Arthur's Seat.

So I've been living in Edinburgh on and off for about two years now. I live near Leith Walk. I walk up and down it regularly. There was this guy who always sat around the street. Wiry, wild hair. Bleary red eyes. Maybe African. Dirty jeans and blankets tucket into his trousers. Face haggard and rich with lines and wear and ruin. His hands were like cracked clay and caked in grime or dirt. He sat in bus shelters, smoking cigarette doubts. I seen a man once hand him some bananas.

Every city has these lone, wild card eccentrics. These lone ineffable homeless characters. A feature in the street. He sleeps outside Majestic wine everynight on a grate with some cardboard for a matress and a tatty sleeping bag. He sleeps awkward on his side. I've passed by him while he sleeps. I took a moment to look at him. What crazy world has he got inside of him. What has life unleashed on him. Maybe he escaped something far worse. Maybe he has gone a bit mad with indifference. This man with wild grey hair and a red eyes. His atmosphere is not hostile. He feels amiable, pleasant, yet his oddness is undeniable. He walks up and down Leith Walk. I've never seen him anywhere else. He has sat ouside the 'Sea Breeze' cafe (greasy spoon), and they don't seem to move him along. He sits with a blanket over his shoulders. Sometimes fast asleep. Other times just waiting. Waiting for what. Waiting for the mercy of the sun. Afterall, he survivied winter sleeping out there. Least I think he did. I've seen him sleeping out there in ice cold conditions. He must have some strength. Some immunity.


He carries with him a bag filled with other platic bags. Not sure what's inside. People know him. People stop to talk to him. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to find out more about him. Somehow I found our his name is Arthur but I can't remember who told me. Did I just make it up? I don't think so. Someone told me. I heard it. Somewhere. Some rumour. I wanted to talk to him. Find out his story. Give him a cup of tea for his time. Instead, I took some photos of him one evening walking down. I never asked permission. I just wanted to capture him. Get something down.


I've walked passed him. Felt the urge to talk. He probably gets it all the time though. Strangers trying to be nice. Trying to be angel like. Thinking they will be the first person to really give him the time of day. And one evening he was walked towards me, our eyes met as eyes do, and we both said 'Hello' as we passed by.

Arthur has his own style. His own atmosphere, his wild wiry grey hair, his short limping gait, his just sitting watching time pass, people migrating to work and back. I might yet talk to him. Keep a respectful distance. Maybe this is enough, to acknowledge him here with some photographs, and keep that mystery which anonymity brings. I don't want to invade his space. He intrigues. That is enough. Seeking too much can destory a thing. So, there he is, Arthur.

Wrestling With Shadows.

Do you think I wrestle only with goldfish
on an Icecream Sunday of the soul
enduring the outrageous slings and arrows
of a pantomine dame during the dark night
of the lost remote control? - Wilhelm Spearshake.

Grandmother Earth Wise

(Grandmother Mother Aware Idealism)

Don't be such a cardigan, Son.

Get out there into the world.
Make it tremble to meet you.
Take great strides through crowds.
Don't be shepherded into enclosures.
Strike out and flame like a sure match.
Gamble your chances on intuitive charm.
Gather your skill as hidden treasure.
There are doors in the world that open
before you even push. These are the doors
of destiny, the doors of chance, the doors of a
God indicating possibility. Take it son.
Run with your spirit flaring in the dark night
of so many quiet lives. Do not be ashamed
of your peculiarities but do not let them own you.
You are not governed by a corporation of shadows.
You are a part of the fabric of the broad cloth.
Life is a table cloth Son, a clean sheet of infinite stain
and you must let all your limbs burst with the flowers
of your being. But you are not a solitary piece of biology.
There is so much love you have yet yo receive from those
who have already given so much. Take love as your task,
pour your waves of affection outward into good works
to the even sea of people surrounding. There is much
gold in simplicity. There is so much care
to be aware of in a quiet minute.

(Aye Gran...

Whitever you say.)

A Piano Burns And A Crowd Warm Their Ears By Its Sound.

Benny And The Jets:

Biting his fingers into each key and note
a crazed typist darting a squad of ten
against the enemy of silence.
He awakens the lava of their passion
from inside the belly of the piano's hunger.

Clair De Lune:

Sound like light rain,
light raindrops
wearing ballerina shoes
turning in a soft wave.

Cheeky Little Article

Reviewing The Mermaid.

The Mermaid and The Sailors.

Askew means 'not in a straight or level position' or 'wrong, awry'. It's synonymous with 'skew' or 'skewed' meaning 'to turn aside' or 'swerve' or 'to squint'. Some name for a poet. For perhaps the requirement for being a poet, if there are any other than simply a mouth and a pen, it might be that need to 'squint' at the world, not follow the straight line, to turn things aside, upside down, and not be afraid of the results. Claire Askew, squints her eyes at experience - in curiosity in concentration - and takes her slant on the page with control and clarity. Allow me to squint with my short-sighted eyes at the poetry of Lady Askew.

Read on at Cheeky Little Article. Read more reviews there and wait for more to come, ya cheeky bizim.

Cat Fight 2 a.m.

Sitting beside my open window late at night.
Two cats are fighting over territory in the back garden,
I cannot see them, only hear, and listen.

They square up to one another, prowling in circles,
Eyeing each other Gladiatorial, swiping paws cutting through air.
letting out piercing screeches like sharpening blades.

They want to kill each other.
They want to wound so there will be a victory,
until the next cat comes along with bigger, sharper, smarter claws.

I take off my boxing gloves,
shut the window securely,
And leap into to bed.

I have no idea who won.
No one ever does.

A Splasher

'Boys should be
strong enough
to keep
themselves
afloat.'

'But Da a canny,

I'll drown. Gonny
get us a pair
o arms bands.'

'You'll need more than that, Son.
You'll droon if yee don't stop bleatin.
A never got arms bands in ma day,
yee got flung in - sink or swim.

And that taught us.

None of this inflatable
life guard material.
Shower o splashers.
Wee safty.
Stoap yir gurnin fir Christ
Away doon the shallow end.'

A Splasher

‘Boys

Should be

Strong enough

to keep themselves

a float, Son.’

‘B u t d a, a c a n n y s w i m g o n n y g e t s u z a p a i r a a r m b a n d s!

A

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