Edinburgh
Edinburgh, Oh Edinburgh…
Edinburgh, you old tart, trussed up in fairy lights,
trancing those curious ones with your curios
and tartan bric-a-brac.
Your knickers out to dry, hanging aside the rest – your
dirty washing flaps
as your packaged history blows. Wind seeps through
back-alley ghost tours and matching American tracksuits.
Edinburgh, you rebel child,
a glass affronted mock to your elders.
Those eye-sore panics you've erected
shocking the heart of your big brothers.
Edinburgh, you cobbly codger,
You completely unremarked-upon eccentric.
Edinburgh, you Bacchanalian dream,
for pagans and dreadlocked fire eaters.
Alongside a career in buy-to-let,
Nudity forges with superiority . . .
Painted green or blue or red
you turn around to your naked friend
Atop a hill you burn the flame
of new religion – old superstition.
The lines that draw. The needles take.
The streets where shopping trolleys carve
mark the way
from kitchen sink chic
to broken windowed chip shop REAL.
Carve away from class tourists and trustafarians.
Not all roads lead to Princes Street.
Your controversial masonry,
Your sniggeringly greedy cash registers,
Your five pound pints of Peroni,
Your artists and your poetry.
Edinburgh – you Apple pie bed.
You warm and scratchy shocker.
How we walk you –
gingerly, like a first attempt over burning coals,
it's all about the pressure
you put on the surface.
‘Edinburgh’ from The Eejit Pit © Jenny Lindsay. Reprinted by kind permission of the author and Stewed Rhubarb Press, 2012.
Edinburgh, Oh Edinburgh…
Edinburgh, you old tart, trussed up in fairy lights,
trancing those curious ones with your curios
and tartan bric-a-brac.
Your knickers out to dry, hanging aside the rest – your
dirty washing flaps
as your packaged history blows. Wind seeps through
back-alley ghost tours and matching American tracksuits.
Edinburgh, you rebel child,
a glass affronted mock to your elders.
Those eye-sore panics you've erected
shocking the heart of your big brothers.
Edinburgh, you cobbly codger,
You completely unremarked-upon eccentric.
Edinburgh, you Bacchanalian dream,
for pagans and dreadlocked fire eaters.
Alongside a career in buy-to-let,
Nudity forges with superiority . . .
Painted green or blue or red
you turn around to your naked friend
Atop a hill you burn the flame
of new religion – old superstition.
The lines that draw. The needles take.
The streets where shopping trolleys carve
mark the way
from kitchen sink chic
to broken windowed chip shop REAL.
Carve away from class tourists and trustafarians.
Not all roads lead to Princes Street.
Your controversial masonry,
Your sniggeringly greedy cash registers,
Your five pound pints of Peroni,
Your artists and your poetry.
Edinburgh – you Apple pie bed.
You warm and scratchy shocker.
How we walk you –
gingerly, like a first attempt over burning coals,
it's all about the pressure
you put on the surface.
‘Edinburgh’ from The Eejit Pit © Jenny Lindsay. Reprinted by kind permission of the author and Stewed Rhubarb Press, 2012.
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Listen to Jenny Lindsay read and discuss her poetry on the Scottish Poetry Library podcast.
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Watch Jenny Lindsay read 'No Ball Games' (recorded by Alex Aitchison, on behalf of National Collective, May 2014).
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