Shore Poets
Stewart Conn was born in Glasgow, grew up in Ayrshire and now lives in Edinburgh where for many years he worked in the BBC’s radio drama department. His poetry is widely published and translated, his own latest collections being The Loving-Cup (Mariscat 2007) and The Breakfast Room (Bloodaxe 2010). He and Anna Crowe share L’ànima del Teixidor (Edicions Proa, Barcelona).
With Ian McDonough he co-edited the second Shore Poets anthology The Ice-Horses (SCP) and with Nancy Somerville an anthology of poetry for children Goldfish Suppers (CEC). In 2006 he edited 100 Favourite Scottish Poems for Luath Press/SPL, and more recently 100 Favourite Scottish Love Poems (Luath Press).
Stolen Light: Selected Poems (Bloodaxe 1999) was short-listed for the Saltire Book of the Year Prize. He has won awards from among others the Scottish Arts Council, the Poetry Book Society and the Society of Authors; and in 2006 received the inaugural Iain Crichton Smith Award for services to literature. He has read at the Edinburgh Book Festival, and participated in Poetry Festivals from Aberdeen and Bath to Vilnius and Zagreb. In 2002 he was appointed Edinburgh’s first official Makar, or poet laureate.
He particularly relishes his involvement with Shore Poets for the platform the Group has provided since its inception for exciting new talent, and for the warmth, energy and commitment which radiate from its members.
Carpe Diem
From my study window
I see you
below in the garden, a hand
here pruning,
or leaning across to snip
a wayward shoot,
a daub of powder-blue in a
profusion of green;
then next moment, you are
no longer there –
only to reappear, this time
perfectly framed
in dappling sunlight, with
an armful of ivy
you've trimmed, topped by
hyacinth blooms,
fragrant survivors of last
night's frost.
And my heart misses a beat
at love for you,
knowing a time will come
when you are
no longer there, nor I here
to watch you
on a day of such simplicity.
Meantime let us
make sure we clasp each
shared moment
in cupped hands, like water
we dare not spill.
Angel with lute
High on the vaulting as though levitating,
for five centuries I have gazed down
at a blur of straining adam’s apples,
gaping nostrils and goggle-eyes focusing
on the frescoes for long enough to take in
my soft colour tones, my wings’ pale
transparency, my fingers on the strings.
Against the hair-line cracks in the sky,
faded through the ages, only traces remain
of my halo’s gilding. But no disruption
of my features, thanks to my master
having properly prepared his pigments
before drawing my curls and straight nose-line,
the powdery red and green of my costume.
Not just the fee (though that filled his belly),
or religious conviction. I’ll tell you a secret.
Invisible from ground level is a small smudge
on my cheek. His last brush-stroke complete
and before they dismantled the scaffolding
my master leaned up and kissed me gently.
After all those years, that still sustains me.
