literature

42d

<p>Today, 28 February, is Scottish Archives Day. Here’s Edwin Morgan’s poem “Archives”, published in Centenary Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2020)</p><p><a href="https://www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781784109967" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781784109967"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/ind</span><span class="invisible">exer?product=9781784109967</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/edwinmorgan/" rel="tag">#EdwinMorgan</a> <a href="/tags/archive/" rel="tag">#archive</a> <a href="/tags/archives/" rel="tag">#archives</a> <a href="/tags/scottisharchivesday/" rel="tag">#ScottishArchivesDay</a></p>

Archives
by Edwin Morgan

generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
g neration up n
g nerat on up n
g nerat n up n
g nerat n p n
g erat n p n
g era n p n
g era n n
g er n n
g r n n
g n n
g n
g

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42d

<p>Such days, when trees run downwind,<br>their arms stretched before them.</p><p>Such days, when the sun’s in a drawer<br>and the drawer locked…</p><p>—Norman MacCaig, “February – not everywhere”<br>from Poems on the Underground</p><p><a href="https://poemsontheunderground.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/01/February-Poems-Leaflet.pdf" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="poemsontheunderground.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/01/February-Poems-Leaflet.pdf"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">poemsontheunderground.org/wp-c</span><span class="invisible">ontent/uploads/2023/01/February-Poems-Leaflet.pdf</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/normanmaccaig/" rel="tag">#NormanMacCaig</a> <a href="/tags/february/" rel="tag">#February</a> <a href="/tags/motherhood/" rel="tag">#motherhood</a></p>

Norman MacCaig
February – not everywhere

Such days, when trees run downwind,
their arms stretched before them.

Such days, when the sun’s in a drawer
and the drawer locked.

When the meadow is dead, is a carpet,
thin and shabby, with no pattern

and at bus stops people retract into collars
their faces like fists.

– And when, in a firelit room, a mother looks
at her four seasons, at her little boy,

in the centre of everything, with still pools
of shadows and a fire throwing flowers.

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20d

<p>The thing about poetry is you have to keep doing it.<br>People have to keep making it.<br>The old stuff is no use<br>Once it’s old…</p><p>—Margaret, Tait, “Now”<br>from Poems, Stories and Writings (Carcanet, 2023)</p><p><a href="https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781800173798/poems-stories-and-writings/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.carcanet.co.uk/9781800173798/poems-stories-and-writings/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.carcanet.co.uk/97818001737</span><span class="invisible">98/poems-stories-and-writings/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/worldpoetryday/" rel="tag">#WorldPoetryDay</a></p>

Now
by Margaret Tait

I used to lie in wait to see the clover open
Or close,
But never saw it.
I was too impatient,
Or the movement is too subtle,
Imperceptible
And more than momentary.
My five-year-old self would tire of waiting
And when I looked again
– All closed for the night!
I missed it
Once more.

Cinematographically
I have registered the opening of escholtzia
On an early summer morning.
It gave me a sharp awareness of time passing,
Of exact qualities and values in the light,
But I didn’t see the movement
As movement.
I didn’t with my own direct perception see the petals
moving.
Later, on the film, they seemed to open swiftly,
But, at the time,
Although I stared
And felt time not so much moving as being moved in
And felt
A unity of time and place with other times and places
Yet
I didn’t see the petals moving.

I didn’t see them opening.
They were closed,
And later they were open,
And in between I noted many phases,
But I didn’t see them moving open.
My timing and my rhythm could not observe the
rhythm of their opening.

The thing about poetry is you have to keep doing it.
People have to keep making it.
The old stuff is no use
Once it’s old.
It comes out of the instant
And lasts for an instant.
Take it now
Quickly
Without water.

There!

Tomorrow they’ll be something else.

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20d

<p>heh Casey did a tell ye a goat<br>a couple a poems published<br>widizthatmean<br>widayyemean<br>dizthatmeanyegetmoneyfurrit…</p><p>—William Letford, “It’s aboot the labour”<br>published in BEVEL (Carcanet, 2012)</p><p><a href="https://www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781847771926" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781847771926"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/ind</span><span class="invisible">exer?product=9781847771926</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/worldpoetryday/" rel="tag">#WorldPoetryDay</a></p>

It’s aboot the labour
by William Letford

hammers nails
hammers nails
hammers nails

heh Casey did a tell ye a goat
a couple a poems published
widizthatmean
widayyemean
dizthatmeanyegetmoneyfurrit

eh naw
aw right

hammers nails
hammers nails
hammers nails

Edited 20d ago

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20d

<p>I found him wandering on the hill<br>one hot blue afternoon.<br>He looked as skinny as a nail,<br>as pale-skinned as the moon…</p><p>—Don Paterson, “The Poetry”<br>published in RAIN (Faber, 2009)</p><p><a href="https://www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571255580-rain/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571255580-rain/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.faber.co.uk/product/978057</span><span class="invisible">1255580-rain/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/worldpoetryday/" rel="tag">#WorldPoetryDay</a></p>

Don Paterson
The Poetry

after Li Po

I found him wandering on the hill
one hot blue afternoon.
He looked as skinny as a nail,
as pale-skinned as the moon;

below the broad shade of his hat
his face was cut with rain.
Dear God, poor Du Fu, I thought:
It’s the poetry again.

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22d

<p><a href="/tags/otd/" rel="tag">#OTD</a> "in 1812, the first two cantos of Lord Byron‘s poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage are published by John Murray in London. Copies sell out in five days, prompting Byron to comment: “I awoke one morning and found myself famous.”"</p><p><a href="https://lithub.com/lit-hub-daily-march-20-2026/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="lithub.com/lit-hub-daily-march-20-2026/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">lithub.com/lit-hub-daily-march</span><span class="invisible">-20-2026/</span></a> </p><p>"Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage" at PG:</p><p><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5131" rel="nofollow"><span class="invisible">https://</span>www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5131</a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a></p>

Prisoner of Chillon - a painting of a man standing next to a cow. Painting by Madox Brown.

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39d

<p>Bookclub: Alan Cumming on Alasdair Gray’s LANARK</p><p>Currently available on BBC Sounds.<br>Recorded at the at the 2026 Pitlochry Winter Words Festival, this special episode of Bookclub celebrates Alasdair Gray’s 1981 masterpiece, LANARK, with the actor Alan Cumming, who is the voice of the new audiobook recently released by <span class="h-card"><a href="https://bookish.community/@canongatebooks" class="u-url mention" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">@<span>canongatebooks</span></a></span> </p><p><a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m002s2yx" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m002s2yx"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m002</span><span class="invisible">s2yx</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/lanark/" rel="tag">#Lanark</a> <a href="/tags/novel/" rel="tag">#novel</a> <a href="/tags/alasdairgray/" rel="tag">#AlasdairGray</a> <a href="/tags/alancumming/" rel="tag">#AlanCumming</a></p>

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7d

<p>A Latin harsh with Aramaicisms<br>poured from his lips incessantly; it made<br>no sense, for surely he was mad…</p><p>—Edwin Morgan, “Pilate at Fortingall”<br>published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)</p><p><a href="https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784109967/centenary-selected-poems/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784109967/centenary-selected-poems/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.carcanet.co.uk/97817841099</span><span class="invisible">67/centenary-selected-poems/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/easter/" rel="tag">#Easter</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/goodfriday/" rel="tag">#GoodFriday</a></p>

Pilate at Fortingall
by Edwin Morgan

A Latin harsh with Aramaicisms
poured from his lips incessantly; it made
no sense, for surely he was mad. The glade
of birches shamed his rags, in paroxysms
he stumbled, toga’d, furred, blear, brittle, grey.
They told us he sat here beneath the yew
even in downpours; ate dog-scraps. Crows flew
from prehistoric stone to stone all day.
“See him now.” He crawled to the cattle-trough
at dusk, jumbled the water till it sloshed
and spilled into the hoof-mush in blue strands,
slapped with useless despair each sodden cuff,
and washed his hands, and watched his hands, and washed
his hands, and watched his hands, and washed his hands.

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25d

<p>On the Genius of Frances Burney, Jane Austen’s Most Important Literary Predecessor</p><p>Natasha Joukovsky Considers Ahead-of-Their-Time Novels Cecilia and Evelina</p><p><a href="https://lithub.com/on-the-genius-of-frances-burney-jane-austens-most-important-literary-predecessor/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="lithub.com/on-the-genius-of-frances-burney-jane-austens-most-important-literary-predecessor/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">lithub.com/on-the-genius-of-fr</span><span class="invisible">ances-burney-jane-austens-most-important-literary-predecessor/</span></a></p><p>Frances Burney at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/2010" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/2010"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/2010</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/literarycriticism/" rel="tag">#literarycriticism</a></p>

Portrait of the future wife of General Alexandre d'Arblay (she did not marry this French émigré until 1793), Frances, also known as “Fanny” Burney (1752–1840), a British writer, painted by her brother.

A half-length portrait, with Frances turned slightly to the left, her gaze directed off-frame. She wears a llarge, elaborate straw hat decorated with ribbons and gauze, a light flowing white dress with a fichu (neck covering) and a pink bow at the chest.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frances_Burney#/media/File:Frances_d'Arblay_('Fanny_Burney')_by_Edward_Francisco_Burney.jpg

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12d

<p>Life, letters & low tide in Shetland: Valda and MacDiarmid</p><p>“Valda is clearly the more practical of the two. It would become apparent that without her at the helm, they were doomed.”</p><p>Shetland offered Hugh MacDiarmid solitude, but it was his wife Valda Trevlyn Grieve who kept life steady. Dr Colin McIlroy of the National Library of Scotland examines the letters of Hugh MacDiarmid & Valda Trevlyn Grieve</p><p><a href="https://www.nls.uk/collections/stories/literature-and-poetry/valda-grieve-and-hugh-macdiarmid/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.nls.uk/collections/stories/literature-and-poetry/valda-grieve-and-hugh-macdiarmid/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.nls.uk/collections/stories</span><span class="invisible">/literature-and-poetry/valda-grieve-and-hugh-macdiarmid/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/modernism/" rel="tag">#modernism</a> <a href="/tags/20thcentury/" rel="tag">#20thcentury</a> <a href="/tags/shetland/" rel="tag">#Shetland</a></p>

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25d

<p>Oops, Typo! A New Exhibition Embraces 500 Years of Printed Mistakes</p><p>The show at Yale Library explores the printing errors, blunders, and gaffes that made literary history.</p><p>by Min Chen</p><p><a href="https://news.artnet.com/art-world/yale-errata-exhibition-2751007" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="news.artnet.com/art-world/yale-errata-exhibition-2751007"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">news.artnet.com/art-world/yale</span><span class="invisible">-errata-exhibition-2751007</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a></p>

A section of a page from the Wicked Bible of 1631.

The notorious typographical error is visible in the highlighted line 14: "Thou shalt commit adultery" — the word "not" was accidentally omitted from the Seventh Commandment, directly inverting its meaning.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Typographical_error#/media/File:Marked_Wicked_bible.jpg

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25d

<p>“The Delusions fizzes with impatience, invention and humour… The values of the afterlife seem delusory, a spectacle managed by shady overlords. As below, so above.”</p><p>—M. John Harrison reviews Jenni Fagan’s new novel THE DELUSIONS, set in a failing anteroom to eternity – “a cross between Heathrow security the day before Christmas and a job centre on a damp Monday somewhere in Wolverhampton”</p><p>@bookstodon </p><p><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2026/mar/17/the-delusions-by-jenni-fagan-review-an-afterlife-of-queues-and-bureaucracy" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.theguardian.com/books/2026/mar/17/the-delusions-by-jenni-fagan-review-an-afterlife-of-queues-and-bureaucracy"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.theguardian.com/books/2026</span><span class="invisible">/mar/17/the-delusions-by-jenni-fagan-review-an-afterlife-of-queues-and-bureaucracy</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/novel/" rel="tag">#novel</a> <a href="/tags/satire/" rel="tag">#satire</a> <a href="/tags/fantasy/" rel="tag">#fantasy</a> <a href="/tags/afterlife/" rel="tag">#afterlife</a></p>

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25d

<p>Happy St Patrick’s Day! </p><p>Ireland & Scotland: Cultural Intersections Across the Irish Sea</p><p>Issue 33 of Litteraria Pragensia: Studies in Literature and Culture explores some of the literary traffic between 🇮🇪 & 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 in the 20th & 21st centuries</p><p>@litstudies </p><p><a href="https://litterariapragensia.ff.cuni.cz/magazin/2023-33-65/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="litterariapragensia.ff.cuni.cz/magazin/2023-33-65/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">litterariapragensia.ff.cuni.cz</span><span class="invisible">/magazin/2023-33-65/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scotland/" rel="tag">#Scotland</a> <a href="/tags/ireland/" rel="tag">#Ireland</a> <a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/irish/" rel="tag">#Irish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/culture/" rel="tag">#culture</a> <a href="/tags/culturalexchange/" rel="tag">#culturalexchange</a> <a href="/tags/stpatricksday/" rel="tag">#StPatricksDay</a></p>

Ireland and Scotland: Cultural Intersections Across the Irish Sea

Introduction: Cultural Intersections Across the Irish Sea
Petra Johana Poncarová and Radvan Markus, p. 1-7

Principles and Curses: The Honourable Ruaraidh Erskine of Mar and Some Irish Connections
Gerard Cairns, p. 8-24

Derick Thomson and Ireland
Petra Johana Poncarová, p. 25-44

A Mirror to Ireland: Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s Articles about Scotland
Radvan Markus, p. 44-61

Dáimh le hAlbain?: Depictions of Scotland in Twentieth-Century Irish-Language Prose
Caoimhe Nic Lochlainn, p. 62-84

Modernising the Islands: Irish and Scottish Gaelic Fictions
Alan Titley, p. 85-100

On Irish Poets Writing in Scotland
Peter Mackay, p. 101-123

“What Horrors Worse Than These?”: Childhood and Adolescence in Catholic Glasgow
Christopher Whyte, p. 124-139

Notes on Contributors
p. 140-142

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25d

<p>The Book of Kells: Was it made in Easter Ross?<br>25 March, Sabhal Mòr Ostaig, Skye & online: free</p><p>The Book of Kells is often called the world’s most famous manuscript, but its origins are shrouded in mystery. Dr Victoria Whitworth challenges the consensus that the Book was made in the island of Iona, making a case instead for the Pictish monastery of Portmahomack.</p><p><a href="https://www.smo.uhi.ac.uk/seiminear-rannsachaidh-dr-victoria-whitworth/?lang=en" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.smo.uhi.ac.uk/seiminear-rannsachaidh-dr-victoria-whitworth/?lang=en"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.smo.uhi.ac.uk/seiminear-ra</span><span class="invisible">nnsachaidh-dr-victoria-whitworth/?lang=en</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/irish/" rel="tag">#Irish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/earlymedieval/" rel="tag">#earlymedieval</a> <a href="/tags/arthistory/" rel="tag">#arthistory</a> <a href="/tags/bookhistory/" rel="tag">#bookhistory</a> <a href="/tags/bookofkells/" rel="tag">#BookofKells</a> <a href="/tags/celticstudies/" rel="tag">#CelticStudies</a></p>

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10d

<p>Short Works: My Favourite Holobiont by Ever Dundas</p><p>Currently on BBC Sounds: in Ever Dundas’s new original story, Joe’s aunt gives a meaningful insight into their experiences with autism in a world built for neurotypicals </p><p><a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m002t2l2" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m002t2l2"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m002t</span><span class="invisible">2l2</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/shortstory/" rel="tag">#shortstory</a> <a href="/tags/shortfiction/" rel="tag">#shortfiction</a> <a href="/tags/autism/" rel="tag">#autism</a> <a href="/tags/neurodivergent/" rel="tag">#neurodivergent</a></p>

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25d

<p>“Joyce considered how the ‘sister’ nations Ireland & Scotland might be linked through similar philosophical traditions, MacDiarmid saw modern Irish cultural & political developments as a source of inspiration for Scotland, & Heaney turned to the Buile Suibhne story as a way of stressing cultural commonalities”</p><p>Late Celticism in Irish & Scottish literature: binding ties</p><p>@litstudies </p><p><a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/2023/06/14/late-celticism-in-irish-and-scottish-literature-binding-ties/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/2023/06/14/late-celticism-in-irish-and-scottish-literature-binding-ties/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.irishtimes.com/culture/boo</span><span class="invisible">ks/2023/06/14/late-celticism-in-irish-and-scottish-literature-binding-ties/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scotland/" rel="tag">#Scotland</a> <a href="/tags/ireland/" rel="tag">#Ireland</a> <a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/irish/" rel="tag">#Irish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/culture/" rel="tag">#culture</a> <a href="/tags/celticstudies/" rel="tag">#CelticStudies</a> <a href="/tags/20thcentury/" rel="tag">#20thcentury</a></p>

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21d

<p>A’ bheinn luiseanach fhailleanach<br>Mheallanach lìontach,<br>Gun choimeas dh’ a fallaing<br>Air thalamh na Crìosdachd…</p><p>—“Moladh Beinn Dòbhrain”, by Donnchadh Bàn Mac an t-Saoir (Duncan Ban MacIntyre, 1724–1812), one of the greatest <a href="/tags/gaelic/" rel="tag">#Gaelic</a> poets of the <a href="/tags/c18th/" rel="tag">#C18th</a> – born <a href="/tags/otd/" rel="tag">#OTD</a>, 20 March</p><p>A 🎂 🧵</p><p>1/5</p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/gaidhlig/" rel="tag">#Gaidhlig</a> <a href="/tags/gaelic/" rel="tag">#Gaelic</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/18thcentury/" rel="tag">#18thcentury</a></p>

Moladh Beinn Dòbhrain (earrann)
Donnchadh Bàn Mac an t-Saoir

4. Siubhal
A’ bheinn luiseanach fhailleanach
Mheallanach lìontach,
Gun choimeas dh’ a fallaing
Air thalamh na Crìosdachd:

’S ro-neònach tha mise,
Le bòidhchead a sliosa,
Nach ’eil còir aic’ an ciste
Air tiotal na rìoghachd;

’S i air dùbladh le gibhtibh,
’S air lùisreadh le miosaibh
Nach ’eil bitheant a’ bristeadh
Air phriseanaibh tìre.

Làn-trusgan gun deireas,
Le usgraichean coille,
Bàrr-guc air gach doire,
Gun choir’ ort r’ a ìnnseadh;

Far an uchdardach coileach,
Le shriutaichibh loinneil,
’S eoin bhuchallach bheag’ eile
Le ’n ceileiribh lìonmhor.

’S am buicean beag sgiolta,
Bu sgiobalt air grìne,
Gun sgiorradh gun tubaist,
Gun tuisleadh gun dìobradh;

Crodhanadh biorach,
Feadh coire ’ga shireadh,
Feadh fraoich agus firich,
Air mhireadh ’ga dhìreadh;
Feadh rainich is barraich
Gum b’arraideach inntinn;

Ann an ìosal gach feadain,
’S air àirde gach creagain,
Gu mireanach beiceasach
Easgannach sìnteach.

’N uair a théid e ’na bhoile
Le clisge ’sa’ choille,
’S e ruith feadh gach doire,
Air dheireadh cha bhì e;
Leis an eangaig bu chaoile
’S e b’ aotruime sìnteag,

Mu chnocanaibh donna
Le ruith dara-tomain,
’S e togairt an coinneamh
Bean-chomuinn os n-ìosal.

Tha mhaoisleach bheag bhrangach
’Sa’ ghleannan a chòmhnaidh,
’S i fuireach ’san fhireach
Le minneanan òga:
Cluas bhiorach gu claisteachd,
Sùil chorrach gu faicinn,
’S i earbsach ’na casaibh
Chur seachad na mòintich.

Ged thig Caoilte ’s Cù Chulainn,
’S gach duine de ’n t-seòrs’ ud,
Na tha dhaoine ’s a dh’ eachaibh,
Air fasdadh Rìgh Deòrsa,

Nan tèarnadh a craiceann
O luaidhe ’s o lasair,
Cha chual’ is chan fhac’ i
Na ghlacadh r’a beò i;
’S i gradcharach fadchasach
Aigeannach neònach

Gealcheireach gasganach,
Gealtach roimh mhadadh,
Air chaisead na leacainn
Cha saltradh i còmhnard;
’S i noigeanach gnoigeasach
Gogcheannach sòrnach,

Biorshuileach sgurshuileach
Frionasach furachair,
A’ fuireach ’s a’ mhunadh,
An do thuinich a seòrsa.

Praise of Ben Dorain (extract)
Duncan Ban MacIntyre
(Translated by Iain Crichton Smith)

4. Siubhal
Luxuriant mountain
sprouting and knolled
more healthy and cloudless
than all hills in the world.

How long my obsession!
My song and my passion!
She’s the first in the nation
for grace and for beauty.

Her gifts are so many,
her fruits are so bonny,
and rarer than any
her bushes and leafage

in flawless green raiment
as bright as the diamond
your blooms in agreement
like elegant music.

The cock with his vital
and rapid recital,
colourful, brutal,
among the small birds.

The buck small and nimble
quick on the green
neat as a thimble –
a clever machine!

Bright-hooved in the weather,
as light as a feather,
among moorland and heather
exploring the corrie
he saunters forever
through bracken and story

along by each river
on the height of each hillock
playful and vivid
eel-like, elusive.

When he’s startled to motion
he’s as swift as your vision
with speed and precision
he speeds through each forest
without seeming exertion
he’s nearest, then furthest!

In the autumn-hued landscape
he skips in his gallop
each second brown hillock
as he’s greeting his sweetheart.

His small doe is dwelling
with the fawns in a corrie:
sullen and snarling
she guards them with fury:
sharp ear cocked for hearing,
quick eye ever peering,
she relies on the veering
quick tricks of her motion.

Though Caoilt and Cuchulain
are expert and nimble
and every battalion
King George can assemble

if the flash and the bullet
would leave her unsullied
no man on this planet
would catch her or find her:
just like the minute and brilliant cinder.

White-tailed and lightning-like
though hunting dogs can frighten her –
steep though the height to her
you’ll not see her blunder.
Haughty and spritely she’s
a head-tossing wonder!

sharp-eyed, disdainful,
restless and wary,
her home is the corrie
along with her neighbours.

Edited 21d ago

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39d

<p>Becoming George by Fiona Sampson review – the remarkable story of a cross-dressing 19th century novelist</p><p>A reappraisal of one of literature’s most sensational personalities, the author of more than 70 books</p><p>by Anthony Cummins</p><p><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2026/mar/02/becoming-george-by-fiona-sampson-review-the-remarkable-story-of-a-cross-dressing-19th-century-novelist" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.theguardian.com/books/2026/mar/02/becoming-george-by-fiona-sampson-review-the-remarkable-story-of-a-cross-dressing-19th-century-novelist"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.theguardian.com/books/2026</span><span class="invisible">/mar/02/becoming-george-by-fiona-sampson-review-the-remarkable-story-of-a-cross-dressing-19th-century-novelist</span></a></p><p>George Sand at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/851" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/851"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/autho</span><span class="invisible">r/851</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/womenhistorymonth/" rel="tag">#WomenHistoryMonth</a></p>

The novelist George Sand is photographed by Nadar, who takes a series of pictures of the writer in March 1864.

Sand has dark, tightly curled hair pinned up, and wears drop earrings. Her expression is calm and self-possessed. She is dressed in a wide-sleeved striped cape or mantle with dark trim over a dark high-necked blouse.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Sand#/media/File:George_Sand_by_Nadar,_1864.jpg

Edited 39d ago

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38d

<p>“I can’t begin to convey to you the power of Lindsay’s vision; I found it overwhelming when I first read the book, thirty years ago, & I’ve seldom seen its equal outside Blake.”<br>—Philip Pullman</p><p>David Lindsay (1876–1945) was born <a href="/tags/otd/" rel="tag">#OTD</a>, 3 March – author of A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS & other weird works</p><p>A 🎂 🧵</p><p>@bookstodon </p><p>1/4</p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/sciencefiction/" rel="tag">#ScienceFiction</a> <a href="/tags/fantasy/" rel="tag">#fantasy</a> <a href="/tags/metaphysics/" rel="tag">#metaphysics</a> <a href="/tags/20thcentury/" rel="tag">#20thCentury</a> <a href="/tags/cultfiction/" rel="tag">#cultfiction</a></p>

A battered paperback book cover, spread out to show front, back, and spine. The book title is A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS, by David Lindsay. A puff quote reads, “One of the most brilliant flights of pure fantasy ever recorded” – London Times.

The cover shows a dark purple-black cliff-face. In front of it, from the back to the front cover, a slender dragonish creature coils. It has multiple green wings, and is covered in multi-hued scales: blue and blue-green on top, and yellow and orange beneath. Two slim, androgynous figures are mounted on the dragon's back. Both are dressed in loose robes. The leading figure sits upright, holding reins and directing the dragon; they are wearing a large, flowing red headdress. The figure behind is darker, with their arms wrapped around the leading figure's chest, and their head resting on the other's shoulder.

Edited 38d ago

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38d

<p>Walking in a waking dream<br>I watched nineteen deer<br>pour from ridge to glen-floor,<br>then each in turn leap,<br>leap the new-raised<br>peat-dark burn…</p><p>—Kathleen Jamie, “The Hinds”<br>published in THE BONNIEST COMPANIE (Picador, 2015)</p><p>Today, 3 March, is World Wildlife Day.</p><p><a href="https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/kathleen-jamie/the-bonniest-companie/9781509801718" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.panmacmillan.com/authors/kathleen-jamie/the-bonniest-companie/9781509801718"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.panmacmillan.com/authors/k</span><span class="invisible">athleen-jamie/the-bonniest-companie/9781509801718</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/worldwildlifeday/" rel="tag">#WorldWildlifeDay</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/deer/" rel="tag">#deer</a></p>

The Hinds
Kathleen Jamie

Walking in a waking dream
I watched nineteen deer
pour from ridge to glen-floor,
then each in turn leap,
leap the new-raised
peat-dark burn. This
was the distaff side;
hinds at their ease, alive
to lands held on long lease
in their animal minds,
and filing through a breach
in a never-mended dyke,
the herd flowed up over
heather-slopes to scree
where they stopped, and turned to stare,
the foremost with a queenly air
as though to say: Aren’t we
the bonniest companie?
Come to me,
you’ll be happy, but never go home.

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38d

<p>Today,<br>on our journey home,<br>we saw</p><p>a buzzard<br>making a kill<br>on the roadside verge…</p><p>—John Burnside, “Wild”<br>Published in THE THING THAT MATTERED MOST: Scottish poems for children, <span class="h-card"><a href="https://mastodon.scot/@scottishpoetrylibrary" class="u-url mention" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">@<span>scottishpoetrylibrary</span></a></span> / B&W, 2006</p><p>Today, 3 March, is World Wildlife Day.</p><p><a href="https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/wild/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/wild/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.</span><span class="invisible">uk/poem/wild/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/worldwildlifeday/" rel="tag">#WorldWildlifeDay</a></p>

Wild
John Burnside

Today,
on our journey home,
we saw

a buzzard
making a kill
on the roadside verge.

It glided across
our windscreen
and hunkered down

on something –
we couldn’t see
what it was – as the wings

folded around
what Lucas called
‘the prey’.

He wanted to know
if buzzards took children,
or cats;

then,
as we slowed to look,
he chose to admire

the plumage
and the fierce light
of its eye.

Edited 38d ago

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38d

<p>Tha a’ chlosach air ragachadh<br>mar gun robh e a’ snàmh,<br>spliadh is ceann air an togail,<br>sùil is bian<br>a’ deàrrsadh mar umha…</p><p>—Meg Bateman, “Dòbhran Marbh”<br>Published in THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF SCOTTISH VERSE, @canongate.co.uk 2021 </p><p>Today, 3 March, is World Wildlife Day</p><p><a href="https://canongate.co.uk/books/3267-the-golden-treasury-of-scottish-verse/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="canongate.co.uk/books/3267-the-golden-treasury-of-scottish-verse/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">canongate.co.uk/books/3267-the</span><span class="invisible">-golden-treasury-of-scottish-verse/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/gaidhlig/" rel="tag">#Gaidhlig</a> <a href="/tags/gaelic/" rel="tag">#Gaelic</a> <a href="/tags/worldwildlifeday/" rel="tag">#WorldWildlifeDay</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a></p>

Dòbhran Marbh
Meg Bateman

Tha a’ chlosach air ragachadh
mar gun robh e a’ snàmh,
spliadh is ceann air an togail,
sùil is bian
a’ deàrrsadh mar umha.

Tionndaidhidh mi air falbh,
air mo nàrachadh ro mheatair de
dhòbhran fom sgrùdadh,
is am bàs air biast cho falbhach
a ghlacadh.

Air ulbhaig, làrach fhuilteach
a chuinnlean; os a cionn,
sgeilp a’ stobadh a-mach
de riasg ’s de fhraoch
far an do thuit e

An comhair a chinn dha na creagan foidhe,
far an laigh e san dubhar mar chloich eile,
a shròn air a pronnadh, gaoisid na fhiaclan,
air a chùlaibh, a shaobhaidh, ùrail, gorm,
mun cuairt air sa bhruach, dàil-chuach is seòbhrach.

Sìnidh mo làmh gu grad thuige
’s mi a’ tuigsinn gun deach a nàdar
ceàrr air an drip an earraich,
gun rachadh an dòbhran mòrail
cuideachd air iomrall.

Dead Otter
Meg Bateman

Rigor mortis curves the beast
as if swimming,
flat head and webbed foot
raised, eyes gleaming,
pelt of bronze.

I turn away, embarrassed
by a metre of otter
laid out for my scrutiny,
by death’s exposure
of so fleet a creature.

On a boulder, the bloody
stamp of its nostrils;
above, a jutting ledge
of tangled, fibrous root
where it must have fallen

headlong to the rocks where it lies in shade
with staved in snout and stillness of stone,
white fur gripped between its teeth,
with its lair behind, lush with liverwort,
and a flicker of violets and primrose in the bank.

I reach out to it, shocked
that in the urgency of spring
instinct could fail it,
shocked that it too
could lose its footing.

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38d

<p>Flinching in my hands<br>this soiled and studded but good heart,<br>which stippling my cupped palms, breathes –</p><p>—Jen Hadfield, “Hedgehog, Hamnavoe”<br>published in NIGH-NO-PLACE (Bloodaxe Books, 2007)</p><p>Today, 3 March, is World Wildlife Day.</p><p><a href="https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/hedgehog-hamnavoe/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/hedgehog-hamnavoe/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.</span><span class="invisible">uk/poem/hedgehog-hamnavoe/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/worldwildlifeday/" rel="tag">#WorldWildlifeDay</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/hedgehogs/" rel="tag">#hedgehogs</a> <a href="/tags/shetland/" rel="tag">#Shetland</a></p>

Hedgehog, Hamnavoe
Jen Hadfield

Flinching in my hands
this soiled and studded but good heart,
which stippling my cupped palms, breathes –

a kidney flinching on a hot griddle,
or very small Hell’s Angel, peeled from the verge
of a sweet, slurred morning.

Drunk, I coddle it like a crystal ball,
hellbent the realistic mysteries
should amount to more than guesswork

and fleas.

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38d

<p>The grey roots circle thee, who never knew<br>At any hour within thy travels lone<br>A human shape but mine…</p><p>—Olive Fraser, “The Adder of Quinag”<br>published in THE WRONG MUSIC, <span class="h-card"><a href="https://bookish.community/@canongatebooks" class="u-url mention" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">@<span>canongatebooks</span></a></span> 1989</p><p>Today, 3 March, is World Wildlife Day.</p><p><a href="https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/adder-quinag/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/adder-quinag/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.</span><span class="invisible">uk/poem/adder-quinag/</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/scottish/" rel="tag">#Scottish</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/worldwildlifeday/" rel="tag">#WorldWildlifeDay</a> <a href="/tags/poem/" rel="tag">#poem</a> <a href="/tags/poetry/" rel="tag">#poetry</a> <a href="/tags/snake/" rel="tag">#snake</a></p>

The Adder of Quinag
Olive Fraser

The grey roots circle thee, who never knew
At any hour within thy travels lone
A human shape but mine. Thou com’st to view,
Wild, unafraid, what stands beside thy stone
And gazes on thee in thy wilderness
Of fifty miles. What thinkst thou of me,
For I am of a race thou could’st not guess
Would murder all thy hapless innocency?

O mountain, take thy small heart back again
And keep him in thy care when I shall go,
Unvisited by all things but the rain,
The hurtless sunbeams, and the winds that blow
For ever in his moors. O let him hold
No intricate memory of that being who stood
Just once by his wild beauty, and did fold
Him with a blessing alien to my blood.

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24d

<p>Why Lacan Loved Harpo Marx</p><p>A surprising encounter between high theory and Hollywood farce reshapes how we think about laughter and desire.</p><p>By: Angelica Frey </p><p><a href="https://daily.jstor.org/why-lacan-loved-harpo-marx/" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="daily.jstor.org/why-lacan-loved-harpo-marx/"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">daily.jstor.org/why-lacan-love</span><span class="invisible">d-harpo-marx/</span></a></p><p>Humor & Comedy at PG:<br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/bookshelf/44" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/bookshelf/44"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/books</span><span class="invisible">helf/44</span></a><br><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/subjects/search/?query=comedy" rel="nofollow" class="ellipsis" title="www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/subjects/search/?query=comedy"><span class="invisible">https://</span><span class="ellipsis">www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/subje</span><span class="invisible">cts/search/?query=comedy</span></a></p><p><a href="/tags/books/" rel="tag">#books</a> <a href="/tags/literature/" rel="tag">#literature</a> <a href="/tags/art/" rel="tag">#art</a> <a href="/tags/culture/" rel="tag">#culture</a></p>

Lobby card for Monkey Business (1931) with Chico (left) and Harpo (right)

The card shows Chico on the left in his trademark shabby suit and felt hat, and Harpo on the right in his iconic curly red wig, battered top hat, and characteristically mismatched, oversized clothing. The man in the middle is one of the supporting cast members.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harpo_Marx#/media/File:Monkey_Business_lobby_card_1931.JPG

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