Eggplant.place

206d

Marion Cleland Lochhead (1902–1985) was born #OTD, 19 April, in Wishaw. A founding member of Scottish PEN, Lochhead was a versatile figure of the 20th-century Scottish literary scene.

👇“Painted Things”, by Marion Lochhead – published in Painted Things & Other Poems (Gowans & Grey, 1929)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #womenwriters #20thcentury

Painted Things
Marion Lochhead

I love painted things –
Bright wooden toys and boxes, coloured beads,
Shawls like a peacock's plumage, scarves like wings
Of birds that flaunt and flutter: all that breeds
Delight and thoughts fantastic. I love glass,
Deep-tinted, amethystine, fire-red, gold,
That throws dim, changing luminance as I pass,
And shifts, deploys like tapestries unrolled –
I love all these
Gay fantasies; but more I love the grey
Austere walls of cathedrals, the bare trees
That stand unmoved, with light and wing away.

ALT

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290d

My Son, these maxims make a rule,
An’ lump them aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither…

—Robert Burns, “Address to the Unco Guid, or the Ridgidly Righteous”

#Scottish #literature #RobertBurns #BurnsNight #poem #poetry #18thcentury #humour

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Ridgidly Righteous
Robert Burns

My Son, these maxims make a rule,
An’ lump them aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither:
The cleanest corn that ere was dight
May hae some pyles o’ caff in;
So ne’er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o’ daffin.
—Solomon, Eccles. 7. 16

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
Your neibours’ fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi’ store o’ water;
The heaped happer’s ebbing still,
An’ still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door
For glaikit Folly’s portals:
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences—
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer;
But cast a moment’s fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave,
That purity ye pride in;
And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave),
Your better art o’ hidin.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop!
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop!
Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
It maks a unco lee-way.

ALT

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
O would they stay to calculate
Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o’ cases;
A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug,
A treach’rous inclination—
But let me whisper i’ your lug,
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human: ‍‍
One point must still be greatly dark,—
The moving Why they do it;‍‍
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, ’tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias:
Then at the balance let’s be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.

ALT

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290d

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
And ev’n Devotion!

—Robert Burns, “To a Louse”
from Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect: The Luath Kilmarnock Edition, illustrated by Bob Dewar

https://luath.co.uk/products/poems-chiefly-in-the-scottish-dialect?variant=42807652581526

#Scottish #literature #RobertBurns #BurnsNight #poem #poetry #18thcentury #humour

To a Louse, On Seeing one on a Lady’s Bonnet at Church
Robert Burns

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gawze and lace;
Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,
Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a Lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle,
Your thick plantations.

ALT

Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,
Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight,
Na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,
Till ye’ve got on it,
The vera topmost, towrin height
O’ Miss’s bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an’ gray as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surpriz’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On ’s wylecoat;
But Miss’s fine Lunardi, fye!
How daur ye do ’t?

ALT

O Jenny dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
And ev’n Devotion!

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290d

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward slave—we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.

—Robert Burns

https://poets.org/poem/mans-man

#Scottish #literature #RobertBurns #BurnsNight #poem #poetry #18thcentury #equality

A Man’s a Man for a’ That
Robert Burns

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward slave—we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that:
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that:
The man o’ independent mind
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might—
Guid faith, he maunna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities an’ a’ that;
The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man, the world o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.

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177d

Today is Omar Khayyam’s 978th birthday
(May 18, 1048 — December 4, 1131)

There is something beautiful about celebrating the birthday of a man who helped humanity measure time. Khayyam was a brilliant scholar, respected for his work in mathematics, astronomy, and calendar reform.

His rubaiyat are small poems with a long shadow — a reminder that life is too brief to waste.

#birthday #today #Khayyam #poet #wtiter #poem #poetry #books #book #time #astronomy #bookstodon @bookstodon @poetry

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288d

When you have walked through a town, as an infantryman
you’ll never go through streets the same way again.

There is shoulder-ache from rifle-sling, and sore
butt-bruise, of bolt, on hip and thigh…

—“Infantryman”, by Colin McIntyre (1927–2012) – born #OTD, 27 January

Published in FROM THE LINE: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW2

Infantryman
by Colin McIntyre

When you have walked through a town, as an infantryman
you'll never go through streets the same way again.

There is shoulder-ache from rifle-sling, and sore
butt-bruise, of bolt, on hip and thigh.

The walk comes somewhere between slope and slow hike,
a wary step, splay-footed, as drawers cellular,
catch in the crotch, twist centrifugally around.

Our lot moved at slow deliberate plod, eyes down, look out,
Ted walked on the left, looks right; I took the right,
looked left. Well spaced out, bloody tired all the time.

Ted and I had a reputation, in Four Section, for hitting
the deck, together, quick as a flash, at the first shell.
Ted had a nose for crossroads ranged by guns.

Infantrymen grow fat in later years, from never walking.
Ted would have become quite gross. But Ted's dead.
Stepped on an AP mine in champagne country.
Cheers, Ted, you old sod, you.

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288d

“If these children need me in days of sunshine,
how much more do they need me in days of darkness?”
—Jane Haining

You rose each day at 5 a.m. to go
to market for their food, sliced your leather
luggage into strips they’d use for soles
on worn-out shoes…

“In Days of Darkness”, a poem by Stuart A. Paterson for Holocaust Memorial Day

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/days-darkness/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Holocaust #HolocaustRemembrance #HolocaustMemorialDay

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287d

Edinburgh Makar Michael Pedersen has written a poem to mark the 300th anniversary of the University of Edinburgh’s medical school. A short film of the poem, animated by students from Edinburgh’s College of Arts, is available to watch via The Scotsman

https://www.scotsman.com/arts-and-culture/books/watch-michael-pedersens-poem-to-mark-300th-anniversary-of-edinburgh-university-medical-school-5492523

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Edinburgh #EdinburghUniversity #MedicalSchool #HistoryofMedicine

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282d

Today, 2 February, is Candlemas. As well as being a Christian holy day, it is one of the four Scottish Quarter Days, when rents were due.

The Scots poem “At Candlemas” by Marion Angus (1865–1946) is a typically unsentimental look at how swiftly youth turns to old age:

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Candlemas #Scots #Scotslanguage #womenwriters #20thcentury #aging

At Candlemas
Marion Angus

Lang syne at Candlemas
At first cam o’ the mune,
I, a bit lassie,
Hame-gaun fae the toon,
Fell in wi’ a stranger
Frail as ony reed,
Wi’ a green mantle
Hapt aboot her heid.

Haste, I wad haste me,
The whinny road along,
Whinny, crookit road
Faur the grey ghaists gang.
Wi her een fu’ o’ spells,
Her broo runkled sair,
She micht weel be the witch
O’ the Braid Hill o’ Fare.

Here cams Candlemas,
A wan deein’ mune,
Eh! bit I’m weary.
Cauldrife wis the toon!

Yon’s a blythe bairnie
Soople as a reed,
Rinnin’ wi’ a hankey
Tied aboot her heid,
Hastin’, hastin’,
Limber-licht fit,
Doon the crookit road
Faur the grey moths flit.

Quo’ she, ‘Ye’r sma’-bookit,
Yer broo’s runkled sair,
Er’ ye the auld witch
O’ the Braid Hill o’ Fare?’

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281d

February dark is fields and fields long,
from this sill to the whin ridge and beyond,
wet as a dog’s nose, curious
where flame ticks against glass…

—Pippa Little, “Brown Nights”
published in nothing but a set of eyes for stars: New Writing Scotland 41 (ASL, 2023)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws41/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #February

Pippa Little
BROWN NIGHTS

Last summer, late, I filled your tea cup,
bone and gold, with melted wax:
it sits in its saucer now, lit
pale rose, sets corners fluttering
as my breath teases the wick –

February dark is fields and fields long,
from this sill to the whin ridge and beyond,
wet as a dog’s nose, curious
where flame ticks against glass,

wanting only a warm –
out there owl outflies a bullet
and stones stir to ease their aching.
All-invisible: yet I can’t draw closed the curtain.

Brown nights and days these are,
slow as peat water snarled
in roan pipe and stell, a calling
far across the valley toward a ship of light

tomorrow I will let soil fill the trails
in both my hands: for now, this window lit
with your small pulse is single thing enough
to bare against the dark.

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286d

An raoir, mar a gheall an sanas,
bha na fèidh air an rathad,
sùilean lainnireach an solus a chàr…

—Uilleam Nèill, “Feidh”
Published in Making tracks: and other poems (Gordon Wright, 1988)

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #deer #20thcentury

Feidh
Uilleam Nèill

An raoir, mar a gheall an sanas,
bha na fèidh air an rathad,
sùilean lainnireach an solus a chàr.
Cha b’iad na fèidh ruadha nam beann àrda
ach an fheadhainn beag a th’ againn sa choilltean Ghallobha.
Thanaig sreath bàrdachd Dhonnchaidh ’nam inntinn:
“Chunnaic mi ’n damh donn sna h-eildean . . .”

Cha tigeadh dhomhsa ach facail bheaga ’na choimeas
mu na feidh bheaga seo:
“Ma ’s beag iad, tha iad grinn is neo-challaichte,
agus, gus an tig an saoghal gu crioch,
dileas d’an ghnè-san.”

Deer
William Neill

Last night, as the sign promised,
the deer were on the road,
shining eyes in the car’s light.
These were not the red deer of the high mountains,
but the little ones we have in the woods of Galloway.
A line of Duncan’s poetry came into my mind:
“I saw the brown stag and his hinds . . .”

Nothing would come to me but little words compared with his,
about these little deer:
“If they are small, they are graceful and untamed
and, till their world comes to an end,
faithful to their kind.”

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279d

Four crabs from the cold firth
alive for a shilling. The largest
reared in the pot, in spite of
the fierce water, but soon
we cracked his limbs with our teeth
and wheedled with spoons and fingers
for the last shreds of flesh
from the crannies of his briny body…

—Angus Calder, “Crab”
from WAKING IN WAIKATO (diehard, 1997)

Angus Calder (1942–2008) – journalist, historian, editor, critic, & poet – was born #OTD, 5 Feb

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/crab/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury

Crab
by Angus Calder

Four crabs from the cold firth
alive for a shilling. The largest
reared in the pot, in spite of
the fierce water, but soon
we cracked his limbs with our teeth
and wheedled with spoons and fingers
for the last shreds of flesh
from the crannies of his briny body.

In that brittle maze
I found no features to remind me
of our brains, our livers
or our smooth bellies, yet doubtless
their functions were held by some part
of the paste of his cavities.

Spread, soup and risotto –
only the gills were rejected.

In the days we ate him
I did not forget
his moment on the floor
to amuse the baby, when she
gloated at the slow clash
of his last menace,
nor that shape which made me think
of a soft soldier
fried in the cockpit of a tank.

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177d

Pale yellow letters
humbly straggling across
the once brilliant red
of a broken shop-face
CONFECTIO…

—Edwin Morgan, “To Joan Eardley”
Joan Eardley (1921–1963) was born #OTD, 18 May

🖼️ Joan Eardley, “Sweet Shop, Rotten Row, 1960–1961”, Hunterian Museum and Art Gallery, University of Glasgow

https://www.gla.ac.uk/collections/#/details?irn=59156&catType=C

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #art #visualart #painting #20thcentury #JoanEardley

"To Joan Eardley"
by Edwin Morgan

Pale yellow letters
humbly straggling across
the once brilliant red
of a broken shop-face
CONFECTIO
and a blur of children
at their games, passing,
gazing as they pass
at the blur of sweets
in the dingy, cosy
Rottenrow window –
an Eardley on my wall.
Such rags and streaks
that master us! –
that fix what the pick
and bulldozer have crumbled
to a dingier dust,
the living blur
fiercely guarding
energy that has vanished,
cries filling still
the unechoing close!
I wandered by the rubble
and the houses left standing
kept a chill, dying life
in their islands of stone.
No window opened
as the coal cart rolled
and the coalman’s call
fell coldly to the ground.
But the shrill children
jump on my wall.

ALT

“Sweet Shop, Rotten Row”. A painting by Joan Eardley. Oil paint is applied thickly, in blotches of colour. A mustard-yellow sign bearing the letters CONFECTIO sits above a blurred shop front, showing a green window on the left and a red door on the right. Three almost abstract figures of children – two girls and a boy, probably – are dashing past the shop from left to right in a swirl of pinks, browns, and blues. The leftmost child has long black hair streaming out behind her head, adding to the sense of swift movement.

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279d

Build me a bridge over the stream
to my neighbour’s house
where he is standing in dungarees
in the fresh morning…

—Iain Crichton Smith, “Neighbour”
published in NEW COLLECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2011)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781857549607/new-collected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #IainCrichtonSmith

Iain Crichton Smith
Neighbour

Build me a bridge over the stream
to my neighbour’s house
where he is standing in dungarees
in the fresh morning.

O ring of snowdrops
spread wherever you want
and you also blackbird
sing across the fences.

My neighbour, if the rain falls on you,
let it fall on me also
from the same black cloud
that does not recognise gates.

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280d

He saw the weather written on the pane
as he buckled on his gaiters,
shouldering the hammer to walk the lane
spooked with his breath, to the pond
at the extremity of his acres…

—Lorn Macintyre, “Bonspiel”
published in Snowball in Summer (Argyll, 2009)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/bonspiel/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #curling #WinterOlympics #WinterSports #winter #bonspiel

Bonspiel
Lorn Macintyre

He saw the weather written on the pane
as he buckled on his gaiters,
shouldering the hammer to walk the lane
spooked with his breath, to the pond
at the extremity of his acres.
The hammer bounced on the ice
a dozen times before he was certain
that it would bear the weight.
He took the pungent moth-balls
from the pockets of his plus-fours
before sending the serving-man
with a message round the doors:
‘Bonspiel at Murdo’s pond, tomorrow, noon.’

They came on foot, on horseback, by trap,
ladies in breeches, ploughmen with twine
lashing their shins for the only game
in the district. The shelves in the brick shed
were lined with stones like ancient cheeses,
each one owned by a chalked name.
Men down on a knee, as if proposing,
send the stone slithering across the ice,
its way hastened by scrabbling brooms.
Stones clash, and by the pond’s edge
a brazier offers searing chestnuts.

The pond has leached into the earth now,
reverting to a bog. In the bracken
I uncover the brazier’s rusted remains,
like a cauldron from an abandoned coven.
The door of the shed hangs off its hinges.
I lift down a stone from the dusty shelves,
the granite cracked from the collision
in the forgotten bonspiel. As I send it
spinning across the floor I hear
the roar, and through the broken window
see a beauty brushing up her game.

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147d

Today they laid him in the earth's cold colour,
a man from Lewis with his seventy-five
years struck from his head. Teacher, scholar,
he had worked a true task when all alive…

—Iain Crichton Smith, “For Angus MacLeod”
Published in New Collected Poems (Carcanet, 2011)

Iain Crichton Smith, himself a teacher, commemorates the life of a former Headmaster of Oban High School

Today, 17 June, is Thank a Teacher Day

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #teaching #teachers #ThankATeacherDay

Iain Crichton Smith

For Angus MacLeod
Headmaster, and Editor of Gaelic Poems

Today they laid him in the earth's cold colour,
a man from Lewis with his seventy-five
years struck from his head. Teacher, scholar,
he had worked a true task when all alive,

building a school, elucidating texts.
The Gaelic shone quite clearly in his bones.
A casket filled with ashes had been mixed
with filtered sunlight and the small stones.

A useful life with pupils and with poems:
sufficient honours (his humour asked no more)
he takes his place in many minds and rooms.
Without their knowing it, his patient care

instructs far hands to turn a new lever,
a voice to speak in a mild-mannered tone.
The deeds we do reverberate forever.
Inveterate justice weighs the flesh and bone.

His best editions are some men and women
who scrutinise each action like a word.
The truest work is learning to be human
definitive texts the poorest can afford.

ALT

Edited 147d ago

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177d

This chaumert cairn kists bitties
O oor bricht an battert past—
A things that Scots hae keepit or drappit or lost
Or couldna tak wi them when they deed
Or went awa for guid…

—Jim Alison, “Ingaunees”
originally published as a poster for The National Museum of Scotland

Today, 18 May, is International Museum Day

https://icom.museum/en/international-museum-day-2/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #museum #LewisChessmen #archaeology #InternationalMuseumDay

Ingaunees
by Jim Alison

This chaumert cairn kists bitties
O oor bricht an battert past—
A things that Scots hae keepit or drappit or lost
Or couldna tak wi them when they deed
Or went awa for guid.

Dootless there’s ither grand ingaunees ootby
In Russia, India an sic fremmit fields
Whaur gangrel skelfs an shards o Scotland skinkle
Or gether stoor on shelves.

A feel fur thon wee Lewis keelies stuck in Lunnon
Goggle-e’ed wi chowin the taps aff their shields,
Haimseek fur Norroway ower the faem.

ALT

One of the Lewis Chessmen. Carved from walrus ivory, probably in the 12th century. This chesspiece depicts an armoured warrior – quilted armour or perhaps chain-mail is suggested by diagonal cross-hatched lines inscribed into the long coat, which also forms a hood over the character's head. He holds a full-length kite-shaped shield in front of him, bearing an X-shaped cross made of four interwoven lines. Holding a sword in his right hand, clutched close against his body, the warrior's outsized face stares over the top of the shield, his eyes wide. His top set of teeth are visible, chewing at his shield in berserker battle-frenzy.

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1y

"Give me a little less
with every dawn."

Marjorie Lotfi performs John Burnside's "Prayer" in a film directed by Savannah Acquah, from a new series from the ‪Adrian Brinkerhoff Poetry Foundation & the Writers’ Mosaic

https://www.brinkerhoffpoetry.org/poems/prayer

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #JohnBurnside

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278d

to hear the Gaelic ann an taigh-mòr
air a’ chrìch eadar dà shiorrachd
ann an Èirinn far am faighear taic
o gach comhairle gus na dìogan a ghlanadh,
na claisean a chàradh…

—Pàdraig MacAoidh, “Geographical Exclusions Apply”
published in With Their Best Clothes On: New Writing Scotland 36 (ASL, 2018)

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry

Pàdraig MacAoidh
GEOGRAPHICAL EXCLUSIONS APPLY

to hear the Gaelic ann an taigh-mòr
air a’ chrìch eadar dà shiorrachd
ann an Èirinn far am faighear taic
o gach comhairle gus na dìogan a ghlanadh,
na claisean a chàradh, ged nach robh e
idir gu leòr agus fios gun teagamh sam bith
gun robh an taigh a’ grodadh, nach bi
e fada son t-saoghail seo, leis gun robh e –
mar gach taigh-mòr eile – a’ tuiteam
às a chèile on mhullach, gun robh
na sglèatan a’ crochadh air adhar,
na cabair phreasach nas làine de thuill
na de dh’fhiodh ’s it was lovely to hear
the Gaelic aig solas dearg ann an Gleann
Iucha far an do stad car agus shlaighd
fear sios an uinneag agus leig e às –
gu slaodach – cnap cotain a bha stobte
sa bheul ann am beàrn far am b’ àbhaist
fiacail a bhith, an cotan air tionndadh
dearg gorm dubh agus air maistrich
le na duilleagan ’s an traillich ’s an uisge
ronnach ruadh a’ ruith sìos a’ chlais
sìos dhan it was lovely to hear the Gaelic
anns a’ chlò a’ chlò a’ chlò às am bi
fàileadh m’ eilein-sa ag èirigh gach trup
a bhios tu fàs teth agus fliuch aig an aon àm
mar gum b’ e comharra feise a bh’ ann
rud cho borb bèisteil ’s nach urrainn dhut
a chumail ri taobh do chraicinn, nad
achlaisean, eadar do shlèistean, gun iad a bhith
air an suathadh, air an sgròbadh a bhith dearg
’s dubh ’s geal ’s tu ag ràdh eadar fiaclan dùinte

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276d

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift…

—Carol Ann Duffy, “Prayer”
from MEAN TIME (Picador, 2017; Anvil, 1993)

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/carol-ann-duffy/mean-time/9781509852949

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #CarolAnnDuffy #womenwriters #prayer

Prayer
Carol Ann Duffy

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child’s name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer –
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

ALT

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180d

In The Silence Of Music from the [OBR050] - The Roaring 50's compilation is now available on streaming services.

https://sonicwalker.com/releases/obr050-in-the-silence-of-music/

#newmusic #electronicmusic #poem #triphop

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276d

Mary, Queen of Scots was beheaded #OnThisDay, 8 February, 1587, on the orders of Elizabeth I of England – her first cousin once removed.

Consider the way she had to go,
Think of the hungry snare,
The net she herself had woven,
Aware or unaware…

—Marion Angus, “Alas! Poor Queen”
Published in TURN OF THE DAY (1931) – online via the National Library of Scotland

https://digital.nls.uk/works-by-selected-scottish-authors/archive/129159433?mode=fullsize

#Scottish #literature #history #poem #poetry #MaryQueenofScots #womenwriters #20thcentury

Alas! Poor Queen
Marion Angus

She was skilled in music and the dance
And the old arts of love
At the court of the poisoned rose
And the perfumed glove,
And gave her beautiful hand
To the pale Dauphin
A triple crown to win—
And she loved little dogs
And parrots
And red-legged partridges
And the golden fishes of the Due de Guise
And a pigeon with a blue ruff
She had from Monsieur d’Elboeuf.

Master John Knox was no friend to her ;
She spoke him soft and kind,
Her honeyed words were Satan’s lure
The unwary soul to bind.
“Good sir, doth a lissome shape
And a comely face
Offend your God His Grace
Whose Wisdom maketh these
Golden fishes of the Due de Guise?”

She rode through Liddesdale with a song ;
“Ye streams sae wondrous strang,
Oh, mak’ me a wrack as I come back
But spare me as I gang.”
While a hill-bird cried and cried
Like a spirit lost
By the grey storm-wind tost.

Consider the way she had to go,
Think of the hungry snare,
The net she herself had woven,
Aware or unaware,

ALT

Of the dancing feet grown still,
The blinded eyes.—
Queens should be cold and wise,
And she loved little things,
Parrots
And red-legged partridges
And the golden fishes of the Due de Guise
And the pigeon with the blue ruff
She had from Monsieur d’Elboeuf.

ALT

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277d

You might forget the exact sound of her voice
or how her face looked when sleeping.
You might forget the sound of her quiet weeping
curled into the shape of a half moon…

—Jackie Kay, “Darling”
published in DARLING (Bloodaxe, 2007)

https://www.bloodaxebooks.com/ecs/product/darling-877

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #JackieKay #grief #death