Poetry Map
We all know poems about Scotland but can the shape and nature of Scotland be drawn entirely in poetry? StAnza has set itself the challenge to see if this is the case. Find out more about the project and how to submit your poem by clicking here, or browse the poems using the map. Latest poems are listed below.
Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no 280
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Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no. 279
Kite-Flying on Cullen Beach
I run until the wind plucks at my hopeful handiwork -
Brown paper, string, old cane, held with glue,
And carries it aloft, like Icarus, towards the sun.
My parents huddle, pinched-faced, like refugees, against the rocks -
The Three Kings trudge wearily down the beach,
Towards some promised Bethlehem
Long buried in the sand.
At night, by guttering gaslight's glow, my great-aunt tells me
Tales passed down the long, defeated years -
Of the day the young men left, fresh-faced,
For Culloden, or the Somme, or other Calvary.
And so I run on to catch the wind,
Oblivious in my youthful dreams,
Not grasping yet what Culloden means
Or Gethsemane's night.
Lizzie Napier
Footnote: The Three Kings is the name given to three rocky outcrops on Cullen beach.
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All poems from our Poetry Map of Scotland are subject to copyright and should not be reproduced otherwise without the poet's permission.
Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no. 278: Cumbernauld
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Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no. 277: Loch Morlich
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Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no. 276: Stromness
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Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no. 275: Leith Walk
The Foot of the Walk
He is an old skeleton of a man. Stranded somewhere in his sixties. Stubble tough as sandpaper. Stubble cement grey. His eyes bloodshot and ghosted like a man who has been taken over. He whispers to himself.
He carries a bottle of wine haphazardly under his arm right which spills as he tries to settle it. A hat sits crookedly on his head. His short coat is dirtied by grease and sick mess. His trousers hang loosely around his waist. By all accounts one gone quite mad.
He walks stiffly like a boy who has defecated in his trousers. This is no simile; a sewage leak has stained through and dribbles down his right leg. He mutters to himself.
At the junction he edges awkwardly round the corner. We cross the road, walking farther into our lives and further away from his; averting our eyes from the suns glare.
Colin McGuire
View our full map of Scotland in Poems as it grows »
For instructions on how to submit your own poems, click here
All poems from our Poetry Map of Scotland are subject to copyright and should not be reproduced otherwise without the poet's permission.