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A Brief Poetic Interlude…

By way of follow-up to our very successful ‘Speakeasy’ event last week, two of our poets have kindly agreed to let us post some of their work on our blog. Firstly, here are three poems by Amy Anderson:

Rogart Celtic Brooch

Pointing to the time of silvercrafts
the three birds sing a ballad
to the pitiless rain
and her pony jolts his hooves
on moss and sphagnum
She hears it ring at every
near forehand fall
as fetlocks sink to bedrock
as his neck droops at Rogart
only it is impervious
fixing plaid to weave
and the small boned bride
is kept dry by her own horseshoe
at her clavicle
and now, treasure still
and as sure as a sundial
behind curator’s glass

Govanhill November

Studded orange
a line of acid drops
for navy streets
and inky corners

Thinking about the rain again

falling on the stacks of Gilmour Street
rain must come in straight from the Hebrides
with crystals smarting on stone.
Delighted and intransigent
they take it, darkening to dirt
at every wave of the wind
every fizzing atlantic grain.

Now, a poem by L.A. McKay (Lesley McKay, also known as L.A. Traynor):

Lost In Translation

Those arriving late glanced
at the tourist.
I was the fifty pence pick n’ mix of religion.
The stone gathering the moss of beliefs.

No, I was only here for the music
and on cue
it soared and descended,
caressing the faithful
and the faithless

Within the shade
of their faith
I sat.
An oasis of acceptance.

The faithful moved
to an unheard beat.
They paced towards their God
as one,
fused by the word of Luther.
The old closer
than the one young soul
who skipped at her father’s heels.

Only I sat,
stuttered to a stop
along God’s path.
God spoke in tongues
didn’t he?
He would understand
my thoughts.

At the waist of her father
the little one swung her skirt
to her own internal melody.
Her time was now.
A step brought her within
the protection of her father.
a small hand slipping into comfort.

He waits for the day
when she no longer takes that step.
I wait for the tears
to stop.
This is an image
to venerate.
The innocence of childhood.
The unconditional love of a father
in the Kirk of Johannes.


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