Jane's Writing Shed.

'Where you start from' new poetry pamphlet launch. Mariscat Press. Friday 8 May, Blackwell's Bookshop, South Bridge, Edinburgh. 6 - 8 pm. My friend, the poet Lindy Barbour is launching her first poetry pamphlet, published by Mariscat Press at Blackwell's Bookshop, South Bridge, Edinburgh from 6-8 pm. This is a joint launch with another poet, Eveline Pye. Tickets are free from Blackwell's shop or by phoning 0131 622 8218 or events.edinburgh@blackwells.co.uk or on Eventbrite. Get along if you can, it will be a great evening!

'Roads to Yair' Some Border poems by Bridget Khursheed. Twinlaw Publishing. 2015. £6.99. The preface tells the reader that a 'yair' is an old Scots word for a fish trap and a quiet spot in Tweeddale where King Malcolm allowed the monks of Kelso to create a pool in which to fish. This feels like a good premise for a first collection as the poet has corralled many enjoyable poems into her yair. I've had the pleasure of hearing Bridget read some of her poems. She's a wonderful raconteur and in this collection she offers the reader a strong sense of place, history, people and the natural world of the Borders. She loves getting her poetical teeth around phrases like " the clatter of coal in clarty carts" (The Clovenfords vineries), "garbage of flesh, crumpled clothes and crows" (Rough Wooing). In these poems Bridget generously offers her knowledge and affection for Border haunts and people with humour and sharp observations. Her poems revea

This poem is a celebration of frogs. The wild life pond is currently jam-packed with frogs and frog spawn. I think it's almost impossible not to smile while frog spotting. Spawning on the Allotment Come Spring and frogs go frolicking in pond weed soup among marigolds, loosestrife, water crowfoot. Plopping, slip-slopping about, singing to each other from a hundred boggy throats and soon from a hundred green and yellow bodies, come a million jellied eggs. Then in the dregs of summer, a yellow frog, a wrinkle of light, disturbed by all the digging, hops from the dark edge of the plot and in the time it takes to blink, disappears.