Nationality: Scots-Irish. Born north of Ireland of Irish parents. Profession: Poet and magazine editor. Editor of the prestigious literary magazine Aquarius, which was founded in London 1969. Publications: City of Razors (1980) poems. Who is Eddie Linden? (1979, with Sebastian Barker. Auto biographical account of a Catholic childhood in a Lanarkshire mining-village, and of later political involvements, notably with the CND movement, YCL and Communist Party. Who is Eddie Linden? adapted for stage by William Tanner, received its first production at the Old Red Lion Theatre, Islington, London 1997. Represented in the Anthologies: The Best of Scottish Poetry (1989 ed. Robin Bell). Life Doesn't Frighten Me at All (1989 ed. John Agard). The Poolbeg Book of Irish Poetry (1979 ed. Shaun Traynor). Readings: BBC1 Television; BBC Radio 3; BBC Radio Scotland; Radio Clyde; LBC Radio. Live readings throughout Scotland, Ireland, England, Wales, Canada (Toronto, Calgary, Edmonton) New York, Boston, Cambridge Mass. Has read once before in Paris at Shakespeare & Co (1983). |
| Eddie S Linden |
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A Sunday in Cambridge That Sunday in Cambridge was like an unfinished dream. I've never been able to get it out of my mind. You look like Mary Magdalene and I wanted to wash you feet. The more I lookd into your eyes, the stronger the pain. Your thin body and small waist, were all I wanted to possess, but a shadow hovering in our midst, prevented a possible communion. |
Where Lovers Never Meet Silent they walk, hidden by mass of fear. There are no angel's here. Even the moon, that white-eyed nurse would scare the loveless birds away. Heart-less men in need of love will kill the love by three and on this search, as if no end in sight. Only the light can kill the joy of night, in a place where lovers never meet. |
For a Dublin Artist (for John Behan) He works in bronze creating matter in steel, Not like those who sit in judgement with jars of Guinness. I have seen them on high stools, passing out unpublished work, While someone labours into the night, amid the lighting flash of a welder's rod. His is not just of brain as of brawn. Nor do you find a man in idle talk with fool's and intellectual bars Only in the gallery will you find the finished piece and find the man. |
Look Back Looking back One can trace The steps of time The shape of the house Where he was born The part we played. And as I sleep the years roll by And like the time machine They stop. I remember that aunt or uncle in one's mind Each birthday Goes by And into another year With new thoughts for the time to come. |
The Nest The echo of the burn as it runs yellow And the dark blue slag on the pit surface Reminded him of the past. The wheels of life sound its Message of time. The blast of death Rang its bells in the hearts of the homes. The grim face in the mirror Faded with time into the slag heaps From where he came. The moon revealed its ugly village casa. A dog howled its death-like sound, A baby cried from the cold of night, A father knelt in The bowls of the earth, waiting for light In darkest hell, where he never saw Only winter remained. And nothing returned to the nest In th tree, but the snow that covereed The world of his past. |
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The Miner Your face has never moved, it still contains the marks of toil, deep in blue. Those slag heaps now in green have flowers instead of dust, and many men are buried here whose shadows linger on. |