Magi Gibson


“There is no doubt that Gibson is an important poet in Scotland today, arguably one of the most important, as her growing readership attests.” Cencrastus

HG upstairs II

bat song

So, our features offend?
Too shrunken-skulled, too rat-eyed,
ugly web-winged embryos.

Skinny in leather and slinky
fur, do you find our forms
too nazi for your civilised sensibilties?

You blame the moon for our presence.

But we have always been/are
always here –

armies of us sleeping
in your soul-less churches,
fornicating in the rafters,
pissing on prayerbooks and pews.

Or lurking in dark dank
places your kind once too

We stream at dusk like smoke
into your streets, scribe
the thin black air with
strange graffiti.

You claim we make your
flesh crawl, appearing
out of darkness and silence.

Is it our fault, Sir,
that you are deaf
to the beauty of our songs?

Just like Eve

I could have brought you
whisky to warm you on winter nights,
poems full of words to fill your silences

I could have brought you
armfuls of flowers
to fill your rooms with summer,
scented petals to scatter where you dream

I could have brought
olives, shiny, black and green,
anchovies and Parmesan,
Chianti, deep blood-red

I could have brought
figs, dates, cumquats, lychees
tastes to make your senses sing
to set your soul adrift

Instead I brought
forbidden fruit
the one and only gift
you would not accept


they found me in the corner
way at the back
of my mother’s wardrobe

at first they thought I was a button
broken loose from a frayed thread
or a mothball, happy in the dark

then as I grew, they thought I was
a shoe without a partner, but
they were busy folk – it was easier
to poke me back beside the fallen
jumpers and the missing socks

as for me, I was quite content
tucked up in the folds of mother’s frocks

from time to time she’d drag me out
wear me, dangled prettily
on the end of her arm – the ultimate accessory
a quiet daughter