Eggplant.place

100d

it is dawn and my wife is coming to bed
and she has been watching a film about the life of charlie parker…

—Tom Leonard, “June the Second”
published in outside the narrative: poems 1965–2009 (Etruscan Books/Word Power Books, 2009 – now at Lighthouse Books)

https://lighthousebookshop.com/book/9780956628336

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #TomLeonard

June the Second
Tom Leonard

it is dawn and my wife is coming to bed
and she has been watching a film about the life of charlie parker

and the air in the bedroom is silent while she undresses
and the light is there at the side of the curtain beyond her head

and she tells me his body gave up of drink and drugs when he was 34
and I decide I am awake and go to the kitchen for a drink of water

and the sky in the north is translucent like a lake
translucent like a lake though it is only 3 am

and when I go back we lightly hold hands as we sometimes do
until the first to be falling asleep begins to twitch and tonight it’s Sonya

and I withdraw my hand and lie back looking at the ceiling
I am aged 51 years and nine months and nine to ten days

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100d

Get a head start by having a first name
that doesn’t really go with your second name.
Your parents were just trying to keep everyone happy…

—Palma McKeown, “How To Be Scots-Italian”
published in TALKING ABOUT LOBSTERS: New Writing Scotland 34 (ASL, 2016)

A poem for Festa della Repubblica 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🇮🇹

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Italy #FestadellaRepubblica #ScotsItalian

Get a head start by having a first name
that doesn’t really go with your second name.
Your parents were just trying to keep everyone happy.
Keep a bottle of Lacryma Christi for when
your Auntie Anna calls in unexpectedly.
Hide the jar of instant coffee in case
she comes into the kitchen & dust off
the old metal coffee pot that unscrews in the middle.
Put out that panettone you got at Christmas
then watch as she scoffs all the Tunnock’s Teacakes.
Learn to sidle down side streets or
melt into shop doorways when you see
old Mr D’Ambrosio coming because, despite
the fact he’s lived here for over sixty years,
you still can’t make out a word he’s saying.
Be prepared to serve sausage rolls & salami di Milano
at Hogmanay parties & give equal play time
to Jimmy Shand & Dean Martin.
You’re just trying to keep everyone happy.
Listen politely to your Auntie Carmen from Coatbridge
when she phones at three in the morning to ask
if everything’s okay because she’s had a dream
about you and the number 62
which signifies death & pestilence.
Try unsuccessfully to get back to sleep.
Feel torn when Italy is playing Scotland at football
until the crowd starts to sing ‘Flower of Scotland’
& a wee tear runs down your cheek.
Try not to get bitter that you never knew
your Italian granddad because during the war
he was taken away by two Scottish policemen
in the middle of the night, herded onto a ship
& was lost at sea when it was torpedoed.
Churchill was just trying to keep everyone happy.

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71d

Gur duilich leam mar tha mi
’S mo chridhe ’n sàs aig bròn
Bhon an uair a dh’fhàg mi
Beanntan ard a’ cheò
Gleanntannan a’ mhànrain
Nan loch, nam bàgh ‘s nan sròm
’S an eala bhàn tha tàmh orra
Gach là air ’m bheil mi ’n tòir…

—Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna, “An Eala Ban”

The First Battle of the Somme began #OTD, 1 July, 1916. Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna / Donald MacDonald composed “An Eala Bhan” (“The White Swan”) during the battle.

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #warpoetry #Somme #WW1

An Eala Ban
Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna

Gur duilich leam mar tha mi
’S mo chridhe ’n sàs aig bròn
Bhon an uair a dh’fhàg mi
Beanntan ard a’ cheò
Gleanntannan a’ mhànrain
Nan loch, nam bàgh ’s nan sròm
’S an eala bhàn tha tàmh orra
Gach là air ’m bheil mi ’n tòir.

A Mhagaidh na bi tùrsach
A rùin, ged gheibhinn bàs –
Cò am fear am measg an t-sluaigh
A mhaireas buan gu bràth?
Chan eil sinn uile ach air chuairt
Mar dhìthein buaile fàs
Bheir siantannan na bliadhna sìos
’S nach tog a’ ghrian an àird.

Tha ’n talamh lèir mun cuairt dhìom
’Na mheallan suas ’s na neòil;
Aig na ’shells a’ bualadh –
Cha lèir dhomh bhuam le ceò:
Gun chlaisneachd aig mo chluasan
Le fuaim a’ ghunna mhòir;
Ach ged tha ’n uair seo cruaidh orm
Tha mo smuaintean air NicLeòid.

Mas e ’s gu bheil e ’n dàn dhomh
on bhlàr gun till mi beò
Is gu faic mi ’n t-àite
san deach ar n-àrach òg
Bidh sinne ’s crathadh làmh againn
is bilean blàth toirt phòg
’S mo ghealltanas bidh pàighte dhut
le fainne chur mud mheòir.

Oidhche mhath leat fhèin, a rùin
Nad leabaidh chùbhraidh bhlàth;
Cadal sàmhach air a chùl
’s do dhùsgadh sunndach slàn
Tha mise ’n seo san truinnsidh fhuair
’s nam chluasan fuaim a’ bhàis
Gun dùil ri faighinn às le buaidh –
Tha ’n cuan cho buan ri shnàmh.

ALT

The White Swan
Donald MacDonald

Sad I consider my condition
With my heart engaged with sorrow
From the very time that I left
The high bens of the mist
The little glens of dalliance
Of the lochs, the bays and the forelands
And the white swan dwelling there
Whom I daily pursue.

Maggie, don’t be sad
Love, if I should die –
Who among men
Endures eternally?
We are all only on a journey
Like flowers in the deserted cattle fold
That the year’s elements will bring down
And that the sun cannot raise.

All the ground around me
Is like hail in the heavens;
With the shells exploding –
I am blinded by smoke:
My ears are deafened
By the roar of the cannon;
But though this time is hard on me,
My thoughts are on the girl MacLeod.

If it is fated to me
That from the battle I should return safe,
And see the place
Where we were nurtured young
We’ll shake hands
And warm lips shall kiss
And my promise be fulfilled to you
With a ring put round your finger.

Goodnight to you, love
In your warm, sweet-smelling bed;
May you have peaceful sleep and
May you waken healthy and in good spirits
I am here in the cold trench
With the clamour of death in my ears
With no hope of returning victorious –
The ocean is too wide to swim.

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97d

I keep the heid. I’m cool.
If asked – but you never ask –
I’d answer in tongues
hinting of linns, of Leven,
Nethan, Kelvin, Cart –
but neutral, balancing
both banks equally as I flow…

—Kathleen Jamie, “What the Clyde said, after COP26”

Today, 5 June, is World Environment Day

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WorldEnvironmentDay #environment #climatechange #globalwarming #globalheating #climatecrisis

What the Clyde said, after COP26
Kathleen Jamie

I keep the heid. I’m cool.
If asked – but you never ask –
I’d answer in tongues
hinting of linns, of Leven,
Nethan, Kelvin, Cart –
but neutral, balancing
both banks equally as I flow . . .

Do I judge? I mind the hammer-swing,
the welders’ flash, the heavy
steel-built hulls I bore downstream
from my city, and maybe
I was a blether-skite then,
a wee bit full of myself,
when we seemed gey near unstoppable . . .

But how can I stomach any more
of these storm rains? How can I
slip quietly away to meet my lover,
the wide-armed Ocean, knowing
I’m a poisoned chalice
she must drain, drinking
everything you chuck away . . .

So these days, I’m a listener, aye.
Think of me as a long level
liquid ear gliding slowly by.
I heard the world’s words,
the pleas of peoples born
where my ships once sailed,
I heard the beautiful promises . . .

and, sure, I’m a river,
but I can take a side.
From this day, I’d rather keep afloat,
like wee folded paper boats,
the hopes of the young folk
chanting at my bank,
fear in their spring-bright eyes

so hear this:
fail them, and I will rise.

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97d

It’s not the crack you expect.
It’s more a soft whump,
then an elegant leaving, like
a grand piano dropped
from a silent-movie window…

—Karen Ashe, “The Sound of an Iceberg Calving”
published in SOUND OF AN ICEBERG: New Writing Scotland 37 (2019)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws37/

#Scottish #literature #WorldEnvironmentDay‌ #poem #poetry #climatechange #environment #climatecrisis #globalwarming #globalheating

Karen Ashe
The Sound of an Iceberg Calving

It’s not the crack you expect.
It’s more a soft whump,
then an elegant leaving, like
a grand piano dropped
from a silent-movie window,
a slow-motion school bus
over a soap-opera cliff,
Falling Man falling
forever on prime-time news
then the kettle clicks to a rapid boil
as a small finger presses a button,
the screen flickers and blurs,
and the iceberg is replaced
by slimming ads and payday loans,
super-fast fibre-optic wifi,
high-speed trains, and the tea
bleeds into the water and milk
delivered unseen in early hours
from cows in distant misty pastures
stays fresh for nine days
in fat plastic bottles
that go in the recycling
and the baby shudders inside
half a month from completion
and the buy-now-pay-later sofa
is wobbly in the leg already
and the interest-free 42-inch telly is frozen
on an ad for wonga.com
and the dunked biscuit dissolves
in the tea in the time it takes
to change channels
and in some faraway dark cold country
of slavering bears and wandering herdsmen
the iceberg
is still
calving.

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72d

Colin Bramwell’s FOWER PESSOAS has won the 2025 Duas Leabhair na Gàidhealtacht / Highland Book Prize

“FOWER PESSOAS is a bold reimagining of Fernando Pessoa’s poetry… Colin Bramwell puts all four of [Fernando] Pessoa’s heteronyms into a present-day Scots-language vernacular, & so creates a parochial Pessoa for our own times”

https://www.highlandbookprize.org.uk/winner/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #FernandoPessoa #Scots #Scotslanguage

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97d

dear small daughter for a long time I did not write
what had already become past-tense was past-tense
and I am sorry I was not able to hold it as one might
in a dream hold a stream of water and sing it to sleep…

—Sheila Black, “Climate (7) (Past Tense)”
published in BREAK IN CASE OF SILENCE: New Writing Scotland 39 (2021)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws39/

#Scottish #literature #WorldEnvironmentDay‌ #poem #poetry #climate #climatechange #environment #globalwarming #globalheating #climatecrisis

Sheila Black
Climate (7) (Past Tense)

dear small daughter for a long time I did not write
what had already become past-tense was past-tense
and I am sorry I was not able to hold it as one might
in a dream hold a stream of water and sing it to sleep
and I am sorry that I told you this image as if it were
in truth perdurable plangent and constant moon
over our seas when it is the shifting that matters.
dear small the birds the mockingbirds they sang
in the middle of the night and for this we cursed
them but then we came upon their nests in the black
of day noon when the sun is a diamond burning
through however much blue and the two of them
circled so tirelessly with their wings fanning the
turquoise eggs inside the nest of dead grass and we
understood we were not the only ones but even this
could not stop us from doing as we had done all
our lives long and the cars we pulled out of driveways
and the highways that took us into the buzzing
electric of buildings poured in dense concrete
and the cooling chemicals seeping and cycling
as though through calm artificial hearts and outside
unnoticed the ghost-blue of juniper needle and berry
and the ghost-rising of smoke from the fires we
claimed we had not set. dear daughter now that we
must use the past-tense for what we thought was ours
now as we move into the possible distance I open
my hand to give you this picture of two wings.

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59d

I wish my whole battened
heart were a property
like this, with swallows
in every room – so at ease

they twitter and preen
from the picture frames
like an audience in the gods
before an opera…

—Kathleen Jamie, “Swallows”
published in The Tree House (Picador, 2004)

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/kathleen-jamie/the-tree-house/9781509891825

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #swallows

Swallows
Kathleen Jamie

I wish my whole battened
heart were a property
like this, with swallows
in every room – so at ease

they twitter and preen
from the picture frames
like an audience in the gods
before an opera

and in the mornings
wheel above my bed
in a mockery of pity
before winging it

up the stairwell
to stream out into light

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96d

“The Sodgers”, by Alexander Scott (1920–1989)

Alexander Scott landed in Normandy in 1944 with the Gordon Highlanders, & saw action in the Ardennes & crossing the Rhine. He later became Head of Scottish Literature at the University of Glasgow, was president of ASL from 1976–79, & was a founding editor of our annual anthology NEW WRITING SCOTLAND

Today, 6 June, is the anniversary of D-Day

#Scottish #literature #DDay #poem #poetry #20thcentury #warpoem #warpoetry #WW2 #Scots #Scotslanguage

The Sodgers
by Alexander Scott

Nae wi the gallus captains
That niver jinkit war
But socht for glory's wildfire lowe
As wise men aince for anither star—

And nae wi the ramstam colonels
That leuch at the din o the drum
And skirled for the bleeze o battle's Inferno
As saunts micht skirl for Kingdom Come—

But aye wi the sweirt sodgers
That niver wished tae dee
And anelie marched the forrart road
Sen onie back they cudna see—

Near blind wi the reek o wappins
And the reek o leean words,
But niver near sae blind wi bluid
As faa in luve wi guns and swords.

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96d

We’re the D-Day Dodgers out in Italy,
Always on the vino, always on the spree…

—“The Ballad of the D-Day Dodgers”, a #WW2 soldiers’ song, to the tune of “Lili Marlene”, & collected by Hamish Henderson (1919–2002). The term was an insulting reference to Allied troops fighting in Italy in 1944 (none of whom, of course, were able to choose where & when to fight). Henderson fought in North Africa & Italy in WW2.

#Scottish #literature #song #poem #WW2 #DDay

Text too long for ALT text. The text can be found online at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D-Day_Dodgers

ALT

Edited 96d ago

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96d

Ye think thon wes the end?
Yon meetin in the wuids
When Thracian Orpheus heard the drum, the cries,
The whud o the bacchantes’ thrangan feet…

—“Orpheus”, by Tom Scott (1918–1995): born #OTD, 6 June
Published in A KIST O SKINKLAN THINGS

1/3

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/a-kist-o-skinlan-things/

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

Tom Scott
Orpheus

Ye think thon wes the end?
Yon meetin in the wuids
When Thracian Orpheus heard the drum, the cries,
The whud o the bacchantes’ thrangan feet
And, seik in saul,
Mad to be jyned for aye to his Eurydikee,
Strung his harp
And gaed to meet them wi a sang.
Ye think thon wes the end?

Na. Eftir the thrang breeled on, red
Fingert, bluidie-mawed, the riven limbs
Quiveran aye amang the mairtyred gress,
There wes a lull
And throu it syne a roun
And syne as muckle’s a moan
And syne a voice,
Yon voice o his
That quietit the forest and its fowk,
That reconcilit lion and lamb,
Ordert the rain,
Spoke frae the grund
And threept in the greitan tree
‘Euridikee! Euridikee!’

And at the name
A ferlie thing wes duin.
Thir broken bits o bodie, bits o bane,
Brisket, gash, airm and droukit hair
Cam thegither as gin some will
Mair nor the merely real
Had wrocht on them.
And on yon slauchtert grund was formed
Orpheus anew,
Orpheus the singer, Orpheus the makar,
Orpheus cleansed o the auld despair.
And by the halie tree
In the leaman licht o the wuid,
Squired by a houlet, a hawk and a doo,
Wes his Euridikee.

They say he made a new sang,
A nobler nor the auld,
And sings it aye in the great haa o the warld.

They say it will nevir end.

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94d

Columba returns, his curragh, shuddering
on the angry tide. As oyster-catchers wrestle
the whipped air, he gives thanks to this ancient highway,
to this rosary of isles and sea that links all supplications…

—Finola Scott, “Maelstroms”

Today, 8 June, is World Ocean Day

https://worldoceanday.org

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WorldOceanDay

Maelstroms
Finola Scott

Camas Cuil an t-Saimh, Iona

Columba returns, his curragh, shuddering
on the angry tide. As oyster-catchers wrestle
the whipped air, he gives thanks to this ancient highway,
to this rosary of isles and sea that links all supplications.
Alone now, he will rest and speak to his God.
Soul lightened, feet solid, he blesses the deep shingle,
the sweet dulse of this rock. With wind-tangled shells
rattling his shins he praises the hungry cries
of south-skeining geese, sings halleulia
to the watery gift of this isle, his sanctuary.
He doesn’t know to pray against the Warming,
that will shift the Stream over time. He knows
the heavens, the promise of light. Knows nothing
of ozone layers, of coral reefs dissolving, of the whirlpool
of plastics swirling, of oceans rising, of drownings.

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73d

This photo’s saying nothing, is black and white, opaque.
A frozen moment, not a memory.
The boyfriend with the Pentax took it for the sake
Of taking it…

—Liz Lochhead, “Photograph, Art Student, Female, Working Class, 1966”
from FUGITIVE COLOURS (Birlinn, 2016)

29 June is National Camera Day 📷

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/fugitive-colours/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Sixties #1960s #photography #NationalCameraDay

Photograph, Art Student, Female, Working Class
Liz Lochhead

Her hair is cut into that perfect slant –
An innovation circa ‘64 by Vidal Sassoon.
She’s wearing C&A’s best effort at Quant
Ending just below the knicker-line, daisy-strewn.
Keeping herself in tights could blow her grant
Entirely, so each precious pair is soon
Spattered with nail varnish dots that stop each run.
She’s a girl, eighteen – just wants to have fun.

She’s not ‘a chick’. Not yet. Besides, by then
She’ll find the term ‘offensive’. ‘Dollybird’ to quote
Her favourite mags, is what she aspires to when
Her head’s still full of Honey and Petticoat.
It’s almost the last year that, quite this blithely, men
Up ladders or on building sites wolf-whistle to note
The approval they’re sure she will appreciate.
Why not? She did it for their benefit, looks great.

Nor does she object. Wouldn’t think she has the right.
Though when that lech of a lecturer comments on her tits
To a male classmate, openly, she might
Feel – quick as a run in nylon – that it’s
Not what ought to happen, is not polite,
She’ll burn, but smile, have no word that fits
The insult, can’t subject it to language’s prism.
In sixty-six there’s plenty sex, but not ‘sexism’.

ALT

Soon: The Female Eunuch and enough
Will be enough. Thanks to newfound feminism and Greer,
Women’ll have the words for all this stuff,
What already rankles, but confuses her, will seem clear
And she’ll (consciously) be no one’s ‘bit of fluff’
Or ‘skirt’ or ‘crumpet’. She’ll know the rule is ‘gay’ not ‘queer’,
‘Ms’ not ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs’ – she’ll happily obey it
And, sure as the Pill in her pocket, that’s how she’ll say it.

This photo’s saying nothing, is black and white, opaque.
A frozen moment, not a memory.
The boyfriend with the Pentax took it for the sake
Of taking it, a shot among many others, randomly,
To see how it would develop. Didn’t imagine it’d make
An image so typical it’d capture time so perfectly.
How does she feel? Hey, girl, did it feel strange
To be waiting for the a-changing times to change?

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92d

I mind when I was a bairnie hou ma mither
brocht out ae day a kist o skinklan things,
ferlies I thocht them, ilk mair rare nor anither,
aa kind o gowdies, stanes and chains and rings…

—Douglas Young, “Thesaurus Paleo-Scoticus”

10 June is Gies a Scots Poem Day

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/a-kist-o-skinlan-things/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #GiesAScotsPoemDay

Thesaurus Paleo-Scoticus
Douglas Young

I mind when I was a bairnie hou ma mither
brocht out ae day a kist o skinklan things,
ferlies I thocht them, ilk mair rare nor anither,
aa kind o gowdies, stanes and chains and rings,
braw orleges that made her guidsire vauntie,
auld fallals that belanged her grannie’s auntie.
I thocht ma forebears maun be queens and kings,
sic sma delytes can mak a bairnie canty.
I’m canty yet wi sma delytes, albeid
ma baird’s sae black and swack. I ken a thing
that’s like a kist o ferlies gif ye read.
Frae Jamieson’s muckle buik the words tak wing,
auld douce or ramstam, lown or virrfu words,
for musardry o thocht or grame o dirds,
our forebears useit, to flyte or scryve or sing.
I’d wuss to be a falkner o sic birds.

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91d

Someone is waving a white handkerchief
from the train as it pulls out with a white
plume from the station and rumbles its way
to somewhere that does not matter…

—George Bruce (1909–2002), “Departure and Departure and…”
published in The Edinburgh Book of Twentieth-Century Scottish Poetry (EUP 2005)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury

Departure and Departure and ...
George Bruce

Someone is waving a white handkerchief
from the train as it pulls out with a white
plume from the station and rumbles its way
to somewhere that does not matter. But
it will pass the white sands and the broad sea
that I have watched under the sun and moon
in the stop of time in my childhood as I am
now there again and waiting for the white
handkerchief. I shall not see her again
but the waters rise and fall and the horizon
is firm. You who have not seen that line
hold the brimming sea to the round earth
cannot know this pain and sweetness of departure.

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69d

An iarmailt cho soilleir tana
mar gum biodh am brat-sgàile air a reubadh
’s an Cruthaidhear ’na shuidhe am fianuis a shluaigh
aig a’ bhuntàt ’s a sgadan…

—Ruaraidh MacThòmais, “Leodhas as t-Samhradh”
published in Scottish Religious Poetry: 6th century to the present

https://standrewpress.hymnsam.co.uk/books/9781800830479/scottish-religious-poetry

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #20thcentury #Summer #Lewis #Hebrides

Leodhas as t-Samhradh
Ruaraidh MacThòmais

An iarmailt cho soilleir tana
mar gum biodh am brat-sgàile air a reubadh
’s an Cruthaidhear ’na shuidhe am fianuis a shluaigh
aig a’ bhuntàt ’s a sgadan,
gun duine ris an dèan E altachadh.
’S iongantach gu bheil iarmailt air an t-saoghal
tha cur cho beag a bhacadh air daoine
sealltainn a-steach dha’n an t-sìorruidheachd;
chan eil feum air feallsanachd
far an dèan thu chùis le do phrosbaig.

------------------

Lewis in Summer
Translator: Derick Thomson

The atmosphere clear and transparent
as though the veil had been rent
and the Creator were sitting in full view of His people
eating potatoes and herring,
with no man to whom He can say grace.
Probably there’s no other sky in the world
that makes it so easy for people
to look in on eternity;
you don’t need philosophy
where you can make do with binoculars.

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89d

James Clerk Maxwell (1831–1879) was born #OTD, 13 June. As a physicist, he ranks alongside Newton & Einstein (“He achieved greatness unequalled”—Max Planck)

He also wrote poetry: “Rigid Body Sings” is based on “Comin’ Through the Rye” by Robert Burns.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45774/in-memory-of-edward-wilson-who-repented-of-what-was-in-his-mind-to-write-after-section

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #19thcentury #Victorian #Scots #Scotslanguage #physics #science #sciencepoetry

In Memory of Edward Wilson, Who Repented of what was in his Mind to Write after Section
BY JAMES CLERK MAXWELL

Rigid Body (sings).

Gin a body meet a body
Flyin’ through the air,
Gin a body hit a body,
Will it fly? and where?
Ilka impact has its measure,
Ne’er a ane hae I,
Yet a’ the lads they measure me,
Or, at least, they try.

Gin a body meet a body
Altogether free,
How they travel afterwards
We do not always see.
Ilka problem has its method
By analytics high;
For me, I ken na ane o’ them,
But what the waur am I?

ALT

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68d

This morning I watched from here
a helicopter skirting like a damaged insect
the Empire State Building, that
jumbo size dentist’s drill, and landing
on the roof of the PanAm skyscraper.
But now midnight has come in
from foreign places…

—Norman MacCaig, “Hotel Room, 12th Floor”
published in THE POEMS OF NORMAN MacCAIG (Birlinn, 2009)

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/the-poems-of-norman-maccaig/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #FourthofJuly #july4th #IndependenceDay #NewYork #USA

Hotel Room, 12th Floor
Norman MacCaig

This morning I watched from here
a helicopter skirting like a damaged insect
the Empire State Building, that
jumbo size dentist’s drill, and landing
on the roof of the PanAm skyscraper.
But now midnight has come in
from foreign places. Its uncivilised darkness
is shot at by a million lit windows, all
ups and acrosses
But midnight is not
so easily defeated. I lie in bed, between
a radio and a television set, and hear
the wildest of warwhoops continually ululating through
the glittering canyons and gulches –
police cars and ambulances racing
to the broken bones, the harsh screaming
from coldwater flats, the blood
glazed on sidewalks.

The frontier is never
somewhere else. And no stockades
can keep the midnight out.

ALT

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68d

Mister drags off his box of fireworks to the shore.
Missiz drains her drink and hits the floor
with someone half her age…

—Liz Lochhead, “Fourth of July Fireworks”
published in THREE SCOTTISH POETS: MacCaig • Morgan • Lochhead, @canongatebooks 1992

🇺🇸 🎆

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #FourthofJuly #America250 #IndependenceDay

Fourth of July Fireworks
by Liz Lochhead

The guests are gathered.
Boston-Irish Nancy, half in huff says,
Better help yourselves,
you all know Mister's timing well enough.'
Aside at me she mutters.
'Millionaires can afford to let things wait.
Honest-to-God Mister would be late
for his own funeral.' Cigarstore Indian,
I hide behind my apron, wait and drink in all I can.

(We don't exist. They pick our trays,
Tom Collinses, Martinis and canapés.)

Oh horror, new England night,
when I fetched the ice down and that snake
looped my feet in the kitchen garden! I still shake.
'Harmless,' says Nancy.
I hear her hiss, 'Some host!
That beggar'll only get here when he's sure he's last.'

Fourth of July. Cape Cod. Dead on cue,
last-man Mister comes running to his barbecue.
Arms flailing like a cricketer's across the lawn
from his 'so English' house with a flame red shirt on.

It's the cocktail hour. The air is still.
Mister gets busy on the charcoal grill.
Social-kissing women, backslapping men
has failed to break the ice. But then
Missiz appears like magic from the dusk.
Cool, ten years his junior, she smells of musk

ALT

and 'Madame Rochas'. Two small spots of anger
high on her cheekbones linger.

When Mister says it's done enough
the guests spread ketchup on the fatted calf.
The night hots up. Liquor flows. Listless
couples come alive. A bit apart, restless,
Missiz sways gently on her own
to Glen Miller on the gramophone.
All eyes are on the soignee cling
of this year's leisure favourite, velvety stretch towelling
for patio-party wear. Those purples and electric pinks
'Just far too hectic altogether,' Nancy thinks.

(Ten years with Missiz, Nancy's face
is quite professional, impervious.)

Ice melts in the Martini tray. Midges
drown. The whole night edges
to a thunderstorm. Maybugs big as golfballs thud
as screendoors bounce them. But, after our blood,
divebombing mosquitoes dodge the mesh and slide
in down their own thin whine.
They bite despite insecticide.

All at sea,
white and dayglo orange fins spinnaker the bay.
Music blares
from the jazzed-up clubhouse round the Cape, Cotuit way.
The whole damn town is two thirds empty after Labour Day.
These summer people
migrate to Florida, lock, stock and barrel.
Tonight their parked cars sprawl the drive and trail

ALT

behind those his-and-hers coupled custom Cadillacs
like a comet tail.

(Oh I can see it all quite clearly, feeling small
and stone-cold sober. But I do not count at all.)

Out on the lawn the sprinklers, oddly luminous,
sputter like Roman Candles, ominous
as the sudden snap of queer clear light
from one weird streak unzips the dark.
The German Shepherd guard dogs bark.
A wind gets up. These beach-house boards
are flimsier than playing cards.

(Over the bay, like flares
odd rockets go up with a shock of stars.)

Mister drags off his box of fireworks to the shore.
Missiz drains her drink and hits the floor
with someone half her age. His snake-arms slur
around her waist. Eyes glaze. Sentence endings blur.
Missiz ('mutton dressed as lamb')
comes in slowly as the false-calm
lead-slow sea that slicks the beach. Sinatra sings.
The tide ravels up slowly, shelving things.

Raindrops big as bullets dent the roof we all stand under,
watching Canute's fireworks out-rage the storm,
try to steal its thunder.

ALT

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55d

“PLEASE USE AI” — poem by Joanna Atkins-Potts

Source: hxxps://www.instagram.com/p/DZaR5o_iKNy/

Edited 55d ago

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87d

The true #Filipino #Haiku is called #Diyona (7-7-7).

Sumakay ako ng jeep
Barya lang sa umaga
Kasi walang panukli

#DiyonaChallenge #Philippines #Tula #Poetry #Poem

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87d

The true #Filipino #Haiku is called #Diyona (7-7-7).Sumakay ako ng jeepBarya lang sa umagaKasi walang panukli#DiyonaChallenge #Philippines #Tula #Poetry #Poem

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58d

Heard ye o’ the tree o’ France,
I watna what’s the name o’t;
Around it a’ the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o’t…

—“The Tree of Liberty”, attributed to Robert Burns (disputed). First printed in Chambers’ THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS (1838)

A poem for 🇫🇷 Bastille Day!

1/3

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #RobertBurns #BastilleDay #quatorzejuillet #18thcentury #19thcentury

The Tree of Liberty
attributed to Robert Burns

Heard ye o’ the tree o’ France,
I watna what’s the name o’t;
Around it a’ the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o’t.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition’s hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.

Upo’ this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a’ can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It mak’s him ken himsel, man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He ’s greater than a lord, man,
An’ wi’ the beggar shares a mite
O’ a’ he can afford, man.

This fruit is worth a’ Afric’s wealth:
To comfort us ’twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o’ health,
An’ mak us a’ content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Maks high and low gude friends, man;
And he wha acts the traitor’s part,
It to perdition sends, man.

My blessings aye attend the chiel
Wha pitied Gallia’s slaves, man,
And staw a branch, spite o’ the deil,
Frae yont the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue water’d it wi’ care,
And now she sees wi’ pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.

But vicious folk aye hate to see
The works o’ Virtue thrive, man;
The courtly vermin’s bann’d the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man;
King Loui’ thought to cut it down,
When it was unco sma’, man;
For this the watchman crack’d his crown,
Cut aff his head and a’, man.

A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne’er should flourish to its prime,
I wat they pledged their faith, man.
Awa’ they gaed wi’ mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o’ the trade
And wished they’d been at hame, man.

For Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca’, man.
She sang a sang o’ liberty,
Which pleased them ane and a’, man.

ALT

By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran—her foes gied chase,
And banged the despot weel, man.

Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o’er her neighbours shine, man.
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon ’twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found,
’Twixt London and the Tweed, man.

Without this tree, alake this life
Is but a vale o’ woe, man;
A scene o’ sorrow mixed wi’ strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man;
And a’ the comfort we ’re to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.

Wi’ plenty o’ sic trees, I trow,
The warld would live in peace, man;
The sword would help to mak a plough,
The din o’ war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We’d on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
Wad gladden every isle, man.

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat
Sic halesome dainty cheer, man;
I’d gie the shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
Syne let us pray, auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we’ll sing, and hail the day
That gives us liberty, man.

ALT

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58d

“Scots poets might have a few lessons to teach the French”

In “Towards a Post-Colonial Alliance?”, Paul Malgrati offers some perspectives on Franco-Scots poetry translation, exploring questions of voice, place, & power

🇫🇷🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

https://www.thebottleimp.org.uk/2019/12/towards-a-post-colonial-alliance-some-perspectives-on-franco-scots-poetry-translation/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #language #translation #French #BastilleDay #quatorzejuillet