An Edinburgh Lad
An Edinburgh LadA Collection of Poetry and Prose
Shaped by his father’s left of Left politics, Eric’s social conscience owes much to his childhood experiences such as...
The Sunday Bazaar
The Party’s Sunday Bazaar
Was it in Clermiston? Maybe Dalry?
It was in a small hall anyway and always on a Sunday.
Scanning the tables wrapped around the flaking walls
A young, big-eyed, Comrade Falconer made a beeline
For the cheap Scalextric stall…
Crash barriers, extra cars, more track for the bedroom floor.
“You have enough of that,” chided Comrade Dad,
“Look, here’s a mandolin, tortoiseshell sound box,
Mother of pearl inlay. Do you want this?”
12 years later some big gallooted,
Some daft big-footed, roadie,
Growled the neck clean off.
The end of the mandolin – the end of the party?
Mum wasn’t a comrade – she was a Catholic;
How that happened who knows, this was the 60s…
Beneath the veneer of freedom, the old prejudices thrived.
Maybe that’s why we could not confetti
A family wedding at the chapel up the road?
Maybe we weren’t allowed.
“We’ll have no Pinkos in here!
Confess your sins!
Repent your Commie ways!”
Was Jesus a comrade?
The Party – We’ll Keep The Red Flag Flying High!
The weekly fund-raiser – the cream buns…
What a spread… cornflakes smothered in chocolate,
Washed down with a dram of orange squash.
No, Mum wasn’t a comrade,
She was the bestest cakemaker in town!
A zillion calories to feed the troops
Piled high, right next to the propaganda table.
“What’s CND Dad?”
“Where’s Cuba?”
“Who’s Che Guevara?”…
Lost in the pronunciation the raffle started,
Somebody always won with a hoot!
One week it was us, a huge box of chocolates…
We had a five minute plan for them!
In the corner, by the door, the next revolution plotted:
Earnest and true the comrades debated,
Earnest and true, the comrades waited
Earnest and true, the party fated
Earnest and true the Party marched
“So to all you old rebels where e’er you be
Your banners are torn
But your words ring out loud, ring out clear.
And to all you young rebels where e’er you be
They can kettle your streets
But they never will kettle your dreams.
To all you appeasers where e’er you be
When the apathy bites
The man takes it all with a smile.
So to all with conviction where e’er you be
It’s better to die on your feet
Than to live on your knees.
Will we march a while?
Mile on stubborn mile?
Come to the ball, bring a friend
Wear your pride on your sleeve.”
The Party – the Tory Press
Always more Ban the Bomb than Red Square.
The Party’s PR was bad
Shaking trees, always a risky business,
Up to your neck in rotten fruit before you know it.
Taking the blame, taking the flak.
The Sunday Bazaar – the Vinyl stall
Protesting through the room, the Dansette drifted honest words…
LPs, EPs, singles, a veritable collector’s delight.
At the Falconer prefab a new toy had arrived –
A record player, all the way from East Germany,
An advert spotted in the Party’s newspaper:
“The Morning Star” or was it then “The Daily Worker”?
Sellotaped to the fridge, the yellowing advert
Had teased the breakfast table for weeks.
“Maybe it’s been Checkpoint Charlied,” joked Comrade Big Brother,
… Holding up a Ewan MacColl to count the scratches,
Comrade Dad said, “You’ll like this Lad,
Looks good… we were following the ‘Shoals of Herring’.
Here! An Ian Campbell Folk Group LP! We’ll have that!
Wait till you hear the lad on the fiddle.
Aw, what’s his name?... Aye, Dave Swarbrick, that’s it.”
Always singing, always marching, always working,
The STUC Delegate for the Boilermakers’ Union was Comrade Dad,
Worked at the Bottle Works in Leith did Comrade Dad,
On his old black bike, all the way up the long steep hill,
Past Craigmillar Castle went Comrade Dad,
A bit of a poet was Comrade Dad…
The Task
If given one hour
The hammer and anvil
Would open their hearts
And tell us the story of time.
Of swords and sweat
Of wars – and yet
Their story would move us
…To effort
To crack and scrap the weapons of war
To forge the spade, the plough and bar
And make the spoons to feed the child
Oh! Break the guns of the warrior wild.
(George Moir Falconer)
Some Party survivors came to the funeral,
Reading his words in the obituary;
Marching out to Seeger’s “If I had A Hammer” went Comrade Dad.
The Sunday Bazaar – The Cause – The Airfix Models
The bedroom was littered with unfinished kit models,
Empty glue tubes that ran out in a minute
The bits and pieces would just disappear.
Planes with one wing nose-diving from the ceiling
Ships with no funnels faring nowhere.
Glued to the Airfix Model stand
Scratching through the boxes, searching for spares
The stall man asked, “Have you seen this?
Made it myself. A wee balsa wood boat.”
“Has it got a name?”
“Aye, it’s the Ciudad de Barcelona.”
“Does it float?”
“Aye, well for a wee while anyway.”
“Where’s it from? It’s got a funny name…”
“Sit up here Young Comrade, and I’ll tell ye the story.
Climb on board – you got your lifejacket?
You might need it…
Better to die on your feet comrade
Join the Brigade, join the Brigade
Than to live on your knees, forever a slave
Join the Brigade, sail to fascist Iberian plains
A young Robert Macdonald marched off to Spain
With the International Brigade, the International
Off to Marseilles where their passage lay,
Went the Brigade, went the Brigade
Two hundred and fifty brave stowaways
To lemon groves stained blood-red with Republican hearts
The Ciudad de Barcelona sailed
With the International Brigade, the International
Offshore at Malgrat the explosion rang
Mourn the Brigade, mourn the Brigade
As the ship went down there a chorus sang:
For freedom, for liberty, in solidarity’s name
The Ciudad de Barcelona sank
With the International Brigade, the International
Young Comrade Macdonald was lost at sea,
With the International Brigade, the International.”
The Party – The Unions – Tory Five-Year Plans
Back to the Tory Press, back to the struggle;
Another picket line, another closure.
The power struggle, the greed,
The poverty, the sophistry,
The bottom line – if you don’t ask you don’t get.
The capitalism – the bugger who’ll work for less
Here he comes, vanned in through the picket line crush:
Mr Arse Licker, Mr Yes Sir No Sir!
Mr Pay Me What You Want Sir!
Mr I’ll Clean Your Shiny New Car Sir!
Mr Scab Sir!
“They’ve called in the suits from Bloomsbury Way
To sort out the mess of the Thatcherite days
When the profit’s God, divided we will fall
It’s dead on The Clyde, it’s quiet on The Tyne
The whole dock’s dry no overtime
We’ve got our cards, they’ve sent us home today
Do they think they can better the toil and the sweat?
Of my faither, his brothers and all the rest
You may as well tear the whole thing down
But they all bought the lie and they all missed the catch
But my weans want this and my weans want that
I’ll send the bill down to Dulwich Town
So if I meet the suits from Bloomsbury way
Tell you what they’ll Officially Receive from me
They’ll get my boot right up their poverty
So tell me, who can build? Who can sail?
Who can launch a ship with no name?
The ghosts of our ships sailing on the tide.”
The Sunday Bazaar – Closed