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The Edwin Morgan Trust
@edmorgantrust.bsky.social
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Trust of the first Scottish poet laureate, Edwin Morgan.
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What was your wish? You wanted more?
It’s granted! Up there is a store
Of light. It’s breaking now in showers
Not of stars but meteors . . .

✨ “Leonids” by #EdwinMorgan, published in Cathures (Carcanet, 2002)
Look now, look quick – a shooting star! Make your wish! It’s very far From here to where the active light Set out and streaked across a night In Glasgow’s greatly dark November To die there, a supernal ember. What was your wish? You wanted more? It’s granted! Up there is a store Of light. It’s breaking now in showers Not of stars but meteors, Spark after spark, scattering, dying, You could send your wishes flying In thousands, born, reborn, delighting To be part of that bright sighting Which disappears and yet appears Again in our unlonely years.
November 18, 2025 at 10:16 AM
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A spOoky poem from Edwin Morgan’s final collection, Dreams and Other Nightmares. Happy Hallowe’en!

— “Horsemen” published here in Centenary Selected Poems (Carcanet 2020)
Horsemen It was late, a wintry evening, and I was in the old flat looking out at everything familiar, all the details of every neighbouring house quite clear under streetlights when are the corner by the lamp I saw them – horses and their men talking together, their hoof clatter and whispering (the Horseman's word I'd read about but cannot speak), Their great flanks, fetlocks, ancient and out of place in Glasgow now, under the street lamp at my corner where they should not have been. And as I stared at them talking together all at once every light went out and I was left in darkness with that sound of hooves, beating, retreating –
October 31, 2025 at 11:39 AM
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Next Friday: In Translation: A Scottish-Slovenian Poetry Exchange – poets working across Gaelic, Scots & Slovene will share translations of each other’s work & insights into their creative process.

Register to attend in person: shorturl.at/6nNtz
Or email [email protected] to join online!
October 29, 2025 at 2:01 PM
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Nearly forty years later, in 2005, EM wrote another poem for Finlay on his 80th birthday, returning once more to imagery of the sea and ships that the two men loved:

“But when at last you come across the ship with eighty / sails, oh what a sight that is to take to heart . . .”

⛵💙
But when at last you come across the ship with eighty sails, oh what a sight that is to take to heart, with the white canvas flapping and the rigging snapping as she churns the ocean through a stiff breeze, and the sailors since out their seemingly inexhaustible store of shanties, and the dolphins slice and gleam and are ahead of the prow like protective things from a world that is not quite ours, and the playful captain out of sheer joy blasts his horn eighty times into the misty morning, and then with his blue eyes glittering he bangs the rail – ‘Steady as she goes!’
October 28, 2025 at 12:53 PM
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In his breakout collection The Second Life (1968), Morgan included a poem in celebration of Finlay – “maker of boats” – and his careful craftsmanship as a poet and artist.
Maker of boats, earthships, the white cradle with its patchwork quilt, toys of wood painted bright as the zebras’ muzic in your carousel, patiently cut space cleanly! There’s dark earth underneath, not far the North Sea, a beach goes out greyer than Dover’s for ignorant armies. Scotland is the little bonfires in cold mist, with stubbornness, the woman knits late by a window, a man repairing nets, a man carv- ing steady glass, hears the world, bends to his work. You give the pleasure of made things, the construction holds like a net; or it unfolds in waves a certain measure, of affection. Native, familiar as apples, tugs, girls, lettres from your moulin, but drinking tea you set for Albers his saucer of milk.
October 28, 2025 at 12:52 PM
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Happy 100th birthday Ian Hamilton Finlay – poet, visual artist, gardener, and friend of Edwin Morgan.

EM & IHF met in the summer of 1961 & supported each other throughout the decade, both been keen experimenters in the field of concrete poetry ... 🧵

[img: “Fish Sheet One”, pub. by IHF in 1963)
October 28, 2025 at 12:50 PM
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For #InternationalTranslationDay, Edwin Morgan’s translation of ‘Anyám’ by Hungarian poet Attila József (1905–1937)

Published in Collected Translations (Carcanet, 1996)
My Mother She would hold the mug in both hands, one Sunday as evening approached she smiled in her own peaceful way and sat a moment in the half dark A small saucepan held the super she brought home from the fine folks’ house we went to bed, and I lay thinking how they had a whole pot to devour – This was my mother, tiny, early dead, a washerwoman’s lot is to die early, her legs shake from the loads she carries, her head throbs as she bends ironing – And her mountains are the dirty washing! She has a tranquilizing cloudscape of steam, and as for pastures new the washerwoman has the attic – She pauses with the iron: I see her. Her brittle body was broken by capital, grew thin, grew thinner – think about it, proletarians – She was bent, you know, bent from washing, I never knew how young she was, she wore a clean apron in her dreams, and the postman greeted her then –
September 30, 2025 at 3:03 PM
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“As clay in clay you cannot catch my thanks, my steadiness, my lateness, my praise”

— ’John I’ by Edwin Morgan, written in memory of John Scott, his partner for 16 years, who died in September 1978.

Published in Edwin Morgan Twenties: Love (Polygon, 2020)
John I Nothing will bring him back. I know that, of course I know that. The days When I do not think of him are few, but if I turn my gaze On a phantom, on a plot of earth, on a faded photograph of great times, I raise Nothing, nearly nothing, no, not nothing, it is the something of a pain that stays Ineradicable and only to be mitigated when I breathe the phrase I loved you. You must know It was truly so, although As clay in clay you cannot catch my thanks, my steadiness, my lateness, my praise.
September 8, 2025 at 10:45 AM
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The summer grows late, cool, ragged, precious.
Clouds like ungainly brooms are sweeping showers across the slates ...

— ‘A Crow’ by #EdwinMorgan, published in Sweeping Out the Dark (Carcanet, 1994)
A Crow The summer grows late, cool, ragged, precious. Clouds like ungainly brooms are sweeping showers across the slates. On a dripping lamp-standard a crow hunches, flaps, hunches. The young painter with his ring of white sings as he hops in and out of the rain. The sun bursts what it has been saving so suddenly, so brilliantly, we are smiling. It is August still. The leaves hang fast and glisten. If there were no seasons, who would be singing? If there was no weather, who would be painting? If there was no earth turning, we darkly, partly think, no crow would have a lawn to stamp on or Aristarchus any globe to dandle. As not to be born is worst – a crow will tell you, a worm will tell you – not to be created crosses galaxies like a shadow of horror. But created they are; born, I and the painter; really wet ruffled shiny black half-happy the feathers of the raucous-hearted clatterer.
August 25, 2025 at 12:15 PM
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“Oh I can’t speak
of that eternal break of white, only of
memories crowding in from human kind ...”

Remembering dear Edwin Morgan, who died on this day, fifteen years ago.

—portrait of Edwin Morgan (1980) by Alexander Moffat
—‘100’ from The New Divan, publ. in Collected Poems (Carcanet, 1990)
100 The dead climb with us like the living to the edge. The clouds sail and the air’s washed blue. For you and me, the life beyond that sages mention is this life on a crag above a line of breakers. Oh I can’t speak of that eternal break of white, only of memories crowding in from human kind, stealthily, brazenly, thankfully, stonily into that other sea-cave of my head. Down where the breaker was closes, darkens, rises, foams, closes; crates drift across, whirl round in the ghost of a gale; a shred of sailcloth relic of a gale that really blew slews to the resting-place the long tide goes out to leave it, bleaching on its bony rock. I pick it from the stone, Hafiz, to bind the leaves of my divan.
August 19, 2025 at 8:42 AM
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Tonight! Join us at Edinburgh Book Festival for a very special event, where Colin Bramwell, Ellen McAteer, and Gregory Woods will be joined by Ishbel McFarlane to discuss poetry, queerness, translation, and freedom 💚

www.edbookfest.co.uk/the-festival...
August 17, 2025 at 9:33 AM
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Keep at them, ladies. This is a feast.
This is a midsummer night’s dream...

— ‘Midge’ by #EdwinMorgan, published here in Edwin Morgan Twenties: Menagerie (Polygon, 2020) ☀️🪰
Midge The evening is perfect, my sisters, The loch lies silent, the air is still, The sun’s last rays linger over the water and there is faint smirr, almost a smudge of summer rain. Sisters, I smell supper, and what is more perfect than supper? It is emerging from the wood, in twos and threes, a dozen in all, making such a chatter and a clatter as it reaches the rocky shore, admiring the arrangements of the light. See the innocents, my sisters, the clumsy ones, the laughing ones, the rolled-up sleeves and the flapping shorts, there is even a kilt (god of the midges, you are god to us!) So gather your forces, leave your tree-trunks, forsake the rushes to the sweet flesh of face and forearm. Think of your eggs. What does the egg need? Blood, and blood. Blood is what the egg needs. Our men have done their bit, they’ve gone, it was all they were good for, poor dears. Now it is up to us. The egg is quietly screaming for supper, blood, supper, blood, supper! Attack, my little Draculas, my Amazons! look at those flailing arms and stamping feet. They’re running, swatting, swearing, oh they’re hopeless. Keep at them, ladies. This is a feast. This is a midsummer night’s dream. Soon we shall all lie down filled and rich, and lay, and lay, and lay, and lay.
July 9, 2025 at 1:20 PM
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We are currently seeking new Trustees, as well as members to join the EMT Advisory Group. If you’re passionate about supporting the development of Scottish poetry and translation and want to help shape the future of the EMT, we would love to hear from you! ⬇️

edwinmorgantrust.com/news/
June 27, 2025 at 1:36 PM
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... It is midsummer
and till my voice broke, 𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨
I loved to sing ...

☀️

Edwin Morgan on the melancholy of #midsummer, and remembering those you love.

— ‘Fires’, published in Centenary Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2020)
June 24, 2025 at 11:13 AM
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Unfortunately for Eddie, ‘For the International Poetry Incarnation’ (published in The Second Life, 1968) ended up being his only contribution to that particular revolution – the not-so-rocknroll world of university degree-marking prevented him from attending.
June 11, 2025 at 2:27 PM
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Described as the Woodstock of the poetry world, it was a defining event of the British countercultural movement – a moment when poetry leapt from the page to the stage. 7000+ people gathered to watch performances from the likes of Allen Ginsberg, Alexander Trocchi, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
June 11, 2025 at 2:26 PM
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Spacebreaker! Wildship! Starman! ... take poets on your voyages! 🚀

Edwin Morgan’s poem written for the International Poetry Incarnation, which took place at the Royal Albert Hall 60 years ago today. (1/3)
June 11, 2025 at 2:24 PM
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We are on a corner, of course we are,
then in an alley, smooching. He talks
of the desert, distant rivers, Greekery,
the absolutes I will always fail to claim...

—‘Kissing Edwin Morgan’ by Roddy Lumsden (1966–2020), born #OTD 28 May. From Roddy’s final collection, So Glad I’m Me (Bloodaxe, 2017)
Kissing Edwin Morgan seems uncanny because he is gay and I am straight and because the day is especially cold. A hungry kisser, kissing him brings out the hive that is him. A hive, are you with me? Grey buildings. Check. Difficulties? Check. I’m wrong for him, loose boy. We are on a corner, of course we are, then in an alley smooching. He talks of the desert, distant rivers, Greekery, the absolutes I will always fail to claim. I smooth him. Rats run the terrace we are dallying on. He nods, says yes. To whatever. I hug him. Of course I do. Love limits us, over, over, specialising in this twisted limb of science. A bus passes and we both wave to the world, its merry passengers, its dour chance. I have a train or plane to catch, I pat his perfect shoulder, say farewell. And then it is the night, alone. Night, the second best escape; walk, walk in a heavy coat. Maybe the future needs you.
May 28, 2025 at 10:28 AM
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the window open
the door open
coffee on the stove
the garden all
one song of blackbirds

🐦‍⬛🌼
— ‘Blackbird Marigolds’ by Edwin Morgan, published in Collected Poems (Carcanet, 1990)
May 22, 2025 at 10:11 AM
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a bizzzzzinbusy poem for #WorldBeeDay🐝 



— ‘Bees’ Nest’ by Edwin Morgan, published in The Second Life (EUP, 1968)
May 20, 2025 at 12:15 PM
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Edwin Morgan’s translation of ‘Maiskaya pesenka’ by Vladimir Mayakovsky for #MayDay – published in Collected Translations (Carcanet, 1996)
May Day (a wee sang for laddies and lassies) Leafikie leafikie green! We ken the winter’s awa. Lat’s gang whaur the swire’s as bricht’s a preen, me and you and us an aa. Luik at the spring, hingin her washin owre the schaw. We’se gang and rin, rinnin and singin, ying, singin, springin an aa. A lowe on the paper the-day! A lowe on the sheets by the waa! Lat’s carry a lowe mair rid nor thae – flaggies and banners and streamers an aa. Lauchin the spring skelps through the streets as bricht’s a baa. We’se gang richt furrit like sojers noo – you and me and us an aa.
May 1, 2025 at 9:57 AM
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Happy birthday dear Edwin ❤️

— ‘At Eighty’, which EM wrote for the occasion of his 80th birthday, 25 years ago. Published in Cathures (Carcanet, 2002) 🎂
At Eighty Push the boat out, compañeros, push the boat out, whatever the sea. Who says we cannot guide ourselves through the boiling reefs, black as they are, the enemy of us all makes sure of it! Mariners, keep good watch always for that last passage of blue water we have heard of and long to reach (no matter if we cannot, no matter!) in our eighty-year-old timbers leaky and patched as they are but sweet well seasoned with the scent of woods long perished, serviceable still in unarrested pungency of salt and blistering sunlight. Out, push it all out into the unknown! Unknown is best, it beckons best, like distant ships in mist, or bells clanging ruthless from stormy buoys.
April 27, 2025 at 4:43 PM
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Happy #WorldArtDay!

In 2005, Salvador Dalí’s ‘Christ of St John of the Cross’ was voted Scotland’s favourite painting held in a Scottish public collection.

— ‘Christ of St John of the Cross’ by #EdwinMorgan, publ. in Beyond the Sun: Scotland’s Favourite Paintings (Luath Press, 2007).
Christ of St John of the Cross Salvador Dalí It is not of this world, and yet it is, And that is how it should be. Strong light hits back and the arms Coming from where we cannot see, Ought not to see, another dimension For another time. At this time, we Share the life of bay and boat With simply painted fishermen Who give no Amen Even if clouds both apocalyptic and real Made them look up and feel What they had to feel Of shattering amazement, fear, Protection, and a wash of glory. Was it an end coming near? Was it a beginning coming near? What happened to the thorns and blood and sweat? What happened to the hands like claws the whipcord muscles? Has the artist never seen Grünewald? ‘I have to tell you John of the cross called, Said to remind you light and death once met.’
April 15, 2025 at 11:40 AM
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How often will I think of you, until
our dying steps forget this light, forget
that we ever knew the happy glen,
or that I ever said, We must jump into the sun,
and we jumped into the sun.

— ‘From a City Balcony’ by #EdwinMorgan, published in Centenary Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2020) ☀️
How often when I think of you the day grows bright! Our silent love wanders in Glen Fruin with the butterflies and cuckoos – bring me the drowsy country thing! Let it drift above the traffic by the open window with a cloud of witnesses – a sparkling burn, white lambs, the blaze of gorse, the cuckoos calling madly, the real white clouds over us, white butterflies about your hand in the short hot grass, and then the witness was my hand closing on yours, again and again till you sighed and turned for love. Your breast and thighs were blazing like the gorse. I covered your great fire in silence there. We let the day grow old along the grass. It was in the silence the love was. Footsteps and witnesses! In this Glasgow balcony who pours such joy like mountain water? It brims, it spills over and over down to the parched earth and the relentless wheels. How often will I think of you, until our dying steps forget this light, forget that we ever knew the happy glen, or that I ever said, We must jump into the sun, and we jumped into the sun.
March 28, 2025 at 11:49 AM
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Happy #WorldPoetryDay! 🌏
Why is poetry important to me? It is a very ancient art which has gone through many metamorphoses but survives because of its power to move people's emotions in unexpected ways. A good poem delivers first surprise – 'I've never seen those words brought together like that before' – and then assent, which may give joy or sadness but above all a sense of satisfaction and finality – no other way of putting it would do. And the poem has a strange means of retaining its power, despite the loss of surprise, so that even if you revisit it years later it can still catch your heart. Is it good for you? Is it good for society? Without offering proof, I'd give a yes to both questions.
March 21, 2025 at 11:22 AM