These are gothic times of course. When I was in Edinburgh last year it had a ghostly aspect but in the middle of lockdown it must be even more atmospheric. Bad, sad times but a once in a lifetime opportunity to trawl the deserted wynds, closes and stanks free of tourists and even many of the locals. For a poet it is an enviable prospect, especially if it's your first time. 'Edinburgh is a mad god's dream' said Hugh MacDiarmid. 'When I looked out in the morning it is as if I had waked in Utopia' said George Eliot. We should all be pretty jealous therefore of the Canadian poet Rayanne Haines who arrived in Edinburgh recently to pursue her studies and who, having served her quarantine, is now able to poke about and fuel her imagination in this most wonderful. dark and complex of cities.
Here she is reading 'Don’t Fall for Imitation Pearls with Exotic Names', a reverie on time, heritage and remembrance. 'All my memories are wrapped in whirlwinds of adventure....most purchased on the side of a road. i wonder if my sons will hold them dear.'
Don’t Fall for Imitation Pearls with Exotic Names
in the room where my father
hid his most important memories,
a box sat in the corner filled with my
great grandmother’s pearls and silver.
the items wrapped in white tissue paper
and flat cotton. packed away before her death.
these false mementos of stature. the silver
chipped, pearls flaked, still, more precious than gold.
treasures gifted by a husband she married
while still a girl in braids. her skin darkened
by the sun, hands already callused from working
the land. in the room under the stairs where
my father hid these things, dust coated
the walls, and the boxes mother forbade us to touch.
in the same room, my mother stored laundry
detergent, cat litter, the good holiday ornaments.
mother would say knowing an object is safe
is more important than having it on display. objects
hold memories you see, and father only had a few.
my sister and i would wrap our necks in these
remembrances when left unsupervised. or hide under
the stairs, dreaming of husbands gifting us with rubies.
the jewellery i own is spread haphazardly across
my dresser. items found on travels to countries
my great-grandmother never visited. but maybe
wanted to. who knows, i never met her to ask.
all my memories are wrapped in whirlwinds
of adventure. all of them worth far more than
the cost of a plane ride. most purchased on the side
of a road. i wonder if my sons will hold them dear.
i often dream of a house overlooking a valley,
built by my great-grandparent’s hands. i dream
they’d sit on the porch sharing whiskey
and cigars. both covered in dust. great-grandmother
reserving her cleanliness for sunday
morning when god and parish paid attention.
This refuge hewn by hard work, before the city
moved in, when the midnight moon was a cotton
ball and coyotes outnumbered people. and the world
was small and we knew how to love each other.
behind their house now, there is an esso
station. in front, a five-story brick apartment.
peoples’ memories stacked upon each other
like cardboard boxes. my great-grandmother, only
ever a ghost to me, is buried in the graveyard half
a mile away. her baubles still hidden under the stairs.
my mother still protecting them.
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