Tag Archives: Iain Banks

Spending Time in the Big Pool – Real Writers


Had a truly inspiring day in the writer’s workshop – learnt lots – there is no better teacher than experience and no better facilitator than someone who is a living, breathing writer. Very grateful to Heidi and Ian and Keith Lindsay for a wonderful, bountiful day!

And the coffee – appreciated after a 3hr sleep! 30+ pages of notes to digest and lots of food for thought.

Came home told Mr. G. excitedly about my day with the big fish & then emailed my NaPoWriMo poem to Iain Banks, Mr. G. said he would appreciate it – hope he likes it half as much as Mr. G.

And now to my desk (or laptop on settee) to complete my NaNoWriMo writing at camp (@ least 1500 wds are needed) – I am already filled with inspiration for my NaPoWriMo poem for the day.

If I can stay awake I will have a look around the past 24hrs too!

Happy Writing!


NaPoWriMo Day 4# 4/30 Tribute to Iain Banks


Up until today my NaPoWriMo poem posts have only been an extract (for publishing/copyright reasons) however, today’s poem was written as a tribute and it doesn’t seem right to post it in part.

Mr G. is a BIG Banks fan & like millions of others has been shocked & saddened by the recent news. I used some of the spines of his book collection as a starting point to this tribute poem. (Originally titled ‘Tribute to Banks’.)

The Boy

A young lad walks
along the canal
kicking small stones beneath
his feet,
shoelace working itself undone.

He picks up pace as the greenery
turns industrial.
No time for bricks
and smoke.
He darts past the Wasp Factory
open mouthed,
hoping not
to catch any.

He makes his way over
the green fences at the side
of the canal path
and trails slowly
zig zagging
to Espedair Street.

The rush has left his feet
These bones are in no hurry.
He looks up at Crow Road,
taking his eyes off his shoes
for a minute.

This is where his Dad used
to have the business.
Before he lost everything,
Before he became a stranger to
the boy,
Before his ambitions
turned into a song of stone.

The boy doesn’t want to remember,
he walks on with his stone mouth
the past all forgotten.
Left to drown in canal dreams.

The boy can hear the
faint splutters in the dead air.
He keeps going, eyes forward,
eyes down,
eyes forward.

Eventually he makes it,
his last leg.
The steep approach to
He looks down at his laces,
Inhales deeply
and makes his way
up the hill.
Running like a
school boy
who is late getting home!