Today (now yesterday) we went to an amazing place: Cramond, a seaside village outside of Edinburgh. There, we walked to Cramond Island, which can only be reached during low tide.
Unfortunately Thankfully, we were not stranded on the island where we would meet some reclusive Highlander who had come to the island because there was a price on his head . . . nope, that didn’t happen even a little bit. But it was still beautiful and amazing. And after our trek, sea-sprayed and sandy and quite chilled, we stumbled into the Cramond Inn, where we had drinks and overheard the bartender, who was, like, fourteen, tell another patron that the place had been a pub for 400 years, and that the building was even older. Yowza.
Anyhoo, befuddled by (one) drink (each) and sea-fresh air, we composed the following ridiculous poem as an ode to our Scotland trip so far. We traded off line by line until we simply needed to stop and buy salt and vinegar crisps so we could make it to the bus back to Edinburgh. So, here you go. We’ll be back with more actual book-related things soon. If you feel like you want to nominate this poem for a Nobel prize or something, we don’t mind. Really, we’re just in it for the art.
An Exquisite Corpse Style Poem from a 400 Year Old Inn in Cramond, Scotland,
by Tessa and RebeccaDown the close, the cracks get smaller, crazes cleaving like cauliflower. If our muscles with bubbles were carbonated, we’d float up ourselves, kilted & wig-pated. A beer, a cider, a winter beach or the terror of some long walled-up creature? Old men’s speech like moss ribbons curled up on themselves, clods dropping off the bottom when their laughs unfurl. The tide comes in, the gulls all cotton, but all I see is a muddy dog-bottom. If we’re wet, we’ll shake ourselves free of it ’til we’re all dog-sweat and a double dog body branch to signify the tree of it. Where’s your shuffle? The muscle now barnacle-striated, young pip-pip birds turn their heads without knowing how they were created. On a tie-dyed winter crumble beach that high nor low tide ever reaches. The bus turns to the side, promising a crunch. You can’t see the front, don’t know what’s open for lunch. But don’t retreat, don’t have a panic, it has blown you oceanic.
Then, Tessa drew a picture of her current hero, James Boswell, whose diaries she’s obsessed with. I thought he looked like he needed to be wearing daisypants, so I added some daisies to his pants:
After that piece of literary history was composed, we went to catch the bus back to Edinburgh and met the biggest cat ever! We named it Cramond (obviously) and pet it a lot.
See you stateside . . .