Robert Burns is a Bin in Queen’s Park

by D Caldwell

Robert Burns is a bin in Queen’s Park. Really. He stands there day and night, whatever the weather, just beside the Langside Avenue entry, in the so-called Garden of Poets. I say so-called because I’ve never actually heard of any of the other people whose names and dates are embossed into numerous concrete paving stones throughout this so-called garden. I’m not saying that they weren’t poets, but I’ve never heard of them, so I can’t be sure. And it must be said as well that calling it a garden feels a bit off too, but that’s what it says on the sign. When really it’s more like a half-arsed maze. A so-called maze, if you will. But they call it a garden, so we’ll call it a garden. And really that’s not the point here, the point is that Robert Burns is a bin. Robert Burns is a bin in Queen’s Park, and not just anywhere in Queen’s Park, Robert Burns is a bin in the Queen’s Park Scottish Garden of Poets. What a strange way to honour your most famous writer. I can’t quite get my head around it to be honest. At some point during the planning, when they were shelling out God knows how many thousands of pounds on paving stones and hedging, someone must have said something. Surely someone must have at least thought to themself, Robert Burns? On a bin? All these paving stones with all of these names of all these people I’ve never heard of and we’re giving Robert Burns a plaque on a bin? Or perhaps he was an afterthought. Perhaps by some oversight trying to find enough Scottish poets to fill this so-called garden with they forgot about the only one anyone’s ever heard of. So after burning through their budget they had to get a plaque made on the cheap and screw it into a bin.

Anyway, when I first noticed the plaque I did one of those nose laughs and said to myself, Robert Burns is a bin in Queen’s Park. Then I thought of The Fall lyric about Queen Victoria being a slug in Piccadilly Gardens. I used to pass the statue Mark E. Smith dubbed the slug quite often when I lived in Manchester, and I’d always say to myself that Queen Victoria is a slug in Piccadilly Gardens. Much like I did when I first saw Robert. I did a nose laugh, took a picture, and sent it to my friend, saying that Robert Burns is a bin in Queen’s Park. Only when I got home I found myself compelled to look at the picture and say to myself, Robert Burns is a bin in Queen’s Park. I probably did this three or four times that night. It was just so silly. A bin. Of all the things they could have gone with they memorialised him with a bin.

This went on for a few days. I’d be working, or reading, sometimes I’d even be sat on the toilet, and before I knew it I’d have opened the photos file on my phone and be looking at the picture, saying to myself that Robert Burns is a bin in Queen’s Park. Only soon looking at the photo wasn’t enough. After about a week I found myself compelled to go and see him in person. So I did. I walked up the street, onto Battlefield road, past the mechanics and down the hill onto Langside Ave, where I sauntered through the park gates to pay Robert a visit.

I think this has been going on for about a year now. Pretty much as long as I’ve been living in Glasgow. Robert was actually one of the first friends I made here. He’s an excellent listener. And every now and then he even reads a story I’m working on and gives me a bit of feedback. But I don’t like to hassle him about it. You see, I know what it’s like to have friends make you read their work. It’s awful. But it’s not like that with Robbie. We’re close friends now. We even call each other by our nicknames. After a while Robert just felt too formal. I can’t have lunch with you every day and keep calling you Robert, I said to him, especially when people who’ve never even met you call you Robbie. And he was fine with it. He’s very understanding, Robbie. He’s nice like that.

We talk about all sorts of things when we’re together. Politics, poetry, the weather. And you know, he’s completely unfazed by spending all of his time outside. In fact, he says he’s even grown to like it. All my life, he says to me, All my life I wanted to connect with nature, and all it took was dying to do so.

Sometimes someone’ll come over to us while we’re having lunch and discard their rubbish inside him. The first few times this happened I lost it. How could you just dump your rubbish inside someone like that, I’d shout, as I removed their detritus from Robbie’s innards. How can you have so little respect, I’d say. Do you know he’s Scotland’s most famous poet? Once I did this to a kid on a bike and he punched me and rode off, so now I keep my anger to myself and just fish their rubbish out of him to discard elsewhere.

Being a bin hasn’t dulled his intellect either. He’s got a biting wit, and he’s fascinated by the modern world. At first he was made uneasy by the sound of all of the cars, he said. Apparently nothing sounded remotely like that back when he had a body. And phones really messed him up too. He couldn’t quite get his head around them at first, he didn’t know what everyone was looking at all the time, but now he’s even thinking of getting a contract with O2.

But of all the confusing elements of the modern world that I have to explain to him, Burns Night confuses him the most. And he didn’t believe me at first. I actually had to read him the Wikipedia article about it. And it’s not that he’s ungrateful, he appreciates it, but I don’t think he thinks he’s worth all the fuss. And you should have heard his reaction when I told him there was a crater on Mercury named after him.

Fucking ridiculous, he said. Jesus, really? A fucking crater?

It’s true, I told him. And they’ve made your house into a museum.

What, the one in Alloway?

Yeah, and the one in Dumfries too. I think they were going for the selling point of you were born in one and died in the other.

Fair enough, he said, but it’s all a bit much, isn’t it? Makes me feel a bit of prat if I’m honest. Someone could be living in them. Putting them to proper use. Not dusting my things to never use them.

He’s made me promise I’ll never visit. Even if he’s removed from the park one day he’s made me swear that I’ll never step foot in any of the houses he lived in. Unless they haven’t been converted into a museum, that is, in which case, apparently, they’re fair game.

On Sundays we have roast beef with all the trimmings. And I’ve finally got roast potatoes just how he likes them. Beef suet, that’s the trick. I used to just use olive oil, or if I felt like shelling out, goose fat. But he told me that something wasn’t right about them. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, and I know he wasn’t lying to protect my feelings, there’s no dishonesty between us, he just missed the ineffable quality of suet. And I must say, I don’t think I’ll ever eat them with goose fat or olive oil again. He’s converted me. Plus I’ve got to show him all sorts of desserts too, which he loves. In fact, there isn’t a dessert that he doesn’t like. And after lunch I read to him. Every now and then he asks for something from when he had a body, or before, you know, the classics, but for the most part he really likes catching up on the last two-hundred years of literature. Modernism fascinates him but it’s pretty hit and miss with regards to what he likes, though he respects the idea. Otherwise he really gets on with some of Thoreau’s work, and he gets a real kick out of Nietzsche too. And you know what, he really likes a bit of Sci-fi.

I’ve tried showing him new music but he doesn’t really go in for much, though he does enjoy something ambient if he’s in the right mood. Technologically speaking he’s amazed. Portable music devices really impress him. But for the most part he likes the silence, he’s become so accustomed to it now, and even when I play him music from when he had a body he struggles to get in to it. I think more than anything it makes him long for his past. Apparently he was a great dancer back when he had legs. Or so he says.

Naturally he misses a drink. So I always make sure to bring him a can of ale when we have lunch. And when we have dinner, which is becoming more regular, we’ll have some wine. Sundays we have some whisky after the roast, and sometimes I’ll bring a flask of coffee for after. He says that of all the things that death has changed, it’s drinking. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it anymore, it’s just different. I think it’s because he doesn’t have any arms. He’s got no agency about him now. And fair enough, really. I can’t imagine how frustrating it would be to have someone pour your own drink into your mouth whenever you feel inclined to take a sip. But I like doing it for him all the same. And even though it’s not like when he had a body, I know he appreciates it; and would much rather put up with having me feed him a cold beer on a hot day, or a sip of whisky in the rain, than go without. After all, what are friends for?

What else do you miss about having a body, I asked him recently.

Walking, he told me.

Fair enough, I said. And it must be pretty annoying being in a park of all places, watching everyone walk by all the time.

Certainly a cruel twist of fate.

I’d try and uproot you from the ground if you weren’t cemented in there. Get a little pull along trailer and take you for a walk around town.

Don’t worry about it, mate. I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with things. Besides, I’d rather be a bin than back in the ground.

What else then?

Sex.

Jesus, Robbie, I said to him. Look, I’m fine with giving you a drink and feeding you roast beef and desserts, but I draw the line there alright. And I wouldn’t feel comfortable paying someone either. I mean, what would I even tell them to do?

Fucking hell I’m not asking or anything. Just being honest is all.

Oh Christ. Thank God for that. I had a horrible image in my head for a second there.

There’s something else too, only it’s not something I miss, but something I wouldn’t miss.

What do you mean?

I’m sick of dogs pissing on me.


We had our photo taken the other day. I set up my phone on a little tripod and used a ten second self-timer. I’m not really one for photos, but it’s come out great. I’ve put it in a simple frame that I keep on top of a bookshelf.

As I was folding the tripod away he asked me if I knew how long he’d been a bin for. At first I thought he was asking it rhetorically so I engaged in a bit of pantomime with him. But he was being genuine. He said he knows it’s been longer than a year, but time has lost all meaning for him without being able to keep track of it. On the spot I couldn’t answer him. I knew that the park was built in the 19th century, but aesthetically Robbie doesn’t look like Victorian handiwork. I told him I’d have to have a look when I got home, which I did, and found on the Glasgow City Council’s website a one page document with a vague history of the park. Apparently the so-called Scottish Garden of Poets was built in the July of 2003 to commemorate the World Rose Convention. And according to this brief and badly formatted document it’s actually called the Scottish Poetry Rose Garden, which not only means that I’ve either been misreading or misremembering what the sign said for all this time, but that I’ve failed to notice the apparently ‘extensive’ collection of roses too. I’m not usually that unobservant, so I’m chalking it up to being distracted by looking at the names of all those poets I don’t know, and being in conversation with Robbie whenever I’m there. But really what gets me the most about it, is that it makes Robert Burns being a bin in Queen’s Park all the more ridiculous. I mean for God’s sake one of his most famous poems is called ‘A Red, Red Rose’! So not only is he Scotland’s most famous poet, but he actually has a poem directly related to the theme of this so-called garden built to commemorate poetry and roses; and knowing that, the council still decided to forego a paving stone like all the other poets and memorialised him with a bin. You’d think given the circumstances they would have gone with a bust or something, maybe even commission a work of art, anything but a bin. Which is not to say I’m ungrateful that they made him a bin, after all, if they hadn’t we wouldn’t have become such great friends. But still, I can’t get my head around it, I’ll never get my head around it. It’s just too good, the sort of thing you can’t write, the sort of thing that only life can serve up. And the irony’s not lost on Robbie, either. He fucking loves it. Serves me right, he says.

I often wonder if there are other poets who are now bins. It strikes me that this isn’t a one off occurrence. And if there are other poets who no longer spend their days rotting, where are they? And who’s made the lifestyle change? And is it just limited to poets? And then, of course, are they all bins? Surely there’s variety to this phenomena, and if there isn’t, why has the bin been singled out? Personally I can see Beckett coming back as the Samuel Beckett Bridge in Dublin. Seems rather fitting I reckon. Being walked on all day tows that tragicomic line between punishing and useful that so much of his work fell between. And of course he hated Dublin too, or at least preferred Paris at war to Ireland at peace, so there’s that extra layer that I’m sure he’d relish. Then what about Jane Austen? My parents used to live near one of the houses she’d lived in; which, much like Robbie’s, has been kept in an eerie state of living death. Anyway, my Mum was really taken by the place, and Jane in particular, though she doesn’t actually enjoy her books. But that didn’t stop her donating some money to the repair of the Jane Austen house roof. So I like to think that perhaps Jane Austen is a roof tile in Chawton. And perhaps Mark E. Smith came back as a cigarette someone smoked in his name. So now perhaps Mark E. Smith is a fag end in a Stockport ashtray, or a bag of speed and a can of lager in someone’s bloodstream. I’m sure he’d be quite happy as any one of those.

Sometimes I wonder what I might come back as. If I’d come back that is. A few minor publications and no readership doesn’t seem to nominate me for inanimate reincarnation. Robbie, however, remains supportive. He said if he could get about he’d put me in touch with his publisher, not that he can be sure his company’s still around. But he said that if it was he’d put in a good word for me. Unfortunately it isn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. Still, he likes to joke around that I’d come back as a shoe. Which implies that someone would have to make a shoe in memory of me, which he accepts is strange, but then, no stranger than being a bin. And, he said, at least it’ll let me see a bit more of the world than he can.

The closer we become the more anxious I get thinking that one day I could turn up and the council have removed him. Honestly I try not to think about it all that much, but I can’t help it, so I’m trying to get in touch with the right people to arrange for them to give me him if they ever decide to change things up in the so-called garden of poets. I’m just hoping that I can make sure that happens, because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him. But in the mean time, if you’re ever walking through Queen’s Park and you see us having a meal, or you’re having a particularly lonesome Sunday, feel free to pop over and say hello.