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POMPEY TOWN It was roister town, tough, violent, merry,
boozed up to its eyes, its inns and alleys
crammed with whores and sailors.
Still much the same in spirit, no more
press gangs on the prowl, thank god
and shame about lost fields which lapped
up to the streets with market gardens,
cattle, sheep, victuals for the town and fleet. Empire and Fashion split the town,
Portsmouth, Southsea, conjoined twins,
whose eyes look onto different worlds:
Pompey’s barracks, dockyard, artisans,
Southsea’s select facades, naval gentry
settled and discreet, and half hid behind them
the one-time service streets, now hosts to students,
boozers, junkies. This tight, tight terraced town
some rows stout and steady, others cramped
and junked with bits of cars and mattresses out front,
gutters cracked, windows bleary, all packed
on Portsea Island, walled in by water, till City
blew its top, bridged the channel, flooded up
to Portsdown Hill. The common joke has Pompey
as a northern town, which broke away, floated
south, moored and settled in the harbour mud. I love its faces: correct and naval-steady,
arrogant in weathered immobility, flip-side
it is brassy with streaked hair, piercings, rings,
all hard boiled eyes and belly laughs.
Ships, salt, jauntiness, a generous outgoing town. Robin Ford |
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AULD REEKIE This city can sing a song;
Tunes of glory from the Castle.
Kilts swing to the sound of pipes.
Processions follow the fiddlers;
Show them to the next whisky bar.
Lulu sings the Locomaotion.
Street urchins chant their patter,
Ah come frae auld Embra.
A lassie sings a gaelic ballad
While jocks knock back their wee heavies.
They tell of Lizbet’s family tree
And deny allegiance to her reign.
Some in the kirk: some in the pub
United by haggis and chips,
They take pride in a wry raucous wit.
City on the rocks;
This city can dance and sing
Malcolm Taylor
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THE BEAUTIFUL AND TERRIBLE CITY In city canyons djinns and devils stir abandoned streets high towers flame in evening sun , refulgent birds,
white as sharks, soar and circle, bright aircraft scrape
the edge of space. In an office, roseate in sunset, high above dimming streets,
a sharp-suit man in silhouette bows head against plate glass, old silence weighs him down until he screams
loud enough to shatter windows fear howls round pinnacles, when the echo strikes back
his terror overwhelms. Oh by your pity
my other self, my courage,
whisper at my shoulder
then speak free and bright,
tell me we will live
to sail the unknown waters gaily
and should we hear
cries of fear
let us not give way
but keep a steady
and untroubled pace
until we reach our proper
destination. Robin Ford |
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MADAME
I was there
enjoying a pot de tea
in the square.
In the shadows,
a faded café bar
not for tourists.
The dark recess showed
an old woman in a black dress;
a cameo of bygone Montmartre.
Bijoed old matriarch
drinking white wine
on her throne.
They could not depose her.
Sitting on her commode
She saw off Hitler and Hemingway.
Pas de crème ici!
The old anachronism
Scorned the crowd
Malcolm Taylor |
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NIGHT SHIFT Tonight the moon is shrouded;
urban fox grows bolder, more intrepid,
threads his mangy brush through crowded alleys
seen, not seen, seen again, not seen. Human scavengers, disquieting as foxes
haunt the exits from the supermarkets,
pounce on foodstuffs past their sell by dates,
sniff, discard, another sniff, make do. As first commuter trains limp to their destinations
packages, within doorways, start to shift,
unwrap the aching backs, unscrew wracked limbs.
Wheels grind, run smooth, grate, glide on. Buddleia erupts from dusty brickwork
waves defiance, displaces soot stained slates,
erodes the footings of chimney pots,
thrives uncontrolled across the city sky. Joan Waddleton
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TRAIN RIDE
We faced each other
this unknown man and I
gawky, ignorant schoolgirl
of thirteen.
How old a man? I’ve no clear
image of him. French?
I suppose so but neither of us
spoke, even exchanged a glance.
I had six friends with me
to tell me nothing happened
so why do I remember even now
the time of day, our destination,
this unacknowledged episode –
just his legs gripping mine,
unobserved among a mass
of schoolgirl legs and luggage,
this swelling surge of warmth.
Why did I make no protest,
attempt to move,
what could I have said?
Joan Waddleton |
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EDINBURGH Auld city
Auld Reekie
vibrant place
one o’clock gun
pipers piping
kilt makers making
trews wearing
saltire waver
Georgian town
Leith Docks
CITY OF ENLIGHTENMENT
drum beating
no retreating
forward we go
ATHENS OF THE NORTH
Calton Hill
Arthur’s Seat
Holyrood
new parliament
closes whispering
Waverly Station
Heart of the nation
New Caledonia
Nova Scotia
HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN Jaye Imrie |
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RESPITE
No longer used to hustle and bustle,
sounds crowd in, traffic challenges
forcing flight.
I seek respite in the Gardens
An approximation of countryside
at best, tarmac guides footsteps
past lush green grass,
skeletons reach upward
Solitary walkers keep their distance
dogs pull on their leads,
joggers out to impress.
From distant High Street Ken
a continuous rumble.
How could I have lived here?
I long for silence.
Keith Wolton |
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