Tessera

Association for Scottish Literature

@asls.org.uk

Educational charity promoting the reading, writing, teaching & study of Scotland's literature & languages, past & present. https://asls.org.uk

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Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · 1h ago

Each night she fills, from the fabled well of disappointment, a kettle for her hottie… —Kathleen Jamie, “Mrs McKellar, Her Martyrdom” from The Edinburgh Book of Twentieth-Century Scottish Poetry, @edinburghup.bsky.social 2005 #poem #poetry edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-edi...

Mrs McKellar, Her Martyrdom
Kathleen Jamie

Each night she fills, from the fabled
well of disappointment, a kettle
for her hottie. Lying
in his apportioned bed:
Mr McKellar – annulled
beside his trouser press.

Who mentions, who defers to whom
on matters concerning
redecorating the living room,
milk delivery, the damp
stain spreading on the ceiling

when a word is a kind of touch?
Speaking of which, and they don't,
the garden needs attention
and the bedroom window frames,
exquisitely, the darkening hills,
a sky teased with mauve.

But he won't notice, or smell her burning
fix it! fix it!
won't look up the number
of Roofer and Son about that
slightly bewildering stain,

and she'll keep schtum.
Medieval in a dressing gown,
she'd rather display
toward an indifferent world
the means of her agony:
a broken toilet seat,

or die, lips sealed, regarding
the rotting window sills, that
wobbling shelf, which she could
as it happens, repair herself,
but won't, on principle.

Angela Cleland / Cleland Smith @angelacleland.co.uk · 11h ago

🎵 Happy birthday to me Happy birthday to me Black Doe is OUT TODAY Go and buy it, pleeeeease! 🎵 Grab it on kindle now, or order from your favourite bookshop in person or online. #newbook #kindlebooks #historicalfantasy #scottishbooks 🩵 📚 blackwells.co.uk/bookshop/pro... amzn.eu/d/0a0NApjt

Black Doe

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Matty @zagrebista.bsky.social · 6h ago

Someone posted this picture of neolithic lego scenes to r/Scotland on reddit so blessing your timeline with it:

Lego standing stones being lifted by lego minifigs in stone-age garb

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · 4h ago

Duin’ àrd, tana ’s fiasag bheag air, ’s locair ’na làimh… —“Cisteachan-Laighe” (“Coffins”) from Creachadh na Clarsaich / Plundering the Harp (Macdonald, 1982) by Ruaraidh MacThòmais (Derick Thomson, 1921–2012) – born #OTD, 5 Aug. A 🎂 🧵 #poetry 1/7 www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/cisteac...

Cisteachan-Laighe
Ruaraidh MacThòmais

Duin’ àrd, tana
’s fiasag bheag air,
’s locair ’na làimh:
gach uair theid mi seachad
air bùth-shaoirsneachd sa’ bhaile,
’s a thig gu mo chuinnlean fàileadh na min-sàibh,
thig gu mo chuimhne cuimhne an àit ud,
le na cisteachan-laighe,
na h-ùird ’s na tairgean,
na saibh ’s na sgeilbean,
is mo sheanair crom,
is sliseag bho shliseag ga locradh
bhon bhòrd thana lom.

Mus robh fhios agam dè bh’ ann bàs;
beachd, bloigh fios, boillsgeadh
den dorchadas, fathann de’n t-sàmhchair.
’S nuair a sheas mi aig uaigh,
là fuar Earraich, cha dainig smuain
thugam air na cisteachan-laighe
a rinn esan do chàch:
’sann a bha mi ’g iarraidh dhachaigh,
far am biodh còmhradh, is tea, is blàths.

Is anns an sgoil eile cuideachd,
san robh saoir na h-inntinn a’ locradh,
cha tug mi ’n aire do na cisteachan-laighe,
ged a bha iad ’nan suidhe mun cuairt orm;
cha do dh’ aithnich mi ’m brèid Beurla,
an liomh Gallda bha dol air an fhiodh,
cha do leugh mi na facail air a’ phràis,
cha do thuig mi gu robh mo chinneadh a’ dol bàs.
Gus an dainig gaoth fhuar an Earraich-sa
a locradh a’ chridhe;
gus na dh’ fhairich mi na tairgean a’ dol tromham,
’s cha shlànaich tea no còmhradh an cràdh.

Coffins
Derick Thomson

A tall thin man
with a short beard,
and a plane in his hand:
whenever I pass
a joiner’s shop in the city,
and the scent of sawdust comes to my nostrils,
memories return of that place,
with the coffins,
the hammers and nails,
saws and chisels,
and my grandfather, bent,
planing shavings
from a thin, bare plank.

Before I knew what death was;
or had any notion, a glimmering
of the darkness, a whisper of the stillness.
And when I stood at his grave,
on a cold Spring day, not a thought
came to me of the coffins
he made for others:
I merely wanted home
where there would be talk, and tea, and warmth.

And in the other school also,
where the joiners of the mind were planing,
I never noticed the coffins,
though they were sitting all round me;
I did not recognise the English braid,
the Lowland varnish being applied to the wood,
I did not read the words on the brass,
I did not understand that my race was dying.
Until the cold wind of this Spring came
to plane the heart;
until I felt the nails piercing me,
and neither tea nor talk will heal the pain.

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · 5h ago

“The Harvest Old Wife (a Chailleach).—In harvest, there was a struggle to escape being the last done with the shearing… The fear entertained was that of having the ‘famine of the farm’ (gort a bhaile), in the shape of an imaginary old woman (cailleach), to feed till next harvest” #WyrdWednesday

From Superstitions of the Highlands & Islands of Scotland, Collected Entirely from Oral Sources, by John Gregorson Campbell (1900)

The Harvest Old Wife (a Chailleach).—In harvest, there was a struggle to escape being the last done with the shearing, and when tillage in common existed, instances were known of a ridge being left unshorn (no person would claim it) because of it being behind the rest. The fear entertained was that of having the ‘famine of the farm’ (gort a bhaile), in the shape of an imaginary old woman (cailleach), to feed till next harvest. Much emulation and amusement arose from the fear of this old woman; and from it arose the expression, “Better is a mercy-leap in harvest than a sheaf additional” (’As fearr leum-iochd a’s t’ fhogaradh na sguab a bharrachd). The cum-iochd, or mercy-leap, is where a rocky mound or a soft spot, where no corn grows, occurs in a ridge. Its occurrence was a great help to the shearing being done.

The first done made a doll of some blades of corn, which was called the ‘old wife,’ and sent it to his nearest neighbour. He in turn, when ready, passed it to another still less expeditious, and the person it last remained with had the ‘old woman’ to keep for that year. The old wife was known in Skye as the Cripple Goat (a Ghobhar Bhacach).

The fear of the Cailleach in harvest made a man in Saor-bheinn, in the Ross of Mull, who farmed his land in common with another, rise and shear his corn by moonlight. In the morning he found it was his neighbour’s corn he had cut.

Denise Mina @damedenisemina.bsky.social · 5h ago

Another dream shattered

A gigantic tunnock’s tea cake turns out to be a lie

Stoat Poetry @stoatpoetry.bsky.social · 4d ago

We're open for submissions for Issue 2! Send us your poems on any theme, by 31st August. For details of how to submit and guidelines, please go to www.stoatmagazine.co.uk

Stoat Poetry

Stoat Poetry is a new magazine which aims to publish the best original poetry from new and established writers.

stoatmagazine.co.uk

Richard Fallon @richardfallon.bsky.social · 7h ago

Join me and Roland Squire for a discussion of (what else?) Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World on the latest episode of 'The Pirates Don't Eat the Tourists: Jurassic Park and Prehistroic Fiction'. Check out the whole brilliant series: open.spotify.com/episode/5V7J...

The Lost World (1912) by Arthur Conan Doyle with Richard Fallon

The Pirates Don’t Eat The Tourists: Jurassic Park & Prehistoric Fiction · Episode

open.spotify.com

E.N. Auslender @enauslender.bsky.social · 4d ago

My newest story, Feed Them on Your Dreams, is now available to read for free at @clarkesworldmagazine.com. Check it out. clarkesworldmagazine.com/auslender_08...

Feed Them on Your Dreams by E.N. Auslender

Clarkesworld Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine and Podcast.

clarkesworldmagazine.com

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · yesterday

damp shrug of cow horn “we’re hairy for a reason” – summer in Scotland —a haar coo

James Oswald@sirbenfro.bsky.social · yesterday

Lonesome coo

Lone blonde Highland coo stands in the long grass, background fading into the mist that dulls the whole scene.

New-Cleckit Dominie @ncdominie.bsky.social · yesterday

We now go live to Glasgow.

Coloured illustration (c. 1825) showing people struggling with umbrellas in the wind and rain.

Katie ♥️💜💙@katiebruce.bsky.social · yesterday

August has arrived which means it's time to get to know the authors of our next BFS event! @shonak.bsky.social @rainewilson.bsky.social @ianthegreen.bsky.social @rtorrubia.com

Shown is a graphic of the Scottish flag (white cross on a blue background) with a green silhouette of Scotland and two black silhouettes of unicorns. Photos: Shona Kinsella and the cover of Daughters of Nicnevin (top right), Ian Green and the cover of The Deep and the Drowned (top left); Rafael Torrubia and the cover of The Shipwright and the Shroudweaver (bottom left) Lorraine Wilson and the cover of The Salt Oracle (bottom right).

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · yesterday

Commonwealth of Nations Poet Laureate Selina Tusitala Marsh & Scotland’s Makar Peter Mackay in Conversation Selina & Peter’s wide-ranging conversation begins with Selina reading her poem “Tusitala”, & a discussion of where her name comes from #poetry www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/podcast/seli...

Selina Tusitala Marsh (Commonwealth Poet Laureate) and Peter Mackay (Scotland's Makar) in Conversation

When Commonwealth Poet Laureate Selina Tusitala Marsh recorded a podcast at the Scottish Poetry Library with Scottish Makar, Peter Mackay, she brought her official hand-carved New Zealand Laureate tok...

scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · yesterday

It gets late early out here in the lacklustre places, wind in the trees and the foodstalls’ ricepaper lamplight, fading and blurred with rain… —John Burnside, “Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012” from BLACK MIDDENS: New Writing Scotland 31 (ASL, 2013) #poem #poetry

John Burnside
Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012

“Necessity is not the mother of invention; play is”
—Ian D. Suttie

It gets late early out here
in the lacklustre places,
wind in the trees & the foodstalls’
ricepaper lamplight, fading & blurred with rain,
the wire fence studded with fleece
& indelible traces
of polythene wrapping; marrowfat clogging the drains
on the road that runs out to the coast
then disappears.
A last bleed of gold in the west, like a Shan Shui painting,
then darkness.

The animals are gone
that hunted here:
wolves coming down from the hills, that
immaculate hunger,
rumours of bear & cat, quick
martens & raptors.
The rain is darker now,
though not so black,
oil-iridescent, streaked with the smell of lard
– it gets late early out here; though late, out here,
has a different meaning:

stars in the road
& the absence of something more
than birchwoods or song,
pallet fires, tyre-tracks,
grubbed fields clouded with grease
& palm oil, hints
of molasses and lanolin, tarpaper,
iron filings.
A narrow band of weather on the road,
then houses; though we scarcely think of them
as that.

I remember a meadow at dusk
in another rain
(and this is nostalgia now); I remember
I stood in a wind like gossamer and watched
three roe fawns and a doe
come quietly, one by one, through the silvering grasses,
wary, but curious, giving me just enough space
to feel safe,
their watchfulness reminding me of something
lost, a creaturely
awareness I could only glimpse

in passing.
That meadow is gone, and dusk
isn’t dusk any more
– or not out here –
just miles of tract and lay-by on the way
to junkyards and dead allotments,
guard dogs on tether,
biomass, factory outlets,
the half-light of ersatz dairies petering out
on rotting fields
of rape and mustardseed.

We’ve been going at this for years:
a steady delete
of anything that tells us what we are,
a long
distaste for the blood warmth and bloom
of the creaturely: local
fauna and words for colour, all the shapes
of ritual and lust
surrendered where they fell, beneath a fog
of smut and grime and counting-house
as church, the old gods

buried undead beneath the rural sprawl
that bears their names, or wandering the hills
of Lammermuir and Whitelee, waiting out
the rule of Mammon, till the land returns
– with or without us –
chainlink going down
to bindweed, drunken
thistles in a sway
of wind and goldfinch on the dead estates, fat
clusters of moss
and gentian, broken

tarmac with new shoots
of coltsfoot breaking through
like velvet, till the darkness of the leaf
unfurls into a light we could have known
but failed to see
by choosing not to find
the kingdom-at-hand:
this order;
this dialectic;
this mother of invention,
ceaseless play.

JohnChalmers+SandraMarrs=Metaphrog @metaphrog.bsky.social · yesterday

We’re serialzing the first 2 chapters of Wilomina: The Land of Dreams and Nightmares on Substack. Read now for free and subscribe to receive the next episodes in your inbox (also free). metaphrog.substack.com/p/wilomina-t...

Gary Panton @garypanton.co.uk · yesterday

Big thanks to @ianeagletonauthor.bsky.social for this fun little interview! 😊

Ian Eagleton@ianeagletonauthor.bsky.social · yesterday

Today @garypanton.co.uk joins me for a chat in The Reading Realm! It's lovely to hear about his book THE NOTWITCHES, which is illustrated by Dotty Sutton! thereadingrealm.co.uk/2026/08/04/g... #KidLit #BookSky #KidLitChat #EduSkyPrimary

Damian Barr @damianbarr.bsky.social · yesterday

‘The world is burning. Fascism is rising. Countries are falling. And we’re on the brink of incredible technological change, which will either be the end of everything or a new beginning. So, who needs artists?’ We do 🧡 www.theguardian.com/books/2025/a...

‘They had everything, then nothing’: the prodigies the art world forgot

Robert Colquhoun and Bobby MacBryde were once the golden boys of London’s art scene – photographed in Vogue, filmed by Ken Russell and lauded by Francis Bacon. So why did they vanish into obscurity?

theguardian.com

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · 2d ago

“I could not do violence to my conscience for anything less than ten shillings” The secret origins of Roald Dahl’s Matilda may lie in Saki’s short story “The Boar-Pig”, where a young girl – also called Matilda – extracts money from 2 society ladies trying to gatecrash a garden party #kidlit 💙📚

An illustration to Saki’s “The Boar-Pig”, by Quentin Blake, from Gabriel-Ernest and Other Tales by Saki. The illustrations were originally created for an Italian translation of Saki short stories, “La Zia ha adottato un Licantropo”, in 1993, & were re-issued in an expanded English edition by Alma Classics in 2016.

A dark-haired young girl, wearing an Edwardian-era frock, is sitting up a tree. She is looking down, smiling, at two ladies wearing Edwardian finery, with puffed shoulders, gloves, and elaborate hats. One lady is just peeking into the frame of the picture; the other, a robust woman carrying a small handbag in one hand an a furled parasol in the other, is looking up at the young girl in some dismay.

The Bookseller@thebookseller.com · 2d ago

The National Year of Reading has named Roald Dahl’s 'super-reader' Matilda as an ambassador for its Summer of Stories campaign, running throughout August 2026 (@literacytrust.org.uk)👇

Mike Drucker @mikedrucker.bsky.social · 2d ago

Hit the Museum of Edinburgh first thing and, I gotta say, this country fucking rules

A picture of a framed old oateal cake labeled “a bit of oatmeal cake made by Mrs. Burns, wife of the poet”

Brian M. Milton @munchkinstein.bsky.social · 2d ago

Did you know that the GSFWC (@gsfwc.bsky.social) is forty years old this year? Well it is, and as part of too much thinking about that, I bring you the first in a (slowly) building set of blog posts with my thoughts on it. www.munchkinstein.co.uk/index.php/20...

The Circle and I: A haver – Brian M. Milton, SF&F writing and nonsense

munchkinstein.co.uk

Comann Gàidhlig Ghlaschu @cgaidhligghlaschu.bsky.social · 2d ago

Oidhche nam Bàrd: Pàdraig MacAoidh, Anne Frater, Niall O’ Gallagher, Sandy NicDhòmhnaill, Rody Gorman, Marcas Mac an Tuairneir, Màrtainn Mac an t-Saoir, Maoilios Caimbeul, Crìsdean MacIlleBhàin, agus Meg Bateman. Ceòl le Alasdair MacIlleBhàin, Gillebrìde MacIlleMhaoil & Claire Frances NicNèill.

Canongate @canongate.co.uk · 2d ago

PUBLISHING JOB! We're hiring a Publishing Operations Assistant to play a supporting role in our ops team, based out of our Edinburgh office full time - if you're highly organised, detail-orientated and passionate about books take a look!: canongate.co.uk/about/jobs/

Jobs at Canongate

Current vacancies at Canongate – the award-winning independent book publisher based in Edinburgh and London.

canongate.co.uk

Tom Humberstone @tomhumberstone.com · 2d ago

Just Work. An all new comic about the gig economy, platform capitalism, delivery riders, and their battle for worker rights. You can read a responsive phone/desktop/tablet friendly online version of it - for FREE - here: tomhumberstone.com/just-work

Just Work | Tom Humberstone

Just Work

tomhumberstone.com

⚠️ eve g ⚠️@evegwood.com · 2d ago

If you want to get a snapshot of the insane breadth of talent and creativity in Scotland right now, you need to check out Sequential Scotland. Only £6 for a ticket and you can pay at the door!

Quindrie Press@quindriepress.com · 2d ago

This weekend is Sequential Scotland, the biggest and best indie comics event in Scotland! There's panels, workshops, art & cosplay competitions, and over 100 exhibitors. Quindrie won't be there because Eve is one of the co-organisers but lots of our creators will be! 🍂 sequentialscotland.co.uk

Gary Panton @garypanton.co.uk · 2d ago

Had such a fun time going on this podcast. I may never be able to listen to it as I can't bear hearing myself, but please everyone else go have a listen!

Hellish@hellishpod.com · 2d ago

Writer @garypanton.co.uk gives us the five tracks he’ll meet in Hell! Gary talks about his book series, the Notwitches, and about switching from writing for hire to creating your own characters. He also puts two tracks in Hell that could get him banned from Scotland. Listen podfollow.com/hellish

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · 2d ago

The hill is tossing high, frail wisps of rosy cloud to glide in steady gale along a turquoise sky, around, above the perpendicular and slightly askew columns, above the triangular gap between crown and crag… —Tessa Ransford, “August 3rd” from Shadows from the Greater Hill (Ramsay Head, 1987) #poem

August 3rd
Tessa Ransford

The hill is tossing high, frail wisps of
rosy cloud to glide in steady gale
along a turquoise sky, around, above the
perpendicular and slightly askew columns,
above the triangular gap
between crown and crag.

The moon, full at midnight,
is now high and faded
almost a lazy eyelid:
day’s eye opening
or night’s eye closing.

Birds chase and ride the wind
reeling, wheeling,
aware that in a moment
ordinary flight of day will have to be resumed.

The hawk alone is steady,
keeps position despite the gale
to pinpoint a victim

and far below
grasses tinge in flower:
harebell, yarrow, lady’s yellow bedstraw
Among the rangy thistles and fatted doves.

SHADOW OF MADNESS out now!@dvbishop.com · 2d ago

Loved this very thoughtful podcast digging into the samplers for SHADOW OF MADNESS and THE HIGH ISLAND. As it happens, I'm chairing @linanderson.bsky.social this Thursday (Aug 6th) at @waterstonesargyle.bsky.social in Glasgow, get tickets here: www.waterstones.com/events/an-ev...

An Evening with Lin Anderson | Events at Waterstones Bookshops | Waterstones

Events at Waterstones get you closer to the books and authors you admire most. Find information and tickets about An Evening with Lin Anderson today.

waterstones.com

Out of Order Book Club@outoforderbookclub.bsky.social · 2d ago

S3/E08: This new episode looks at two samplers I picked up at @harrogatefestivals.bsky.social. It's a bit of an experiment focusing on what questions come up when you have a taster of @dvbishop.com 'Shadow of Madness' and @linanderson.bsky.social 'The High Island'. #booksky wp.me/phiaSF-cd

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · 3d ago

Early autumn the school trunk would re-appear as if to say summer was over, time for my sister to disappear… —Diana Hendry, “Parting (i.m. Julie Betty Rowan)” from Second Wind (Saltire Society, 2015) a #poem for #SistersDay www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/parting...

Parting
Diana Hendry

i.m. Julie Betty Rowan

Early autumn the school trunk would re-appear
as if to say summer was over, time for my sister to disappear.

She was the homely one my mother loved too much.
A North Wales boarding school, my father’s mute reproach.

Me – an avid reader of all Blyton’s stories of St Clare’s –
they kept at home, unaware I longed to go and envied her.

The trunk seemed huge, as deep as sorrow and in it
every vest and sock was named – only love went missing.

I remember most the heavy winter coat she had to wear –
grey as the railway station full of girls, grief in the parting air.

* * * * *

And now she’s gone, the sister I didn’t see
for more than twenty years. O there were letters

now and then and phone calls, but mostly
between us nothing but distance and neglect.

So now I find a deadness in my heart
and numbness where the pain should be.

To friends I say ‘we grew apart,
‘had nothing in common’, though what can compare

with those early years of childhood shared?

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · 3d ago

Bookmark 2026 10–11 October, Blairgowrie Tickets are on sale for Bookmark, Blairgowrie’s annual book festival. bookmarkblair.com/bookmark-eve...

Association for Scottish Literature @asls.org.uk · 3d ago

Like an unnourished rose I see you now, and yours the Pallor of that city of soot and pigeons… —George Sutherland Fraser, “A Winter Letter (To my sister in London, from Asmara)” in From the Line: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945 Today, 2 August, is #SistersDay #poem asls.org.uk/publications...

George Sutherland Fraser
A Winter Letter
(To my sister in London, from Asmara)

Like an unnourished rose I see you now, and yours the
Pallor of that city of soot and pigeons
Where the leaf is pale, that seems to curl its tendrils
Always around the painted green of iron,
I imagine you pale among the pigeon droppings,
And with your eyelids shadowed like the violets
They sell in bunches from their pavement baskets,
And I imagine you not with your old buxomness
But slim like the young ladies in the advertisements,
With your hair preened in a mode of cockney smartness
And your hands in the pockets of a heavy coat . . .
Do you think wistfully as I do, my darling,
These mornings when your heart is not in that city,
Reluctant stroller to the Board of Trade,
Of our glittering and resourceful north, with its
Terminus smell in the morning of cured herrings
And its crackling autumn suburbs of burned leaves?
Though I write in winter, and now except for the hollies
The trees in our old garden are all bare:
Now as they walk these streets of flashing mica,

They puff white steam from their nostrils, men and horses,
And their iron heels strike out sparks from the frosty road!
Now the white mist seeps round the red brick baths by the sea-front
And the children are girning at play with blue fingers
For a sea-coal fire and the starch of a Scotch high-tea,
Now with nipped red cheeks, the girls walk the streets rapidly,
And the shop-window's holly and tinsel can hardly delay.
I think of the swirl of the taffeta schoolgirls at Christmas,
Remembering Bunny whose skin was like cream upon milk,
Remembering Joy with her honey-dark skin and dark glances,
Remembering Rosemary's chatter and eloquent eyes,
Ahimé! and sigh because war with its swoop and its terror
That pounces on Europe and lifts up a life like a leaf,
Though its snell wind whirl you into a niche where you’re cosy
Yet its years eat up youth and the hope of fulfilment of youth.

And last night I dreamt I returned and therefore I write,
Last night my train had drawn up at a black London station,
And there you were waiting to welcome me, strange but the same,
And I shook your gloved hands, kissed your light-powdered cheek, and was waiting
To see your new flat, and your books, and your hats, and your friends,
When I suddenly woke with a lost lonesome head on my pillow,
And black Africa turning beneath me towards her own dawn,
And my heart was so sore that this dream should be snapped at the prologue
That I send you my soreness, dear heart, for the sake of this dream.