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

From April's Commonplace Book : Debasish Lahiri


Deaf window, 

       Swears the world has gone quiet

While the sun gorges on its human diet.


Silence in the hot lane

        Sleepy, dying, or on the wane,

Hears the shrieks of a song:

There were vultures in the Sun, all along.


Summer abhors the dying.

          See how its banner of Bougainvillea is furled

And the Koel sings of undying beauty

         Round the fever of the sick living.


A time to abandon good friends:

   Hands, limp, heavy hands, hang from branches of dreams 

In moon salons and star bazaars – 

   Is this the best hand I have got?

April, deal the cards!


Ennui of lawless winds

   Rummaging through fossils of sighs

Dust has muddied the lover’s tear,

   He thinks it is death,

And life yet to be.


In Spring a body, prim as a flower,

   Shook the cold morning hands of a doctor of physic,

They were in a hospital ---

   Down the hall

In a quiet ambulance memory lay dead,

Its stench awful.

Doctor and the beautiful cadaver

Looked at each other,

No one knew why they had come there at all. 

26th April 2021

Wall or Wings : Shanta Acharya

A wall is an idea defining the limit of our perception.

Our skin is a living wall, each cell pulsating with vision, 


tells us who we are. Invisible walls protect us.

The earth’s atmosphere wraps it in a shawl of gases.


It is not for nothing homes need walls, niches, arches,

doors, windows for dreams, laughter, disappointments.


Walls within walls are pilgrim souls, keeper of secrets.


Walls revel in disguises, come in many shapes and sizes,

prefer to remain anonymous, take several aliases. 


Being a wall means perpetually adjusting your vision,

yet a wall is never beyond redemption.


When a wall lies between you and your dreams,

turn it into something else, let it take wings.

Nothing More Real Than You : Shanta Acharya

The world may appear to be your oyster,

remember it is not yours to keep or conquer.


You may never discover why you are here,

if you have a special place in the universe.

There may be planets inhabited by creatures

infinitely more intelligent and conscious than us.


By the time you figure out most things you believed

in are flawed, half a century will have disappeared.


Things change faster than you can imagine,

leaving you running in the same spot quick as you can.


No point in prising open your priceless treasure

with a sword, nothing worth having is won by force.


Build therefore your own world. If you start early 

you might learn to make a home of it eventually.


Explore the vast continents of yourself –

nothing in this world is real, nothing more real than you.

From What Survives Is The Singing (2020).

wild flower : John Glenday

bird’s foot trefoil

look at us for once, just for a moment; look at us
down here, but please don’t look down on us,
though we’re most ordinary and commonplace
and all seem quite alike and probably not
wanted, not here, not in your backyard; look at
us so that we might begin to grow into ourselves,
to become real for you – the veins of blood along
the blossom, the cupped petals, the downy
leaves; don’t glance; gaze into us with a regard
that allows us to believe we must truly exist, as
you do, because we observe you with the
intensity of the flower; don’t hurry, it will prove
worthwhile; look at us as we deserve to be seen;
it won’t be a waste of time; in fact, it might just
change your life.

the bar : John Glenday

that morning, from our bench by the ranges,

we followed a single north sea wave

driving upriver, too far away to touch, 


too close to bear, and at the bar, because 

the shallows gather there, watched how it rose 

above itself, proud and triumphant, as i did once,


until the wind, that white blade carding

the winter from the firth, cut through,

feathering its crest to a brief astonished haze


then sent it withering back towards whatever 

it had always been, or where it came from.

Cave Painting : Kitty Donnelly

Pass me the horse hair brush steeped in colours of earth.

I will paint you our beginnings.

In sleep, you flee from leopards, bison, wolves.

Harness their dream-spirits,

tame them on the walls, and you’ll rest fearless.

Your loss is charcoal-black;

your anger – a quiver of hematite

arrows; the calcite-white of your silence/a curtain between us.

Daughter, we can’t linger in this cave-light.

Time’s a virus plundering our settlements.

We must immortalise our hands

in ochre, umber, malachite.


Kitty's collection The Impact of Limited Time is available from Indigo Books:

Imagine autumn : Owen Lowery

Last night I listened to Basie

explained as an artist of space,

content to leave open the breath

required for music to live

and flourish. And then I thought of you

and autumn and the clear renewal

of air charged with an edge of cold,

a way through the gold

and red of the next change. Us

on a brighter day than this

with dazzle wincing off the wing

and the water, song ringing out

from otherwise cathedral quiet. Indulgent,

yes, but a chance to merge

into something more than the same old

walls and weekend roll-call

of dogs and cars and children. The notes

come in clusters, remote

and closer, when imagined branches alarm

and pierce their own calm.

Make you out : Owen Lowery

That we miss one another doesn’t go

unsaid but as easily could. I squint

until I can make you out from the glint

on your glasses. Half on your side, you slow

a rush of a day down to the remote

roll of lethargic waves. What it all meant

slides now as you home in on the gentle

and show me so much I already know

about the days ahead. Your voice is low

and soft, neither near nor far off. The screen

is one of your woodland walks as you lean

towards me, as close as distance allows,

and we do what we can. You’re still glowing

long hours on, unextinguished in my mind.