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.
I dispatched my parents to The Tunnel Road Picturedrome to see Bonnie and Clyde. What they found was Gold Diggers of 1933 – a film within a film where Ginger Rogers sang, “We’re in the money.” Clyde sat in the back row: furious they’d killed a man. Bonnie sighed. “If you boys want to talk why don’t you all go outside?” Despite all the chatter in their flea-pit my parents (who were never in any money) stuck with the stalls: watching kids rob banks and healthily shoot at rednecks. Arthur, I thought they’d hate your film but they loved it. That balletic massacre of an ending: how Bonnie and impotent Clyde writhed in orgasmic displeasure as bullets ripped through clothes and flesh. “It was horrible.” said mother, unfazed. On that night screen violence, cocoa and toast brought me closer to Mum and Dad. I’d seen the film yonks before. My audience even younger, than the Barrow gang, with not a bloody-minded oldie in sight.
23rd July A bee flies under thin weave of grass where she lies flat, 15. It disturbs the spiny seedheads and flies on. It seems so purposeful.
tall sky duck-egg blue scud cloud winds easing
30th July The dog sleeps dreamless by the garden pond. The life of frogs is full of luck. She peers below the marigolds, uncovers a dim paradise of beetles.
long sky arsenic green with mottled cirrus humid
7th August Chicken shit and lichens dot dry concrete flags. Self-seeded into the cracks, the tender leaves of columbines. She paints her toenails carefully above the dust.
bowl sky Palnackie blue cloudless hot
19th August Lawn grass too long uncut is bent, bead-spangled. A droplet quivers at a tractor gone burring up the brae - and then it stills. There’s no reason to wait around.
cranefly sky hammered silver high altitude nimbus no wind
23rd August The baler’s stuttered rap loses ground to the tow of a warm front spooling out of the Atlantic. She goes back to watching a red kite turn like a thought on a thermal, before storms. galvanised sky loss-grey mares’ tails heavy rain