Seasonal...

Christmas lights

revealing the child

in the old man.

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The Train

Pleased to see my poem 'The Train' published in the latest issue of Ann and Peter Sansom's THE NORTH.
'Best not ask for explanations;
best not search for revelations.
Just shovel on coal, a little more coal.'

 

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Poetry in Practice (Light)

Poetry in Practice was scheduled to start up again on the 16th April at the Scottish Poetry Library. But...

 

From time to time over the years I’ve had one -to-one sessions with PiP writers. A body of poems would be submitted to me, I’d study them for some time, then meet with the author for two hours of discussion. (The Terrace Cafe in the Botanics was useful in good weather.) I thought it might be useful to adapt this to the current lockdown situation.

Anyone interested can email me five poems (as Word Documents). The maximum length for each poem is 30 lines – but I’ll make an exception for sestinas! I’ll study the poems and send out critiques by email; then we’ll arrange a 90-minute slot for a video discussion (FaceTime or Skype). I’ll happily continue the discussion beyond 90 minutes

 The fee for this is £55. (The fee for the face-to-face consultation was £100.)

This is obviously quite different from the cut and thrust of 13 people in a room at the SPL but I think it may be of interest to some.

 Email: jcw.verse@live.co.uk

 

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Patience

My poem PATIENCE just published in the online arts magazine, London Grip.

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The Train

Delighted to have my poem THE TRAIN accepted for Peter Sansom's The North magazine. Can it be the only poem that mentions both Edinburgh's Corstorphine Hill and Vladivostok?

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Hairlines

My poem HAIRLINES has just been published in issue 95 of The Frogmore Papers. The first version of the poem was completed in October 1984, when my hair had a slightly darker hue.

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In Budapest...

In Budapest last week, Mik and I, because we are over 70, got FREE entrance to what is described as the Museum of Terror: the former HQ of the communist secret police. We saw torture rooms, underground cells, a gallows, and much more. You see, it's great to be old!

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Saint Theresa On Tour

Back in the 1950s, when I was a wee boy, I was mystified by a song which used to be played on such wireless programmes as Two-way Family Favourites. That song was Saint Therese of the Roses (sung with much brio by Malcolm Vaughan). The song dropped somewhat from my consciousness as Dylan and the Beatles arrived but on Sunday, to my great surprise, I found myself in the company of the good saint herself. I'd read about the grotto at Carfin in Edwin Muir's 1935 book, A SCOTTISH JOURNEY, so decided to investigate the place. Well, how was I to know there was a pilgrimage? Hundreds and hundreds of the devout milling around the statues, caves and grottoes, a police presence and, surprisingly, a hearse! Why a hearse? Well, Saint Theresa had arrived in it, or rather Saint Theresa's relics in an ornate coffin.This was carried among the pilgrims in a procession of priests and bishops while a choir sang and bagpipers played. The sun even came out for a few minutes. Not much like my Church of Scotland Sunday School but considerably more dramatic.But, like that wee boy listening to the BBC Light Programme, I remained mystified.

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Shorelines

My poem SHORELINES has just been published in the autumn edition of the arts magazine, London Grip:                                                                                          https://londongrip.co.uk/2019/08/london-grip-new-poetry-autumn-2019/

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Mr MacCaig Came To Stirling

When I was the Scottish Arts Council writer-in-residence in Stirling, I invited Norman MacCaig to do a reading at the town's Central Library. The event was a great success and I later wrote a poem about it.

Here is his letter of acceptance (stressing that he hates being photographed):

 

And here's my poem about the reading (January 1991) and our journey back to Edinburgh:

 

 

Mr MacCaig Came To Stirling 

 

I was the would-be entrepreneur; he

without doubt, the star. Unfolding, he smoked

below my big No Smoking sign. Then

dragging a leg, he faced his crowd. A joke

 

as dry as finest malt, then Mr MacCaig

was away, off through a world of short walks

that ended with long conclusions; then sheep

and stone; mortality; and trains. He talked

 

a complete hour, with measured words,

quick gleams and perfect pauses. In his streets

and hills, we saw with his eyes, knew Scotland

and eternity. He even stood to treat

 

us all with Hints About His Writing.

How long did he take to make a poem?

He answered well, but didn't tell. Some folk

called him Norman, as though they were at home

 

with an uncle or old pal. And the stags

stood quiet by the birch wood, while the white horse

bared its teeth at the wind. Later, I sped

through the night with Mr MacCaig. The view

 

from the train was ourselves: me, and his long head

smoking and talking, through Larbert, Falkirk,

Linlithgow. Until he started to sing

to me, as though he'd know me forever -

 

but Norman could sing for almost anyone.

The train rolled on; it slid into our station.

Shutters were shut; the clock's hands close to midnight;

but frosted pavements shone like constellations.

 

   

Published in WILL I EVER GET TO MINSK? (HappenStance, 2012),

THE SCOTSMAN (1999),   

THE HERALD (1997).

First Prize in the UK section of the Scottish International Poetry

Competition (1996).

 

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Disconnected

A change of broadband supplier, from TalkTalk to SSE, left us without a service and a router from  15th February until 27th February. It was a long, complicated and frustrating tale, and was summarised by Jill Insley in the Sunday Times on 10th March.
There was an accompanying cartoon. I'm not too sure, though, that it look me. Anyway, here it is, with more details.

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The Gospel Truth

Towards the end of 2018, I revised a short poem I'd written in January 1985. The poem has just been published in the online magazine, London Grip.
It can be read at https://londongrip.co.uk/2019/02/london-grip-new-poetry-spring-2019/

 

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After The Readings

Fine words are spoken on friendship and love
then the poets retire to the bar; pints
appear and, in the gloom, the whole wide world
is put to rights (at least in their own minds).
That bastard's been bought up by Bloodaxe Books
and so-and-so's new volume is vile! Yes, sonnets
are back, the money's no good, and should
they have just one more drink? And The Scotsman,
they're sure, has gone down the pan; yes, peanuts
are fine, how's your glass? And as the clock ticks
on and on, a woman sits and stares. 'See
you,' she cries, Greek-chorus-like: 'You all talk shit.'
It's late and it's cold, there are hills to climb;
through moonlit streets, the poets sway, in time.

First published in '14' magazine,
then in Northwords Now
and in Come Close And Listen
(Greenwich Exchange).

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Idyll

Sunday's the day we wash the car.
We make it glow but don't go far
as we need our time for indoor games
and straightening all the picture frames.
The golliwog loves to laze in his cot
while I scour the attic (there might be rot).
You polish the cutlery, shine the taps,
then fetch the box of liquorice straps.
I rinse and buff the window glass
while you kill moss and trim the grass.
At last it's evening, we shower together,
admire the tiling, discuss the weather.
We each  have a spoonful of caviar -
then let the tarantulas out of their jar.

by Jim C Wilson.

First published in Orbis magazine,
(Winter 2017).

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Full Again (and not with wine)

My Poetry in Practice classes are halfway through the present term. I'm pleased to discover today that the summer term, commencing 17th April, is fully booked (with a waiting list).
I will finish teaching the class at the university in June (after 25 years) but will continue with PiP at the Scottish Poetry Library in September.

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An Evening In

'Put on some Johnnie Ray,' she said, and ran
her tongue along her lipstick. Ten past ten:
she felt like fun. The sparkling white wine grew
warm in her glass; and there, her fingerprints.
'Just Walking in the Rain,' she said, and lit
one more last cigarette. Candles can make
things romantic, can't they? The shadows move.
Maybe she should close the curtains, stop folk
staring in. And why do those streetlamps have
haloes? Oh, God, she's in love, and has been
for years - the endless romance of it all!
She drinks more wine; surveys the room's expanse.
The teddy bears get ready for the dance.

by Jim C Wilson,
published in The Dark Horse (issue 17)
and Will I Ever Get To Minsk? (HappenStance Press).

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Northwords Now

My poems, The Room With No View and Beyond The Dunes, have just been published in the autumn edition of Northwords Now. The magazine is available free throughout Scotland (and in Edinburgh at the Scottish Poetry Library, Blackwell's, the Fruitmarket Gallery, Summerhall, the Fruitmarket Gallery, etc.).

 

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You Put Your Right Arm In...

Reading for Fife Writes in Dunfermline last week...

 

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Topical?

An aeroplane hums
though the blue, as far away
as a child's summer.

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