Stewart Conn
Stewart Conn is Shore Poets’ honorary president. His latest collection The Breakfast Room won the 2011 Scottish Mortgage Investment Trust Poetry Book of the Year Prize. Visit Stewart’s website
Descending the steps to the Grassmarket we met
a fox coming in our direction. “A fine night,
Mr. Reynard, and where might you be off to?”
“On my constitutional” he winked, swishing his brush,
and hunched on his haunches said did we know
he could trace his family tree back to Burns’s stay
at the White Hart, his forebears thriving on cock-fights;
before regaling us with a whole string of anecdotes
such as Southey saying, of these slab-like lands, “how
you might smoke bacon by hanging it out of the window”.
Or so I like to imagine. In truth he just trotted past –
no hounds baying or scarlet-clad huntsmen hallooing –
towards the Castle, leaving only his scent behind.
Enlivened by the capriciousness of the encounter
we quickened our stride, not to be late for Shore Poets.
Fishmarket Close and Fleshmarket Close,
preserved down the centuries, still
strike a chord; like Old Tolbooth Wynd
and the long gone Luckenbooth stalls,
their silver hearts intertwined; while
Hammerman’s Entry summons
the bellows’ roar, ring of iron on iron;
and Dunbar’s Close, Cromwell’s
Ironsides billeted after battle.
Sugarhouse Close and Bakehouse Close
boast their own past and function –
not quite Dippermouth and Porterhouse,
conjuring up images of New Orleans
cutting contests and tailgate trombones,
but suggestive of a distinctive music
resounding in the Royal Mile
throughout Scotland’s history,
theirs a ground bass of a different kind;
now jaunty, the banners streaming,
now plucking the heartstrings
like the Blues, in the realisation
of things lost, the end of an auld sang.
As with the Blues too, a lingering
undertow of loss and deprivation:
the start of a new age – yet the city’s
division into haves and have-nots
never more discordant than today.
For the highlight of the evening, I require
an assistant. Female. Preferably pretty.
Come on, no need to be shy. There we are,
up this way – a big hand for the lady.
If you’d like to lie down . . . head here,
toes out the other end. Don’t worry,
no-one will tickle them. I cover
the sides with silks . . . so. Jiggery
pokery, how could there be? Now I cut
the box, and its occupant, completely
in two. You needn’t lay it on quite
so thick. Spurting from where? Purely
for effect, I assure you. Taking my magic
wand . . . (if that doesn’t do the trick . . . )
Ladies and gentlemen, nothing like this has ever . . .
I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for another volunteer.
from Strolling Players ed. Zenka & Ian Woodword (Evans Bros)
