A reflection on H2O by Budapest-born George Szirtes who came with his family to Britain as an eight-year-old refugee after the 1956 Hungarian Uprising.
Szirtes is featured in In Person: 30 Poets, an anthology to mark the thirtieth anniversary of Bloodaxe Books. The poets are shown reading the material in two DVDs which are included free with the book itself. The anthology, with its innovative dimension, is officially published next Thursday at £12.

Water

(from three Poems for Sebastiao Salgado)

The hard beautiful rules of water are these:
that it shall rise with displacement as a man does not, nor his family. That it shall have no plan or subterfuge. That in the cold, it shall freeze; in the heat, turn to steam. That is shall carry disease and bright brilliant fish in river and ocean.
That it shall roar or meander through metropolitan districts whilst reflecting skies, buildings and trees.

And it shall be clean and refresh us even as we slave over stone tubs or cower in a shelter or run into the arms of a loved one in some desperate quarter where the rats too are running. That it shall have dominion. That it shall arch its back in the sun only according to the hard rules of water.

A reflection on H2O by Budapest-born George Szirtes who came with his family to Britain as an eight-year-old refugee after the 1956 Hungarian Uprising.
Szirtes is featured in In Person: 30 Poets, an anthology to mark the thirtieth anniversary of Bloodaxe Books. The poets are shown reading the material in two DVDs which are included free with the book itself. The anthology, with its innovative dimension, is officially published next Thursday at £12.

Water

(from three Poems for Sebastiao Salgado)

The hard beautiful rules of water are these:
that it shall rise with displacement as a man does not, nor his family. That it shall have no plan or subterfuge. That in the cold, it shall freeze; in the heat, turn to steam. That is shall carry disease and bright brilliant fish in river and ocean.
That it shall roar or meander through metropolitan districts whilst reflecting skies, buildings and trees.

And it shall be clean and refresh us even as we slave over stone tubs or cower in a shelter or run into the arms of a loved one in some desperate quarter where the rats too are running. That it shall have dominion. That it shall arch its back in the sun only according to the hard rules of water.

This might be subtitled a Tale of Two Cities. My Ayrshire background and Stirling residence makes me, I hope, a dispassionate observer! ‹ Lesley Duncan

A TALE OF TWO BUSKERS

I

It¹s the Festival city ‹ bastion of the Enlightenment, Seat of government, Athens of the North etc ‹ So how about some culture, Edinburgh-style?
The kilted figure on the corner
Plays the clichéd Scotchman (if not his bagpipes) To perfection. His renderings of Flower of Scotland and Scotland the Brave Reverberate relentlessly up Princes Street.
Locals hurry past from Waverley Station, Feeling very North British. Sir Walter Scott, In his pinnacled redoubt nearby, May consider himself far from blameless In the matter of ersatz tradition.
It¹s assumed that tourists enjoy the skraich-'n¹-skirl.
Hmm. . . Maybe it simply drives them into The conveniently parked sightseeing buses.

II

And so to Glasgow. No Mean City indeed,
Though not necessarily in the way the outside world Traditionally has perceived it. Deprivation dogs its Outskirts still, but razor gangs and Red Clydesiders Are history, as they say, along with heavy industry.
This is the capital of cool now, Scotland¹s media nexus, Home to three universities (their names in obverse Generality to their age and status), orchestras and opera, Art and music schools. No great surprise, then, to walk Down a sunlit Buchanan Street one April morning To the languorously sensual strains of Eric Satie¹s Gymnopedie played on a flute.
The busker is French, accomplished, (and handsome too!).
He moves to Faure, Mozart, and Ravel.
People stop to listen; chat. Records fly off his stand.
Hmm. . . Is there a Caledonian Antisyzygy lurking here?

This might be subtitled a Tale of Two Cities. My Ayrshire background and Stirling residence makes me, I hope, a dispassionate observer! ‹ Lesley Duncan

A TALE OF TWO BUSKERS

I

It¹s the Festival city ‹ bastion of the Enlightenment, Seat of government, Athens of the North etc ‹ So how about some culture, Edinburgh-style?
The kilted figure on the corner
Plays the clichéd Scotchman (if not his bagpipes) To perfection. His renderings of Flower of Scotland and Scotland the Brave Reverberate relentlessly up Princes Street.
Locals hurry past from Waverley Station, Feeling very North British. Sir Walter Scott, In his pinnacled redoubt nearby, May consider himself far from blameless In the matter of ersatz tradition.
It¹s assumed that tourists enjoy the skraich-'n¹-skirl.
Hmm. . . Maybe it simply drives them into The conveniently parked sightseeing buses.

II

And so to Glasgow. No Mean City indeed,
Though not necessarily in the way the outside world Traditionally has perceived it. Deprivation dogs its Outskirts still, but razor gangs and Red Clydesiders Are history, as they say, along with heavy industry.
This is the capital of cool now, Scotland¹s media nexus, Home to three universities (their names in obverse Generality to their age and status), orchestras and opera, Art and music schools. No great surprise, then, to walk Down a sunlit Buchanan Street one April morning To the languorously sensual strains of Eric Satie¹s Gymnopedie played on a flute.
The busker is French, accomplished, (and handsome too!).
He moves to Faure, Mozart, and Ravel.
People stop to listen; chat. Records fly off his stand.
Hmm. . . Is there a Caledonian Antisyzygy lurking here?


Note: Hugh MacDiarmid's poem The Caledonian Antisyzygy, alluded to here, is about the Scottish capacity for uniting opposites and maybe accommodating contradictions.

This might be subtitled a Tale of Two Cities. My Ayrshire background and Stirling residence makes me, I hope, a dispassionate observer! ‹ Lesley Duncan

A TALE OF TWO BUSKERS

I

It¹s the Festival city ‹ bastion of the Enlightenment, Seat of government, Athens of the North etc ‹ So how about some culture, Edinburgh-style?
The kilted figure on the corner
Plays the clichéd Scotchman (if not his bagpipes) To perfection. His renderings of Flower of Scotland and Scotland the Brave Reverberate relentlessly up Princes Street.
Locals hurry past from Waverley Station, Feeling very North British. Sir Walter Scott, In his pinnacled redoubt nearby, May consider himself far from blameless In the matter of ersatz tradition.
It¹s assumed that tourists enjoy the skraich-'n¹-skirl.
Hmm. . . Maybe it simply drives them into The conveniently parked sightseeing buses.

II

And so to Glasgow. No Mean City indeed,
Though not necessarily in the way the outside world Traditionally has perceived it. Deprivation dogs its Outskirts still, but razor gangs and Red Clydesiders Are history, as they say, along with heavy industry.
This is the capital of cool now, Scotland¹s media nexus, Home to three universities (their names in obverse Generality to their age and status), orchestras and opera, Art and music schools. No great surprise, then, to walk Down a sunlit Buchanan Street one April morning To the languorously sensual strains of Eric Satie¹s Gymnopedie played on a flute.
The busker is French, accomplished, (and handsome too!).
He moves to Faure, Mozart, and Ravel.
People stop to listen; chat. Records fly off his stand.
Hmm. . . Is there a Caledonian Antisyzygy lurking here?

This might be subtitled a Tale of Two Cities. My Ayrshire background and Stirling residence makes me, I hope, a dispassionate observer! ‹ Lesley Duncan

A TALE OF TWO BUSKERS

I

It¹s the Festival city ‹ bastion of the Enlightenment, Seat of government, Athens of the North etc ‹ So how about some culture, Edinburgh-style?
The kilted figure on the corner
Plays the clichéd Scotchman (if not his bagpipes) To perfection. His renderings of Flower of Scotland and Scotland the Brave Reverberate relentlessly up Princes Street.
Locals hurry past from Waverley Station, Feeling very North British. Sir Walter Scott, In his pinnacled redoubt nearby, May consider himself far from blameless In the matter of ersatz tradition.
It¹s assumed that tourists enjoy the skraich-'n¹-skirl.
Hmm. . . Maybe it simply drives them into The conveniently parked sightseeing buses.

II

And so to Glasgow. No Mean City indeed,
Though not necessarily in the way the outside world Traditionally has perceived it. Deprivation dogs its Outskirts still, but razor gangs and Red Clydesiders Are history, as they say, along with heavy industry.
This is the capital of cool now, Scotland¹s media nexus, Home to three universities (their names in obverse Generality to their age and status), orchestras and opera, Art and music schools. No great surprise, then, to walk Down a sunlit Buchanan Street one April morning To the languorously sensual strains of Eric Satie¹s Gymnopedie played on a flute.
The busker is French, accomplished, (and handsome too!).
He moves to Faure, Mozart, and Ravel.
People stop to listen; chat. Records fly off his stand.
Hmm. . . Is there a Caledonian Antisyzygy lurking here?


Note: Hugh MacDiarmid's poem The Caledonian Antisyzygy, alluded to here, is about the Scottish capacity for uniting opposites and maybe accommodating contradictions.

Donny O’Rourke is the author of the final shortlisted production in this year’s Callum Macdonald Award for poetry pamphlets. His booklet One Light Burning has a dramatic cover showing the silhouette of Glasgow’s Park Circus towers with a single point of light. And his theme of lit windows and the stories behind them gives a coherent focus to the sometimes poignant poems-cum-songs. This short piece recalls the Second World War. - Lesley Duncan

THERE NEVER WAS DARK

There never was dark like the black
of the blitz
What refuge is tin from direct hits?

No basement or shelter can keep out
the dread
Widow’s weeds on each window -
curtains for the dead. . .

We’ll draw mourning’s drapes when
we’ve won never fear
The first light’s come on, soon they’ll
sound the “all clear”

Greenock and Clydebank won’t make
Glasgow doubt. . .
Though all over Europe the lights
have gone out!

Laureen Johnson’s mini-booklet Treeds, written in Shetland dialect and published by Hansel Cooperative Press, Stromness, was another original production shortlisted for this year’s Callum Macdonald Award for poetry pamphlets. Its grey cover hides a colourful mixture of verses, which fall into focus when read aloud. There’s humour in such pieces as A Skurtfoo o Poets, a fantasy based on a scanner’s misreading of paet (peat) as poet. Hence “We hed an aald kert ta tak da poets hame.” Inebriated bards might well be grateful for this form of conveyance, I suppose! - Lesley Duncan

STAANDIN STEN

Staand ida lee o a staandin sten,
look at da stars
an tell yoursel it’s da 21st century.
Tak your radio,
tune as you will.
Tak your mobile,
An “phone a friend”
fae da lee o a staandin sten.
Mak a daet, phone hame,
tell your midder you’ll be laet
fae da lee o a staandin sten.
An when da batteries gie oot,
da server goes doon,
an every last sowl you ken
is geen ta bed,
lift your eyes
ida lee o da staandin sten
an see foo da stars is turned
da sky aroond
while your night fled.