Bakings is The Bakehouse’s new online literary magazine – poems submitted by invitation alongside recordings of featured poets from previous Bakehouse events. Trawl through the site to find fine poetry from Scotland and beyond alongside film poems and illustrations. Items are in the order of most recent first, or use our index to see a list of items arranged alphabetically by author.
He mentions how he loves to walk under an umbrella in the rain, how its drumming gives him so much pleasure; he doesn't get the irony – how much she yearns for this, and the beating of a downpour on her night-time window pane. The bloody useless fusing of the tiny bones in her middle ear: malleus, incus, stapes.
Tomorrow: she'll walk along the water's edge towards the mouth of the German blockhaus, imagine the bay they watched in the war, catalogue her vision, plunder her sound bank to recall waves shushing on the shore, racket of children shrieking, splashing, the pock pock of that couple with bat and ball. Remember,
working from the first line ‘I lived in those times’ from Epitaph by Robert Desnos
We lived in those times of grants and fees paid we ordinary girls from poor backgrounds; post-war optimism, the baby-boomers; we National-Healthy girls who went to new and red-brick universities, each outnumbered five to one by men. And we weren’t grateful. And lots of us made our own clothes: psychedelic mini-skirts, velvet loons.
We lived in those times of student revolution, a girl on our corridor hanged herself one morning – after her year in France, the Paris riots – while we were sitting in The Great Hall, storming the Administration, colonising the Vice-Chancellor’s office – that time of free discos, walks back to digs at daybreak, threats that we’d all be sent down.
How lucky we were and we didn’t know it, plenty of jobs, cheap flats, no loans, no debt to hang round our middle-aged necks. We dinosaurs.
Like a shot, I’d accept that vassalage that in days gone by could firmly knit lover to mistress, perform sweet homage on bended knee. To please, I’d submit and be meek. No prob. I’d gladly do the chores, follow your orders to the letter and show the world – including me mates – that yours is the word I must obey; bestow it like a gift. I’d study ways of moving you to look with firm yet kindly aspect on the pain I’d suffer in my loving, and not give a toss about self-respect.
We moderns think such bargains cannot be, but desire would make a willing slave of me.
Accidently mistaking our Oxfam Book of the Dead, for Mary Berry’s Baking Bible, seeking a recipe for sandwich cake, I woke everything, created Hamunaptra here in my little cul-de-sac.
Perhaps foolishly I had fixed new handles to the kitchen cupboards, a job lot from TK Maax, that bazaar of delights. Long screws, double washers and nuts. A bargain.
But those handles are golden scarabs from Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen, king of kitsch, keeper of the book of high fashion, a warning I ignored; these clockwork confections have started scuttling.
I attach one to the breadbin and instantly regret. It has taken possession and no crumb is safe; it must roll its ball of dung, its roll of wholemeal sliced.
It was the usual passion at the local Odeon, Art Deco Egyptian picture palace, pith helmets and jodhpurs, fez and fern, curse and coca cola, Imhotep laid screaming in a coffin; sacred scarabs poured over him.
Imhotep mummified alive for defiling the concubine’s oiled back; ‘Anck-su-namun,’ he breathed as he caressed her, behind a veil of silk, the runes trickling up and down her painted body, daring him to smear them.
Think of that when you are reaching for the vinegar or hoping to make a cheese sandwich at midnight.
Each scarab head an arc, six rays, beautiful jaws designed to dig and shape vestigial claw-like structures, gnawing Imhotep to the bone.
After the unsuccessful attempt to lull them with interpretive dance and a packet of dates left over from Christmas, Gordon succumbs happily to a skeletal existence.
Imhotep, regenerated nicely on human flesh, knows how to wear a loincloth; wooed me with Weetos on the patio, built me a small pyramid by the garden shed.
The scarabs have set up base in an old sand pit by the palm tree, Gordon found the sarcophagus of Anck-su-namun at the local museum; they are happy together translating hieroglyphs and plotting mutual tissue growth.
Our dog has the eyes of Anubis and is high priest of all kitchen cabinets, munches on scarabs to keep them down. They worship him as a god.
The Mummy was a movie made in 1999 starring Arnold Vosloo as Imhotep and Patricia Velasqez as Anck-su-namun Hamunaptra was a fictional Egyptian city Imhotep was a high priest
When they say Craigantlet Hill I smell crushed grass where we lay together, hidden from the road below, our bikes thrown down in a tangle. You wore a musty greatcoat like a highwayman, with brass buttons and moth holes; I was in oyster satin evening gloves and a jellyfish pink ballgown from Renee Meneelly, reeking of your mum’s ‘Je Reviens’, I had a passing thought about the maths homework I hadn’t done yet. You said, ‘should we try kissing like they did in that Romeo and Juliet film?’ I said nothing because you had squashed your marshmallow lips against mine and I bit my tongue, I tasted blood and the bitterness of tayto cheese and onion, your breath rattly as sycamore keys We tried arms but they were stiff, so I just patted your back. You took my hand and said, ‘do you feel anything’? I said ‘no’ but inside I felt weird and decadent and guilty and giddy; I wanted your coat so badly for my very own and black boots and a whip and a tricorn hat and horse with a white blaze. As we packed up, I wondered what it would be like to kiss a boy in a greatcoat, perhaps with an earring and a gold tooth. That time I rang you I casually happened to mention ‘what happened to all those old things’? You said your mother threw them away the day after Craigantlet, ‘clothes just get dozed’ she said. Grass stains. She couldn’t understand the grass stains. I still think about the 36 buttons on that coat.