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.
Alphabetical Index by Author

Cause of Death : Debasish Lahiri


I died of death

And never knew it,

And grew to be young

And died of it,

And grew to be wise

And died,

A bit,

Of that too.

But I shall not be old

Nor ever die of it.



When you took my hand

In winter

To tell me –

Through pore and vein,

Not words –

That summer exists always,

I felt under my shirt

For my heart

And damp clod clung to my fingers;

I was sad

And I was alive.

For once

I was certain

That I would not die of life.

Perhaps the full winter of death

Has come

With that secret saboteur summer,

That is ever in hiding

And never goes away.

I can die of summer.

But, this was supposed to be a poem of love,

That most secret cause of death.

Actors’ Aftermath : Celia Purcell


They mill in, a defunct Caliban and Ariel,

prop the bar and lean wearily

in our direction. “You were great,” I say,

“Were the false teeth anything

to do with that stutter, or was it

careful pronunciation?”

No-one lights up which is a pity

because such silence could kill lesser men.

“You’re a dope,” says Caliban

though I notice the paunch

and eyes strung out from footlights’ overdose.

Ariel is even thinner on the ground

but making headway through his Guinness

which he tells us improves a fairy’s lot

on having to sing etceteras of

“Where the bee sucks …”

More actors now and the air is thick

with cracks about agents

and Prospero’s farting at sea.

I mouth to Caliban again,

“What about those false teeth?”

and wish I hadn’t.

A whole Shakespearian bar is looking at me.

Gratefully received from Celia for our Big Lit 2020 Window Poems


JUST FOR TODAY : Shanta Acharya


Just for today I will not squander

my time on things of importance or of no importance.

Such decisions carry the illusion of grandeur,

of being the chosen one, placed in a position of power.

One thing leads to another, a sigh turns into a hurricane.

Years later you look back at lives not lived, times gone.

Just for this morning I will let everything be

as it is, knowing nothing in this world is just or true.

I’ll stop worrying about things I don’t have and what I do.

I will not hanker after eternity or God’s eye view.

Just for this hour I’ll fly free trusting my instincts,

let imagination steer, steadying me with wings.

Just for this moment I’ll be everything and nothing,

be one with the universe, let it open my eyes.

What Survives Is the Singing (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2020)

Crackington Haven : Ronnie Goodyer


The pebbles point fingers to the cliffs

whose contour faces lead to the sea.

Here in Gaia’s birthing pools we are lulled

by the song of silver-paper water,

a solo for many voices, patterned by tree-light,

scented by the green promise of East Wood.

We walk with shadows of Clare, Frost and Marlowe,

see through their eyes the cushioning moss trail

crushed to jeweled droplets by our thirsty boots

until we emerge blinking into new light,

surfacing with the wild goats whose trackways

lead uninitiated to the fierce fall of Cambeak.

We respect the treachery of wind-edged boulders

until the welcome harmony of sea and sand,

where the white breakers are cleaning the canvas

of footprints and paws, smoothing anew

for tomorrow’s paddlers and painters who are

waiting in anticipation and holiday sandals.

from Forest: moor or less (Indigo Dreams, April 2020)

near Todleth : Jean Atkin

in a field of docks rain falls on us

   here are white hanks of sheepswool
      pegged like washing
         between drying posts

we breathe in lanolin and damp

   by clouded reeds a tatty ewe
      lurches away with her twins
         her off-fore lame

her bag all lumpy with mastitis

   you said it wouldn’t last
      we follow  
         an orange tip butterfly over the stile

Gratefully received from Jean for our Big Lit 2020 Window Poems

Panning for words : Chrys Salt

Dip your pan 

and dredge it in the stream. 

Discard the rock, 

it has no worth. 

Next rubble roughened with the rasp 

of too much thought 

might have you fooled, 

but tip it back, 

it's poor stuff for your trade. 

Now down to grit 

your prospect's better now. 

Sieve it, inspect it, 

swill it round 

then maybe in its settling 

you'll find a tiny gleam 

of gold dust in the silt, 

the inkling of a seam. 


From: Skookum Jim and The Klondike Gold Rush 
Published by Indigo Dreams Publishing
Available from