Poetry Scotland is an unpretentious poetry magazine with a strong local flavour. As its ‘About’ page cheerfully announces:
We aim to publish any kind of poetry so long as it is good. We have included rhymed and unrhymed, long and short, political and personal, humorous, narrative, ballad, haiku and prose poems. Our interest in languages (especially those of Scotland) brings Gaelic, Scots, Welsh & French to our pages at times.
The magazine hosts an annual weekend of poetry in the highland town of Callender where friends, subscribers and contributors to Poetry Scotland can meet, listen to poetry and talks, take part in readings and discussion on a free and informal basis. Its website includes a short bio with its contributors’ poems.
David Anthony’s ‘Late August at Hadrian’s’ starts simply enough with:
April’s spring
and October’s fall:
both so loved-
one for promises;
one for memories.
Reflects on the Roman past, and ends evocatively with:
and the year
stoic in decline,
stands, and holds a while.
Rody Gorman’s ‘Game Trail’ follows the herd to:
the bracken in Kinlochleven
gone brown and Ballachulish
or the muntjac or tahr or takin,
then back to the neds and nerds,
Gillanders, Norrie and Steven
in the Highlander’s Bar, Kyleakin.
Kenneth Steven’s ‘Montcoffer’ is again rooted in simple description, opening with:
The wood is beautiful
Even in the twilight of November.
The only noise is the river,
Gushing away as if surprised by its own loudness.
Alan Riach’s ‘All This’ is even simpler, but shows what rhyme will do to link thoughts. It ends:
light rising
your hair
your skin as you smile
there
all this while
Morelle Smith’s piece is the only longish poem (forty odd lines) and adds a mythical note: ‘Crossing the Aude, Limoux’. After a brief description of the river we get:
A new god suddenly arrived –
The narrow street, a cape of twilight,
The yellow-green tinge to the air,
Who is a storm god, somewhat elusive though possibly inhabiting the street and surroundings, and leaving the speaker:
Struggling to feel blessed by what
It stole from me, took the best
Of me away with it and slipped
A memory inside me, like a long
Scratch on the surface of my skin.
Posted by Colin Holcombe on 2 07 15 in Textetc.com blog.
