Eggplant.place

133d

A thousand-foot slog, then a cairn of old stones –
hand-shifted labour,
and much the same river, shining
way below
as the Romans came, saw,
and soon thought the better of…

—Kathleen Jamie, “Glacial”
published in THE BONNIEST COMPANIE (Picador, 2015)

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/kathleen-jamie/the-bonniest-companie/9781509801718

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #rewilding

Glacial
by Kathleen Jamie

A thousand-foot slog, then a cairn of old stones –
hand-shifted labour,
and much the same river, shining
way below
as the Romans came, saw,
and soon thought the better of.

Too many mountains, too many
wanchancy tribes
whose habits we wouldn’t much care for
(but could probably match),
too much grim north, too much faraway snow.

Let's bide here a moment, catching our breath
and inhaling the sweet scent of whatever
whin-bush is flowering today

and see for miles, all the way hence
to the lynx’s return, the re-established wolf’s.

ALT

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133d

Tha sinn air a bhith ri rudan do-dhèanta a-rithist.
A’ crochadh san adhair, a’ feitheamh diog, tiotag, linn,
nas fhàide nas àirde na bu chòir a bhith comasach.
Chaidh leintean-T a dhèanamh dhinn mus do landaig sinn…

—Pàdraig MacAoidh, “Ris an do-dhèanta”

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/ris-an-do-dheanta/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #football #ScottishFootball #TartanArmy

Ris an do-dhèanta
Pàdraig MacAoidh

Tha sinn air a bhith ri rudan do-dhèanta a-rithist.
A’ crochadh san adhair, a’ feitheamh diog, tiotag, linn,
nas fhàide nas àirde na bu chòir a bhith comasach.
Chaidh leintean-T a dhèanamh dhinn mus do landaig sinn.

Tha sinn air fhaighinn tharais air na rudan as miosa,
a’ coiseachd nam mìltean fada sin – coig ceud, coig mìle –
gus cnàmhan agus buill-nasg a chur ceart, gus ar corragan a shìneadh,
agus mion-car a chur air an t-saoghal, tharais air a’ bhàr.

O agus chum sin ar n-anail nar milleanan,
air bhoile le chèile, a’ coimhead bàla a’ tùirling
na àrc àbhaisteach mìorbhaileach coileanta
agus a’ tuiteam, meath mar bhogha-frois, dhan talamh.

Seadh, rinn sinn rudan do-dhèanta. Ach a-nis –
ann am Miami, Boston, ge b’àit – tha againn rin dèanamh
a-rithist. Agus an uairsin, yes sir, nì sinn boogie,
ri òran sam bith a tha sinn ag iarraidh.

ALT

At the Impossible
Peter Mackay

We’ve been at the impossible again. Levitating.
Hanging in the air one, two seconds, an age,
longer and higher than should be possible.
The T-shirts were printed before we’d hit the ground.

We have recovered from the worst of times,
walking long miles – five hundred, five thousand –
to wrest bones and ligaments back to fitness
and tip the world over with the last skelf of skin.

And we have held a million breaths
in frantic unison, watching a ball tumble
in its everyday, humdrum perfect parabola,
to fall plump as a rainbow back to earth.

O we’ve been at the impossible but must now –
in Miami, Boston, anywhere, anyhow –
do it all over again. And then yes sir, we shall boogie,
absolutely, to whatever song we choose.

ALT

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131d

John Hollander’s poem Kitty and Bug is self-explanatory in its simplicity. The cat’s unpunctuated, almost stream-of-consciousness thoughts fit into a physical ‘cat’ shape, while the bug – in sharp contrast – is but a 3-letter word near the edge of the page.

Happy #Caturday !

#poetry #poem #cat #cats #kitty #catsOfMastodon #books #reading #literature #bookstodon @bookstodon

ALT

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113d

Once did I see
A sounding bee,
Amongst her sweetned swarme…

—“Madrigall: Of a Bee”, by Simion Grahame (c.1570–1614)
published in JACOBEAN PARNASSUS: Scottish Poetry from the Reign of James I (ASL, 2022)

A poem for World Bee Day 🐝 – today, 20 May

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/jacobean-parnassus/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #EarlyModern #16thcentury #17thcentury #Jacobean #bees #WorldBeeDay

Madrigall: Of a Bee.
Simion Grahame

Once did I see
A sounding bee,
Amongst her sweetned swarme;
Still would shee flee
And favour me,
Then did I dreade no harme.

Now, whilst in nectred-glorie of her gaines
She sitts and suckes the fayre well-florisht flower,
My sugred hopes are turn’d to bitter paines,
And lookt-for-sweete is nothing elles but sower.
Ah, cruel sweet, bee sweet and cure my smart;
Honny my mouth, but doe not stinge my hart.

ALT

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113d

Seillean
dian, dùrachdach
a’ siubhal nam blàth…

—Ruaraidh MacThòmais, “A’ Siubhal nam Blàth”
from Sùil air fàire: dain ùra le Ruaraidh MacThòmais / Surveying the horizon: recent poems by Derick Thomson (Acair, 2007)

A Gaelic poem for World Bee Day 🐝

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #20thcentury #bees #WorldBeeDay

A’ Siubhal nam Blàth
Ruaraidh MacThòmais

Seillean
dian, dùrachdach
a’ siubhal nam blàth
mar a bhà
ann an Àird nam Murchan
o chionn dà cheud bliadhna gu leth
agus an dubh-Mhùideartach
ga dhian-amharc,
agus a-rithist
ann am meadhan a’ gheamhraidh
a’ dùsgadh na cuimhne sin.
An dùil am mair
blas na meala sin
dà cheud bliadhna gu leth eile
is a’ Ghàidhlig leth-bheò
ann an duilleagan sgoileir.
Carson nach maireadh
agus Horace is Catullus
fhathast a’ dùsgadh am blàth
nar cridheachan.

ALT

Reconnoitering the Blossoms
Derick Thomson

A bee
steadily, industriously
reconnoitering the blossoms
just as
in Ardnamurchan
two and a half centuries ago
while the Dark-Moidart-man
observed it keenly
and later
in midwinter
revived the memory of it.
I wonder if the taste
of that honey will last
another two and a half centuries,
with Gaelic half-alive
on the pages of scholars.
Why not
when Horace and Catullus
still blossom
in our hearts.

ALT

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113d

Here are my bees,
brazen, blurs on paper,
besotted; buzzwords, dancing
their flawless, airy maps…

—Carol Ann Duffy, “Bees”
published in THE BEES (Picador, 2017)

A poem for World Bee Day 🐝

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/carol-ann-duffy/the-bees/9781509852925

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #bees #WorldBeeDay

Bees
by Carol Ann Duffy

Here are my bees,
brazen, blurs on paper,
besotted; buzzwords, dancing
their flawless, airy maps.

Been deep, my poet bees,
in the parts of flowers,
in daffodil, thistle, rose, even
the golden lotus; so glide,
gilded, glad, golden, thus –

wise – and know of us:
how your scent pervades
my shadowed, busy heart,
and honey is art.

ALT

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129d

It’s living with ships
makes a rough springtime
and who is safe
when they sing and blow
their music …

—Edwin Morgan, “Floating Off to Timor”
published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784109967/centenary-selected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Spring #Glasgow

Floating Off to Timor
Edwin Morgan

If only we’d been strangers
we’d be floating off to Timor,
we’d be shimmering on the Trades
in a blue jersey boat
with shandies, flying fish,
a pace of dolphins
to the copra ports.
And it’s no use crying
to me, What dolphins?
I know where they are
and I’d have snapped you up
and carried you away
snapped you up
and carried you away
if we had been strangers.

But here we are care
of the black roofs.
It’s not hard to find
with a collar turned up
and a hoot from the Clyde.
The steps come home
whistling too. And a kettle
steams the cranes out slowly.
It’s living with ships
makes a rough springtime
and who is safe
when they sing and blow
their music – they seem
to swing at some light rope
like those desires
we keep for strangers.
God, the yellow deck

ALT

breathes, it heaves spray
back like a shout.
We’re cutting through
some straits of the world
in our old dark room
with salty wings
in the shriek of the dock wind.
But we’re caught – meshed
in the fish-scales, ferries,
mudflats, lifebelts
fading into football cries
and the lamps coming on
to bring us in.

We take in
the dream, a cloth from the line
the trains fling sparks on
in our city. We’re better awake.
But you know I’d take
you all the same,
if you were my next stranger.

ALT

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112d

Celestial Tea!—A fountain that can cure
The ills of passion, and can free the fair
From frowns and sighs, by Disappointment earn’d…

—For International Tea Day: Robert Fergusson’s (1750–1774) “Tea. A Poem” takes a less than enthusiastic approach to the beverage

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #18thcentury #RobertFergusson #tea #InternationalTeaDay

Robert Fergusson
TEA. A Poem

Ye maidens modest! on whose sullen brows
Hath weaning Chastity her wrinkles cull’d,
Who constant labour o’er consumptive oil,
At midnight knell, to wash sleep’s nightly balm
From closing eye-lids, with the grateful drops
Of Tea’s blest juices; list th’ obsequious lays
That come not with Parnassian honours crown’d,
To dwell in murmurs o’er your sleepy sense;
But fresh from Orient blown to chace far off
Your lethargy, that dormant needles rous’d
May pierce the waving Mantua’s silken folds:
For many a dame in chamber sadly pent,
Hath this reviving limpid call’d to life;
And well it did, to mitigate the frowns
Of anger reddening on Lucinda’s brow,
With flash malignant, that had harbour’d there,
If she at masquerade, or play, or ball,
Appear’d not in her newest, best attire.
But Venus, goddess of th’ eternal smile,
Knowing that stormy brows but ill become
Fair patterns of her beauty, hath ordain’d

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112d

In a little rainy mist of white and grey
we sat under an old tree,
drank tea toasts to the powdery mountain…

—Edwin Morgan, “The Picnic”
published in COLLECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 1990)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781847779656/collected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #EdwinMorgan #tea #InternationalTeaDay

The Picnic
by Edwin Morgan

In a little rainy mist of white and grey
we sat under an old tree,
drank tea toasts to the powdery mountain,
undrunk got merry, played catch
with the empty flask, on the pine needles
came down to where it rolled stealthily away –
you lay
with one arm in the rain, laughing
shaking only your wet hair
loose against the grass, in that enchanted place
of tea, with curtains of a summer rain
dropped round us, for a rainy day.

ALT

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59d

The room has been emptied for decorating.
White paint, wooden floor and window frames,
sun bursting through summer’s open doors,
a single chair for me to sit and read…

—Mark Russell, “Tabula Rasa”
published in nobody remembers the birdman: New Writing Scotland 40 (ASL, 2022)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws40/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Mark Russell
Tabula Rasa

The room has been emptied for decorating.
White paint, wooden floor and window frames,
sun bursting through summer’s open doors,
a single chair for me to sit and read.

Next door takes the chance to mow the lawn;
rose and salvia stretch and yawn, posturing;
a buzz of far-off traffic settles beneath
birdcall in the ripe mountain’s steep slumber.

Just when I think there’s nothing, nothing
floods the space, pregnant, brisk, swarming.

ALT

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126d

I'm reading a book of classical poems by Arab women, and found this gem from some 1000 years ago:

"Leave me alone, you’re not my equal, you’re not a man of the world nor a man of faith, yet you want to own me, you mindless twit."

(by Umm Ja'far bint Ali)

That's it. That's the whole poem.

#poetry #poem #WomensHistory #women #literature #art #bookstodon

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125d

Now the soldier has come home.

He has fought his way back
To the faces of the gnome-children
With still magic in their glances…

—James Findlay Hendry (1912–1986), “The Return”

Today, 8 May, is the 81st anniversary of VE Day

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WarPoetry #WW2 #VEDay

The Return
J. F. Hendry

Now the soldier has come home.

He has fought his way back
To the faces of the gnome-children
With still magic in their glances.

Wearing the green birk in his hat
And clad in the brown earth
He has torn barbed sorrow down
With his bare hands.

He has gone out into the open fields
Superb, in final camouflage.

ALT

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125d

Thàinig uair-san leis na sligean,
leis na spealgan-iarainn beàrnach,
anns an toit is anns an lasair,
ann an crith is maoim na h-àraich…

—Somhairle MacGill-Eain (Sorley MacLean) (1911–1996), “Curaidhean” (“Heroes”)

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

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #WarPoetry #WW2 #VEDay

Curaidhean
Somhairle MacGill-Eain

Chan fhaca mi Lannes aig Ratasbon
no MacGillFhinnein aig Allt Èire
no Gill-Ìosa aig Cùil Lodair,
ach chunnaic mi Sasannach san Èipheit.

Fear beag truagh le gruaidhean pluiceach
is glùinean a’ bleith a chèile,
aodann guireanach gun tlachd ann –
còmhdach an spioraid bu trèine.

Cha robh buaidh air ‘san taigh-òsta
’n àm nan dòrn a bhith gan dùnadh’,
ach leòmhann e ri uchd a’ chatha,
anns na frasan guineach mùgach.

Thàinig uair-san leis na sligean,
leis na spealgan-iarainn beàrnach,
anns an toit is anns an lasair,
ann an crith is maoim na h-àraich.

Thàinig fios dha san fhrois pheilear
e bhith gu spreigearra ’na dhiùlnach:
is b’ e sin e fhad ’s a mhair e,
ach cha b’ fhada fhuair e dh’ùine.

Chùm e ghunnachan ris na tancan,
a ’ bocail le sgreuch shracaidh stàirnich
gus an d’ fhuair e fhèin mun stamaig
an deannal ud a chuir ri làr e,
beul sìos an gainmhich ’s an greabhal,
gun diog o ghuth caol grànda.

Cha do chuireadh crois no meadal
ri uchd no ainm no g’ a chàirdean:
cha robh a bheag dhe fhòirne maireann,
’s nan robh cha bhiodh am facal làidir;
’s co-dhiù, ma sheasas ursann-chatha,
leagar mòran air a shàillibh
gun dùil ri cliù, nach iarr am meadal
no cop sam bith à beul na h-àraich.

Chunnaic mi gaisgeach mòr à Sasainn,
fearachan bochd nach laigheadh sùil air;
cha b’ Alasdair à Gleanna Garadh –
is thug e gal beag air mo shùilean.

ALT

Heroes
Translator: Sorley MacLean

I did not see Lannes at Ratisbon
nor MacLennan at Auldearn
nor Gillies MacBain at Culloden,
but I saw an Englishman in Egypt.

A poor little chap with chubby cheeks
and knees grinding each other,
pimply unattractive face –
garment of the bravest spirit.

He was not a hit ‘in the pub
in the time of the fists being closed,’
but a lion against the breast of battle,
in the morose wounding showers.

His hour came with the shells,
with the notched iron splinters,
in the smoke and flame,
in the shaking and terror of the battlefield.

Word came to him in the bullet shower
that he should be a hero briskly,
and he was that while he lasted,
but it wasn’t much time he got.

He kept his guns to the tanks,
bucking with tearing crashing screech,
until he himself got, about the stomach,
that biff that put him to the ground,
mouth down in sand and gravel,
without a chirp from his ugly high-pitched voice.

No cross or medal was put to his
chest or to his name or to his family;
there were not many of his troop alive,
and if there were their word would not be strong.
And at any rate, if a battle post stands,
many are knocked down because of him,
not expecting fame, not wanting a medal
or any froth from the mouth of the field of slaughter.

I saw a great warrior of England,
a poor manikin on whom no eye would rest;
no Alasdair of Glen Garry;
and he took a little weeping to my eyes.

ALT

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125d

Cantie in seaside simmer on the dunes,
I fling awa my dowp of cigarette
whaur bairns hae biggit castles out of sand
and watch the reik rise frae the parapet…

—Robert Garioch Sutherland (1909–1987), “During a Music Festival”

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW2 #VEDay #Scots #Scotslanguage

During a Music Festival
Robert Garioch

Cantie in seaside simmer on the dunes,
I fling awa my dowp of cigarette
whaur bairns hae biggit castles out of sand
and watch the reik rise frae the parapet.

Suddenlike I am back in Libya;
yon’s the escarpment, and a bleizan plane,
the wee white speck that feeds the luift wi reik,
dirkins a horror-pictur on my brain.

And aye the reik bleeds frae the warld’s rim
as it has duin frae Babylon and Troy,
London, Bonn, Edinbro, time eftir time.
And great Beethoven sang a Hymn to Joy.

ALT

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125d

It is VE Night, Tobermory.
Cottages blaze and shimmer in the mirror of the bay.
Light is necklaced everywhere…

—Hugh McMillan, “Old Photograph”
published in AFTER THE STORM (Smith/Doorstop Books, 2005)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/old-photograph/

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

Old Photograph
Hugh McMillan

It is VE Night, Tobermory.
Cottages blaze and shimmer in the mirror of the bay.
Light is necklaced everywhere,
on the cross-trees of destroyers,
on the hulls of every cockleshell and scalloper afloat,
even on the gutted snout of a U-Boat,
but there are shadows, to imagine
the black and frozen water
and the land, lonely of men,
from Sunart to Mers-El-Kebir.

Daisy chained by sailors, three WAAFs
pose for a photograph.
Her friends are grinning, wide-eyed,
but my mother’s smile is dying
and she’s turned away
to the sound of the waves,
as if she could sense my father,
whose war would never cease,
limping inexorably back to her
across the oil scarred sea.

ALT

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124d

Higher than the craw-stepped
gables of our institutes – chess-clubs,
fanciers, reels & Strathspeys –
the old kingdom of lum, with crowns agley…

—Kathleen Jamie, “The Republic of Fife”
first published in THE QUEEN OF SHEBA (Bloodaxe, 1994)

Today, 9 May, is Europe Day
🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 🇪🇺

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/kathleen-jamie/selected-poems/9781509882953

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Fife

The Republic of Fife
by Kathleen Jamie

Higher than the craw-stepped
gables of our institutes – chess-clubs,
fanciers, reels & Strathspeys –
the old kingdom of lum, with crowns agley.

All birds will be citizens: banners
of starlings; Jacobin crows –
also: Sonny Jim Aitken, Special P.C.
whose red face closed in polis cars

utters terrible, ridiculous
at his brother and sister citizens
but we’re no feart, not of anyone
with a tartan nameplate screwed to his door.

Citizen also: the tall fellow I watched
lash his yurt to the leafy earth,
who lifted his chin
to my greeting, roared AYE!

as in YES! FOREVER! MYSELF!
The very woods where my friend Isabel
once saw a fairy, blue as a gas flame
dancing on trees. All this

close to the motorway
where a citizen has dangled,
maybe with a friend clutching
his/her ankles to spray

PAY NO POLL TAX on a flyover
near to Abernethy, in whose tea rooms
old Scots kings and bishops in mitres
supped wi a lang spoon. Citizens:

our spires and doocoots
institutes and tinkies’ benders,
old Scots kings and dancing fairies
give strength to my house

on whose roof we can balance,
carefully stand and see
clear to the far off mountains,
cities, rigs and gardens,

Europe, Africa, the Forth and Tay bridges,
even dare let go, lift our hands
and wave to the waving citizens
of all those other countries.

ALT

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124d

They are lang deid, folk that I used to ken
their firm set lips aa mowdert and agley,
sherp-tempert een rusty amang the cley…

—“Elegy” by Robert Garioch (1909–1981) – born #OTD, 9 May
from The Golden Treasury of Scottish Verse, @canongatebooks 2021

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https://canongate.co.uk/books/3267-the-golden-treasury-of-scottish-verse/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #Scots #Scotslanguage

Elegy
by Robert Garioch

They are lang deid, folk that I used to ken
their firm set lips aa mowdert and agley,
sherp-tempert een rusty amang the cley:
they are baith deid, thae wycelike, bienlie men,

heidmaisters, that had been in pouer for ten
or twenty year afore fate's taiglie wey
brocht me, a young, weill-harnit, blate and fey
new-cleckit dominie, intill their den.

Ane tellt me it was time I learnt to write -
round-haund, he meant – and saw about my hair:
I mind of him, beld-heidit, wi a kyte.

Ane sneerit quarterly – I cuidna square
my savings bank – and sniftert in his spite.
Weill, gin they arena deid, it's time they were.

ALT

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122d

Lorrayne
before you hit me with that object
shaped like a toblerone
let me explain…

—Hugh McMillan, “The X Files: Bonnybridge, October ’95”
published in Aphrodite’s Anorak (Peterloo, 1996)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/x-files-bonnybridge-october-95/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #XFiles #TheXFiles #TheTruthIsOutThere

The X Files: Bonnybridge, October ’95
Hugh McMillan

Lorrayne
before you hit me with that object
shaped like a toblerone
let me explain.
We only went for a half pint and a whisky
then set off home but somehow
lost two hours on a thirty minute journey.
My mind’s a blank
but Brian clearly saw
Aliens with black eyes and no lips
leading us onto a kind of craft.
I tried to lash out, explain that I was late,
but they used some kind of numbing ray on me:
it put me in this state.
Lorrayne, don’t you see what it explains?
All the times I crawled home with odd abrasions.
Put that down Lorrayne,
don’t you see I have to go again,
for the sake of future generations?

ALT

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93d

Where’s Brude? Where’s Brude?
So many souls to be saved!

—Edwin Morgan, “Columba’s Song”
in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

9 June is the feast day of St Columba (c521–97 CE), who led the Irish monastic missions to Dál Riata & the kingdoms of the Picts

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https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784109967/centenary-selected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #StColumba #saint

Columba's Song
by Edwin Morgan

Where's Brude? Where's Brude?
So many souls to be saved!
The bracken is thick, the wildcat is quick,
the foxes dance in the moonlight,
the salmon dance in the waters,
the adders dance in the thick brown bracken.
Where's Brude? Where's man?
There's too much nature here,
eagles and deer,
but where's the mind and where's the soul?
Show me your kings, your women, the man of the plough.
And cry me to your cradles.
It wasn't for a fox or an eagle I set sail!

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121d

You told me the brightest flowers grow on sand.

By the breakwater, a frayed nest of fishers’ rope
twined into a bouquet: pale blue, green, teal,
and peach; a twisted tale of what growth is…

—Jane McKie, “Rope”
published in nobody remembers the birdman: New Writing Scotland 40

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws40/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Jane McKie
ROPE

You told me the brightest flowers grow on sand.

By the breakwater, a frayed nest of fishers’ rope
twined into a bouquet: pale blue, green, teal,
and peach; a twisted tale of what growth is.
But you are right – they are flowers in the way
of any weathered thing, unpicking itself,
or hollowing itself into something eye-catching,
essential: a split egg of rock, a breaking wave.

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83d

They crashed among the spider-nets
spluttering and breathing hoarsely,
chasing fish out of the water,
calling one another and disappearing…

—“Dolphins at Cochin” by poet, playwright & novelist Tom Buchan (1931–1995), born #OTD, 19 June

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/dolphins-cochin/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #naturepoetry #dolphins #Kochi

Dolphins at Cochin
Tom Buchan

They crashed among the spider-nets
spluttering and breathing hoarsely,
chasing fish out of the water,
calling one another and disappearing.

Lime-green bellies and smiling mouths
sliced upwards obliquely;
calm humorous eyes regarded us for a moment
and splashed back.

Sea-marks of dolphins
moved among the dozens of jockeying sails:
a mile out, in the breaking waves,
we could see the flash of more dolphins.

On the bridge of our tanker
the grey paint blistered in the heat; above us
the siren mooed to come in at the jetty:
the water green and translucent.

The smell of crude oil, of ginger
drying in the yards; piles of coloured fish;
the creak of a wooden capstan,
monkeys quarrelling on top of the parked cars.

And suddenly there was a dolphin
inside our slow bow-wave: revolving, amused,
not realising our incomprehension
of his vivid thoughts.

Two dolphins came skidding round the point,
screeched to a standstill
blowing vapour and circling each other;
then they raced on again, leaping.

We watched them helplessly
from our primitive element
able only to think up cold metaphors
or to anthropomorphize.

But they wheeled – dolphins!
their liquid backs, their arched fins
moving steadily out from the shore
towards the hilarious ocean.

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128d

#lispyGopherClimate

https://toobnix.org/w/mu2Wm3Y7F6dBbqBivkXL1x

#climateCrisis #poem @kentpitman
- Comments on responsible dialog, many notes
@prahou and @davidrevoy 's #exquisiteCorpse #art #unix_surrealism https://gamerplus.org/@screwlisp/116518727790621795

/Next Sunday/Tuesday/Sunday/ upcoming guests: @bagder #curl @chiply #emacs @yantar92 #orgMode

#lisp / #commonLisp / #acl2 since I did not finish, my #commonLisp *my* #hextille wishlist https://lispy-gopher-show.itch.io/dl-roc-lisp/devlog/1502166/six-dimensional-hextille-boondoggle-acl2-mcclim-common-lisp before @jackdaniel 's coming #ELS #ecl #McCLIM thing.

#lambdaMOO !

analognowhere.com and davidrevoy.com 's exquisite corpse. The left side is very surreal unix_surrealism, the right is a more fun and clean Revoy's comics (exquisite corpse half).

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Lispy Gopher Climate unix_surrealism banner

0UTC Wednesdays anonradio.net
8UTC Sundays toobnix.org

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Edited 128d ago

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121d

Happy National Limerick Day!

A limerick is a five-line humorous poem with a distinct AABBA rhyme scheme and a bouncy rhythm.

Edward Lear (born today) popularised the form in the 19th century, frequently using them in his #Book of Nonsense.

What is your favourite limerick? Feel free to share 😉

#limerick #today #LimerickDay #onthisday #poetry #poem #writing #reading #books #bookstodon @bookstodon #booksky #poetrycommunity #poet #EdwardLear #PoetrySky #poetrylovers #poemaday

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33d

Twa Cats anes on a Cheese did light,
To which baith had an equal Right,
But Disputes, sic as aft arise,
Fell out at sharing of the Prize…

—Allan Ramsay (1686–1758), “The twa Cats & the Cheese”
digitised by the National Library of Scotland

Today, 8 August, is International Cat Day
😾 😾 🧀 🐵

https://digital.nls.uk/special-collections-of-printed-music/archive/105690319

#Scottish #literature #poem #Scots #Scotslanguage #poem #poetry #18thcentury #fable #humor #humour #cats #InternationalCatDay

The twa Cats and the Cheese
Fable IX
by Allan Ramsay

Twa Cats anes on a Cheese did light,
To which baith had an equal Right,
But Disputes, sic as aft arise,
Fell out at sharing of the Prize;
Fair Play said ane, Ye bite o’er thick
Thae Teeth of yours gang wonder quick:
Let’s part it, else lang or the Moon
Be chang’d, the Kebuck will be done.

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But wha’s to do’t,—They’re Parties baith,
And ane may do the other Skaith,
Sae with Consent away they trudge,
And laid the Cheese before a Judge,
A Monkey with a campsho Face,
Clerk to a Justice of the Peace,
A Judge he seem’d in Justice skill’d,
When he his Master’s Chair fill’d;
Now Umpire chosen for Division,
Baith sware to stand by his Decision.
Demure he looks.—The Cheese he pales,—
He prives it good,—Ca’s for the Scales,
His Knife whops throw’t,—In twa it fell,
He puts ilk Haff in either Shell;
Said he, We’ll truly weigh the Case,
And strickest Justice shall have Place,
Then lifting up the Scales, he fand
The tane bang up, the ither stand;
Syne out he took the heaviest Haff,
And ate a Knoost o’t quickly aff,
And try’d it syne,—It now prov’d light,
Friend Cats, said he, We’ll do ye right.
Then to the ither Haff he fell,
And laid till’t teughly Tooth and Nail,
Till weigh’d again it lightest prov’d:
The Judge wha this sweet Process lov’d,
Still weigh’d the Case, and still ate on,
Till Clients baith were weary grown,

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And tenting how the Matter went,
Cry’d, Come, come Sir, We’re baith content.
Ye Fools, quoth he, and Justice too
Maun be content as well as you.
Thus grumbled they, thus he went on,
Till baith the Haves were near hand done;
Poor Pousies now the Daffine saw
Of gawn for Nignyes to the Law:
And bill’d the Judge that he wad please
To give them the remaining Cheese:
To which his Worship grave reply’d,
The Dues of Court maun first be paid.
Now Justice pleas’d,—What’s to the Fore
Will but right scrimply clear your Score;
That’s our Decreet,—Gae Hame and Sleep,
And thank us ye’re win aff sae cheap.

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118d

I never felt so much
Since I have felt at all
The tingling smell and touch
Of dogrose and sweet briar,
Nettles against the wall,
All sours and sweets that grow
Together or apart…

—“A Birthday”, by poet, novelist & translator Edwin Muir (1887–1959), born #OTD, 15 May

1/10

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thCentury #EdwinMuir #Orkney

"A Birthday"
by Edwin Muir

I never felt so much
Since I have felt at all
The tingling smell and touch
Of dogrose and sweet briar,
Nettles against the wall,
All sours and sweets that grow
Together or apart
In hedge or marsh or ditch.
I gather to my heart
Beast, insect, flower, earth, water, fire,
In absolute desire,
As fifty years ago.

Acceptance, gratitude:
The first look and the last
When all between has passed
Restore ingenuous good
That seeks no personal end
Nor strives to mar or mend.
Before I touched the food
Sweetness ensnared my tongue;
Before I saw the wood
I loved each nook and bend,
The track going right and wrong;
Before I took the road
Direction ravished my soul.
Now that I can discern
It whole or almost whole,
Acceptance and gratitude
Like travellers return
And stand where they first stood.

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