Scots-Irish.  Born north of Ireland of Irish parents.

Poet and magazine editor.  Editor of the prestigious literary magazine
Aquarius, which was founded in London 1969.

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).

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passing out unpublished work,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.

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.
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