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.
No children jumping, running, screaming, splashing around the village school at play, just unself-isolating rooks patrolling playground, being nosy, gathering and yapping, doing what rook and crow and raven always do, no thoughts of six-foot spacing, just a gladness I surmise from having such an empty place in which to be themselves and tell the school to stay inside for now, to ring no bells.
She’s always had great difficulty relating to people. (She refers to them as‘Humans’.) She found social situations Especially the legendary Islington dinner parties
More than awkward; more like hellish in fact. Some occasions were worse than others; I always knew Things were going badly for her if she started talking too loudly
Whilst desperately gulping down far too much red wine And that the situation had really nose-dived if she started quoting T S Eliot’s ‘The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock’
‘My favourite line of poetry’ she would insist to suddenly-wary guests ‘I should have been a pair of ragged claws …’
It never made her any more sympathetic and I sensed It was time to leave, even though the pudding might be still to come. And I was also aware that it could well be a difficult night ahead;
She could wake in the early hours, still drunk, with a migraine, Start vomiting - or worse - I might have to sit her on the toilet Clutching a red plastic bucket while she vented copiously from both ends
‘I never want to see anybody ever again!’ she would moan.
But she has been a lot better since we moved out to Orpington
We don’t see anybody now. (Sometimes it’s good to go all secret and just dislike everybody)
She loves going for long apparently aimless tramps on her own Together with her five dogs right up onto the North Downs, Trudging along in an old parka through the sudden cold rains
If ‘Humans’ approach the galloping playful Airedale she’ll rap out The ruthless command ‘Leave it, Darius! You don’t know where it’s been!’