they laughed in all the right places.


A bonus was the weather, sunshine from sun-up to sun-down for the whole weekend. Which got me thinking. Every time I’ve been up to CC there has been uninterrupted sunshine, whatever the season. The common denominator? Moi. So ladies ... need some sunshine in your life? Geezashout. (remember what I said earlier, own teeth and everything)
While I’m in the praising mode (I was. Keep up), can I just say what a pleasure it is to work with my fellow Makar Press Poets, Rowena M. Love and Sheila Templeton. Classy ladies, who write world-class poetry. We’ve been doing this for around 5 years now and there’s never ever been a cross word, never even a hint of ego and always complete professionalism. Except for the occasional chatting up of select members of the audience. Sheila, down girl.


The two days after the reading I was able to concentrate on some writing. 16,000 words on the work in progress are not too shabby over two days. Read it and weep, Toots.


We had a movie night on our last night up in CC. On the bill was “Dean Spanley” and “The Diving Bell and The Butterfly”. The former had a stellar cast including Peter O’Toole, who was brilliant as the cantankerous old father. The actors had a fantastic script to work with and managed to add nuances that I’m sure the writers hadn’t even considered. A quiet and wickedly funny masterpiece. The other film is about one of the editors of Elle Magazine who suffered from a massive stroke some years ago. All he could move was one eyelid and with this he managed to write a book. No silly, he didn’t stick a pen in his eye socket. He woke every morning at 5am and between then and 8am he decided what he wanted to say and then when his assistant arrived, he blinked out the passages he had stored in his memory. True story. Any writers out there with “writers block” should check this out, see what challenges can be overcome and then give themselves a bloody good shake. Writers block my eye!
(see what I did there?) If I’m being honest, I preferred the actual book, but that is no slight on the movie which had quality written all over it. Rowena would also testify to this – if she hadn’t fallen asleep half way through.


A weekend well spent? Absofuckinlutely.

Britain's Got Poetry

If you had gone down to the woods today, you might have got a big surprise. Well, not the woods exactly, beside the woods...in the Walled Garden at Culzean Castle. Sheila, Rowena and myself were performing at the Poetry Picnic as part of the Burns an a’ that Festival. What’s more, Sheila was on time. Kinda. She was at the castle gates, Gillian, dead on 12. The afternoon turned out really well. All in all we had around 40 people sitting around us with their munchies as we read poems to them.
Again it was a pleasure to read to an appreciative audience, a good few of whom were new to such an event. One guy approached Sheila after we had finished and I heard him say, ‘I hated poetry when I was at school.’ Then he continued by saying that he didn’t know poetry could be so interesting and such fun and we had given him a whole new perspective on it.

Job done.

For the record, I shouldn’t single out Sheila as the late one. Yes, she was late for the same event last year, but the week before that we were performing at the Whisky Festival in the town hall...and I slept in. I didn’t even have the excuse that I was out the night before.
I heard a knock at the door that morning. I flung on my dressing gown, knuckled the sleep from my eyes as I stumbled down the stairs and opened the door. I expecting the postie to be delivering a book, instead I opened to door to a shiny, bright Rowena. Dear reader I swore. I think my words were along the lines of, ‘What the f ...?’

She had the good grace to laugh, and she told me it was 11:30. She left and I ran upstairs to shower and shave. Apparently, and I find it hard to believe that she would behave in such a manner, Sheila whooped with laughter all the way into town.

Comeuppance, is a word with a lot of vowels, dear reader, but that’s what happened when the very next week, the divine Miss T (Sheila) was late for the Culzean picnic. I was gracious when she arrived. I only pointed and laughed for like thirty seconds.

Today wasn’t the best day for a reading in these parts as it was the last day of the football season. Mind you, given the way it turned out I was glad I hadn’t watched any of it. Gutted. Never mind. There’s always next year.

I finished the day off by watching Britain’s Got Talent. I blame Hughie Green. Growing up watching Opportunity Knocks has made me a sucker for all these talent shows. In any case, I felt the right two got through to the final. The dance group Diversity were fantastic, great fun and a credit to their families (god, I sound like an old fart) and a big two-fingered salute to all of those people who complain about teenagers being useless. They were an absolute pleasure to view and I could have watched them for hours. Susan Boyle gave me goosebumps. I had this horrible feeling that she was going to fall flat on her face – how could she live up to all that hype - but after a “pitchy” start – well that’s what Randy The Dawg Jackson calls it on American Idol – she got into her stride and the bumpy skin stuff happened.

(photo from Brian Craig)

Makar May

The month of May tends to be a busy month for the Makar Press Poets and this month is no exception. Things have been a little bit quiet over the last few months and I guess we can put that down to the death of Jim Hughes, just over a year ago, which really knocked us off our collective stride. Jim was a powerhouse of ideas always looking for new places in which we could perform our work and even thinking up new ways how we could perform our work. More importantly, he was one of the finest human beings I’ve ever met.
However, he would be well and truly pissed off if we allowed his death to stop the good work and name we had established through the years we have been working together. So Rowena, Sheila and I carry on the good fight...

A month of poetry begins for me on Friday when I will be down in London for the Petra Kenney Poetry Competition in Canada House. This is the last year for the competition which has been running for over 12 years now. The founder Morgan Kenney set the prize up in memory of his wife Petra and he feels he had now achieved more than he could have hoped for and that it’s time to stop while on a high. Morgan is another of life’s good guys (one of my very favourites)and a wonderful ambassador for the world of poetry. He is also one of the most enthusiastic and energetic people I’ve ever met. And one of the oldest. (He’ll love that.) Who knew Methusalah had a Canadian accent?

Next is a Poetry Picnic in the walled garden at Culzean Castle on Sunday 24th of May as part of the Burns an a’ that festival. We, the Makar Press Poets have been involved in the festival for 5 (or is it 6, Rowena?)years now and as usual the reading will start at noon and hopefully lots of people will assemble on the grass around us and munch away at their picnic while Sheila, Rowena and I read out our work. It’s a really cool way to spend an afternoon and amazingly one of the few poetry events throughout the whole of the Burns an a’ that Festival. Now I may have an amazing grasp of the obvious, but you think Robert Burns and you think “poetry” don’t you? Well everyone else does apart from the organisers. They think Status Quo and Ruth Lorenzo.

The following Thursday (28th) we’ll be in Aberdeen at the Wordfringe Poetry Festival. Sheila, being a Dyce lass has read in them thar parts on a number of occasions, but it will be a first for Rowena and myself. The reading will be in Books N Beans at 6:30pm and an extra bonus is that we get to spend a few days at Cliff Cottage where our collective muse will be tickled, fed and watered and looked after like royalty. Cannae wait.