This week’s Sceptical Scot poetry post is Hopscotch, by Nadine Aisha Jassat, a powerful, gut-churning challenge to gender-based violence.
The event is a triumph of creative activism and quiet determination to overcome the ‘Do you need permission for that?’ mindset that can prevent grassroots events. Welcome to pop-up film fest and night time guided walk A Wall Is A Screen: Leith
No formula for winning the Autumn Voices poetry prize. Just write from the heart, read it aloud to check the sense and sound – and make sure you are over 70.
On yet another day when headlines of old and new media hammer home the madness and mayhem of 2018 politics, here’s a chance to let different words swirl and swell with Rachel McCrum’s Glassblower Dances, Poem of the Moment
One diner’s casual satisfaction is another’s fight to survive. Deeply aware of being a tourist in an age of mass migration, Fay Young enjoys one of the best meals of her life cooked by a warm-hearted refugee in Imad’s Syrian Kitchen.
Travelling light, I’m sitting on the train when I remember that last minute packing left no time for this month’s Sceptical Scot poetry blogpost. A routine check of essential documents finds an answer. Irish passport to the rescue. The Irish passport is indeed a very fine thing. Not only is it the symbol of continuing […]
Edinburgh’s grassroots community activism could be the best hope for the city. Preparing for the Power of Food Festival, Fay Young finds hope for the future in the revival of an ancient walled garden in the brownfield landscape on the shores of the Forth.
“British racism has evolved. We no longer see gangs of racist folks roaming the streets. They now wear suits and ties
Some form political parties…” Benjamin Zephaniah’s poetic analysis of institutionalised racism has particular resonance in the aftermath of the Windrush scandal.
Is winter never going to end? Seeking hope in poetry, Fay Young finds a kind of answer in Christina Rossetti’s poem Another Spring, whose sad-sweet longing seems to capture the mood of the moment.
‘I have loved the Rite of Spring since I first heard it, more than 30 years ago. Visceral, violent stuff. Spring, like human birth, does not deliver easily. Stravinsky delighted in the cracking ice that signalled the bursting of new life into Russia’s frozen landscape.’