poem

1y

读过 Who Was Langston Hughes?
https://neodb.social/book/4Bpl1exm8i4ixNxeOk9YY6
这本好玩，学到不少新概念，爵士诗歌、哈林文艺复兴，年轻时被共产主义（作为美国种族隔离的替代）吸引去过苏联和中国，晚年逐渐远离且去政治化。这本是 Gregory Copeland 的插画。
#biography #children #jazz poetry #poem #传记

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1y

读过 Who Was Langston Hughes? 🌕🌕🌕🌕🌑
这本好玩，学到不少新概念，爵士诗歌、哈林文艺复兴，年轻时被共产主义（作为美国种族隔离的替代）吸引去过苏联和中国，晚年逐渐远离且去政治化。这本是 Gregory Copeland 的插画。

#biography #children #jazz poetry #poem #传记

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55d

Rubbing a glistening circle
on the steamed-up window I framed
a pheasant in a field of mist…

—Edwin Morgan, “Aberdeen Train”
published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781784109967

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #ChineseArt #EdwinMorgan #autumn #October

Edwin Morgan
Aberdeen Train

Rubbing a glistening circle
on the steamed-up window I framed
a pheasant in a field of mist.
The sun was a great red thing somewhere low,
struggling with the milky scene. In the furrows
a piece of glass winked into life,
hypnotized the silly dandy; we
hooted past him with his head cocked,
contemplating a bottle-end,
and this was the last of October,
a Chinese moment in the Mearns.

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55d

He telt us his wife had run aff wi Super Mario.
Noo, he wis dinin on the dustbins, dwinin awa
for want o a pouer pill and a braw sheenie cherry…

—Amy Jo Philip, “Pac-Man’s Last Stand”
in DOUBLE BILL (Red Squirrel Press 2014)
🟡 🍒 👻

Happy 45th birthday to Pac-Man!

https://www.redsquirrelpress.com/product-page/double-bill-andy-jackson

#Scottish #literature #PacMan #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #gaming #retrogaming #GoogleDoodle

Pac-Man’s Last Stand
Amy Jo Philip

We funt him dossin in a piss-scented close
oot the back o a defunct arcade,
his canary coupon dulled fae dool and stour
tae say naething o the bargain booze he swallied
fae a bottle happed in a broun paper poke.

He telt us his wife had run aff wi Super Mario.
Noo, he wis dinin on the dustbins, dwinin awa
for want o a pouer pill and a braw sheenie cherry;
in a constant, feartie, blootered dwam
o Inky, Blinky, Pinky and even Clyde closin in

for the kill. Haurdly a shaddae o his auld sel.
The worst o it wis, every time he yawned
his gub wid gant that wee tait wider till it seemed
he’d fauld in on hissel and the air aroun him growe
shairp wi they twa wirds ilka gamer dreids.

Naiturally, we taen him hame wi’s and fed him up
on spare fou stops, Morellos and tartrazine.
Man, ye shuid hae seen thon appetite!
The trouble stairted wi a toattie bite taen out
the sofa. Afore lang, the living room was a guddle

o sawdust, torn swatches and chowed wires. Im gey feart
he’ll soon hae eaten us oot o hous and hauld.
And that’s whaur youse come in. A puckle wee ghosties
dinnae fleg me, but yon yellae golach’s anither story.
The doors and windaes is aw locked. He’ll no suspect a thing.

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54d

Someone was playing the piano when suddenly
there they were standing in the room.
They would not sing or speak or tell their names.
Their skull faces blankly shifted round
as if they were studying us implacably…

—Iain Crichton Smith, “Halloween”
first published in the TLS (1982)

#Scottish #literature #Halloween #poem #poetry #20thcentury

Halloween
Iain Crichton Smith

Someone was playing the piano when suddenly
there they were standing in the room.
They would not sing or speak or tell their names.
Their skull faces blankly shifted round
as if they were studying us implacably.

“Yokels”, one thought. “Rustics”, thought another;
and truly they had trudged in out of the rain
with their masks, tall and white and bony-looking.
“Macbeth”, someone said, and someone “Hamlet”.
Or perhaps at least the “Elegy” by Gray.

The rain drummed on the roof and they were gone
in their muddy boots, squelching past cowering doors.
We looked at each other. It was graveyard time
as our black ties on our white shirts might say.

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54d

The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep, & lang the thunder bellow’d:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand…

—Robert Burns’s “Tam o’ Shanter”, read by Hamish MacDonald; illustrations by Gary Welsh

Happy Halloween!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GAqVwCa_x5o

#Scottish #literature #Halloween #poem #poetry #18thcentury #witch #witches #supernatural #folklore

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54d

A boannie nicht for castin kale:
a fat mön vaegin owre Sannis,
a hale gadderie o laads an lasses…

—Christine De Luca, “Hallowe’en Hansel”
published in WAST WI DA VALKYRIES

Listen to Christine reading her poems online here

https://www.christinedeluca.co.uk/pages/wast_wi_da_valkyries

#Scottish #literature #Shetland #Halloween #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #Shetlandic

A dark-blue postcard. In the top-left corner is a spider's web; in the bottom right there's a bubbling cauldron. The postcard has the following poem in white text:

Hallowe'en hansel
bi Christine De Luca

A boannie nicht for castin kale:
a fat mön vaegin owre Sannis,
a hale gadderie o laads an lasses.

A spree i der blöd,
laads loupit dykes
purled kale-stocks
iggit een anidder on
ripe da rigs
hunse fur hens
whit a stramash
an dan da dash
tae a porch door
lift da sneck
ball in da booty
rin like da mellishon
dunna look back.

But dee an me
pooskered wi da bassel
fell ahint ta draa breath,
taste wir first smoorikin.
But aa I can mind is da mön
gaffin at me in mi cöttikins
wis ahint a uncan barn
an dy blate hansel
anunder a kendlin o starns.

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52d

Rising in November in these days of dusk
I am one life older, watching now as the walls
green over, the stones break into bud;
if this is ebb-tide turned to flood it means that
nightfall might begin again at dawn.
And so it does…

—Robin Robertson, “Crossing the Archipelago”
published in SAILING THE FOREST (Picador, 2014)

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/robin-robertson/sailing-the-forest/9781447231554

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #November

Crossing the Archipelago
Robin Robertson

Rising in November in these days of dusk
I am one life older, watching now as the walls
green over, the stones break into bud;
if this is ebb-tide turned to flood it means that
nightfall might begin again at dawn.
And so it does. The sea at Djurgården is a mirror
of lost light. I watch snowflakes fall on water,
transparent as tissue, melting back to nothing,
the black water’s endless echo of the night.
A diminished life turns turtle and the day breaks
like a spell; to double back on this, through
ash and silver birch, to that extinguished past, a world
that’s over, will wreck me. Hopeless to return
now: my future lit by bridges, and their burning.

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50d

Mind that night in November, the pair of us
bursting from Mareel like late-comers
to the cinema-dark of the evening.
How we nearly missed it, the other show
that night: the aurora, the dancers, unspooling
their reels of green across the sky…

—Roseanne Watt, “Mareel”
published in MODER DY (Polygon, 2019)

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/moder-dy/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Shetland #November #auroraborealis

Mareel
by Roseanne Watt

Mind that night in November, the pair of us
bursting from Mareel like late-comers
to the cinema-dark of the evening.
How we nearly missed it, the other show
that night: the aurora, the dancers, unspooling
their reels of green across the sky, despite
a bone-bright moon in the south. Mind
how the waves in Hay’s Dock lit up with this
borrowed phosphorescence, and we skirled
at the spectacle of it all; a sky of light, a sea of sky,
and behind us, the noost of Mareel,
its north-pointed prow.

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49d

Roch the wind in the clear day’s dawin
Blaws the cloods heelster-gowdie ow’r the bay,
But there’s mair nor a roch wind blawin
Through the great glen o’ the warld the day…

—Hamish Henderson, “The Freedom Come-All-Ye”
Published in The Golden Treasury of Scottish Verse, @canongatebooks

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #song #HamishHenderson #20thcentury #change #hope

The Freedom Come-All-Ye
Hamish Henderson

Roch the wind in the clear day’s dawin
Blaws the cloods heelster-gowdie ow’r the bay,
But there’s mair nor a roch wind blawin
Through the great glen o’ the warld the day.
It’s a thocht that will gar oor rottans
– A’ they rogues that gang gallus, fresh and gay –
Tak the road, and seek ither loanins
For their ill ploys, tae sport and play

Nae mair will the bonnie callants
Mairch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw,
Nor wee weans frae pit-heid and clachan
Mourn the ships sailin’ doon the Broomielaw.
Broken faimlies in lands we’ve herriet,
Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair;
Black and white, ane til ither mairriet,
Mak the vile barracks o’ their maisters bare.

So come all ye at hame wi’ Freedom,
Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom.
In your hoose a’ the bairns o’ Adam
Can find breid, barley-bree and painted room.
When MacLean meets wi’s freens in Springburn
A’ the roses and geans will turn tae bloom,
And a black boy frae yont Nyanga
Dings the fell gallows o’ the burghers doon.

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13d

But in the climbing ecstasy of thought,
Ere consummation, ere the final peak,
Come hours like this…

—Nan Shepherd, “Summit of Coire Etchachan”
published in WANDERERS: A History of Women Walking, by Kerri Andrews

Today, 11 December, is International Mountain Day

https://www.un.org/en/observances/mountain-day

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #mountains #cairngorms #NanShepherd #climbing #20thcentury #womenwriters #naturewriting #InternationalMountainDay

Summit of Coire Etchachan
Nan Shepherd

But in the climbing ecstasy of thought,
Ere consummation, ere the final peak,
Come hours like this. Behind, the long defile,
The steep rock-path, alongside which, from under
Snow-caves, sharp-corniced, tumble the ice-cold waters.
And now, here, at the corrie’s summit, no peak,
No vision of the blue world, far, unattainable,
But this grey plateau, rock-strewn, vast, silent,
The dark loch, the toiling crags, the snow;
A mountain shut within itself, yet a world,
Immensity. So may the mind achieve,
Toiling, no vision of the infinite,
But a vast, dark and inscrutable sense
Of its own terror, its own glory and power.

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51d

Nam bhodach liath a-nis
a’ streap gu mullach a bhràighe,
chan eil mi a’ còrdadh riut, a Llywarch,
mun bhata càm is riatanach gach là…

—Uilleam Nèill, “Freagairt Do Llywarch Hen”
published in FRIENDS & KANGAROOS: New Writing Scotland 17 (ASL, 1999)

(Llywarch Hen, c.534–608 CE, was an early Welsh poet & prince of Rheged, who complained about his advancing age & dependence on his walking stick)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Gaelic #Gaidhlig #Welsh #CelticStudies

Freagairt Do Llywarch Hen
Uilleam Nèill

Nam bhodach liath a-nis
a’ streap gu mullach a bhràighe,
chan eil mi a’ còrdadh riut, a Llywarch,
mun bhata càm is riatanach gach là.
Bha mi ro-dheiseil le cainnt, gu dearbh
aig amannan a’ feannadh amadan
ro-thric le smùid orm san taigh-òsd’.
Chan eil a’ chlann-nighean a’ toirt sùil orm
ach cò gheibh cron dhaibh, na luaidhean
is mise mar fheòil righinn an seiche liurcach.
Co-dhiù tha mi nis saor bho na geimhlean
is mo cheangal don chuthaich sin.
Ach tha am bata uinnsinn a’ fàs
na charaid dìleas dhomhsa
fhad’s a chuireas mi grèim
air a cheann càm is làidir
a chumas taic rium gu càirdeil
le bhachall dìreach daingeann
a mhaireas, is dòcha, nas fhaide na mi fhìn.
Is tha mi taingeil gur troimh a thoil fhiodha
chì mi a-rithist, theagamh
earrach uaine is samhradh,
foghar òir is donn,
mus tig mo gheamhradh dorcha deireannach.

Answer to Llywarch Hen
William Neill

A grey old man now
climbing to the braehead
I don't agree with you, Llywarch,
about the necessary walking stick each day.
I was too ready with my tongue at times, it's true,
for the flaying of fools
often with a drink taken in the inn.
The girls no longer cast an eye on me
but who would blame them, the dears
and me like tough meat in a wrinkled hide.
At any rate I am free from those gyves
and no longer chained to that madness
but the ash-stick has become
a faithful friend to me
as long as I keep hold of his strong bent head
that supports me in a friendly fashion with a straight, strong stave
that will doubtless last longer than myself.
And I am thankful that by his wooden wish
I may see again, perhaps,
green spring and summer
gold and russet autumn
before my last dark winter comes.

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49d

Fog shroud
and clouds
(when the clock
chimed late
in the heavy
November night-
time) lifting
the mystery
for a greater…

—Edwin Morgan, “Guy Fawkes Moon”
published in COLLECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 1997)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #GuyFawkes #BonfireNight #November5th

Guy Fawkes Moon
Edwin Morgan

Fog shroud
and clouds
(when the clock
chimed late
in the heavy
November night-
time) lifting
the mystery
for a greater
drifted
off a whole
white full
moon pitched
above the white
thin chimney-
stalk of the
new Dawsholm
incinerator –
as if the piled
rags Glasgow
rubbish rusted
bedsprings bent
hair-rollers blood-
caked saddles of
crumpled Hondas
and sorry lunch-
box plastic
nests of cracks
and crumbs had
all become
a moon of smoke
and the real moon
a César moon
in a car-crusher
was now the Odeon
bulking greyly
with its sleeping stars
in reels by
the firework field.

And sparklers raced
between moons
and squeals –
and red rockets
mufflers matches
and up in smoke
far from school.

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49d

The mighty Mavors, jealous to behold
A Mars more mighty nor himself below,
Did once resolve his rivall to ore’throw…

—Sir Robert Ayton (1569–1638), “Upon the 5th of November”
published in JACOBEAN PARNASSUS: Scottish Poetry from the Reign of James I (ASL, 2022)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #17thcentury #EarlyModern #BonfireNight #GuyFawkes #Jacobean #5thNovember

Robert Ayton
Upon the 5th of November

The mighty Mavors, jealous to behold
A Mars more mighty nor himself below,
Did once resolve his rivall to ore’throw
By assassins, whome open force made bold.
But finding there that open force did fold
Under the princely valour of his foe,
Hee then determin’d to assayle him soe
As noe defence should his offence withhold.
Thus comes he downe to Plutoes pale abode,
And there for fyre and brimstone straight doth call,
Wherewith he thinks to play the thundering god,
And make the world admire his ryvall’s fall.
But sease, fond Mars, to make the world to wonder;
Ten thousand lawrells save’s our Mars from thunder.

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1y

"The World Is On Fire" is a spontaneously composed, unedited poem by Stan Stewart. Because it is improvised, you know it's from his heart.
#improv #poem #world #fire

https://muz4now.com/2024/the-world-is-on-fire-an-improv-poem/

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56d

Dod! – that’s him nou – eik up the byne;
afore the hairth, his claen sark hing:
pit claes is waffin on the line;
merle on a rowan singin fine.

—David Purdie, “Merle on a Rowan”

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/merle-rowan/

#Scottish #literature #Scotstober #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage

Merle on a Rowan
David Purdie

Pit claes is waffin on the line,
sinlicht’s keekin ower the bing;
merle on a rowan singin fine.

A braw souch’s blawin, aathin’s fine,
an wi the merle I stert tae sing;
pit claes is waffin on the line.

Himsel wull be hame ony time,
frae pit mirk, stour an dunt an ding;
merle on a rowan singin fine.

He’s late the day, that man o mine . . .
Ach! dinna lat ma thochts tak wing,
no wi pit claes on the line!

Bit . . . Da wis late, yon shift lang syne,
o seiren’s gowl and deid bell’s ring,
an merles on rowans singin fine . . .

Dod! – that’s him nou – eik up the byne;
afore the hairth, his claen sark hing:
pit claes is waffin on the line;
merle on a rowan singin fine.

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48d

Walking in a waking dream
I watched nineteen deer
pour from ridge to glen-floor,
then each in turn leap,
leap the new-raised
peat-dark burn…

—Kathleen Jamie, “The Hinds”
from THE BONNIEST COMPANIE (Picador, 2015)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #naturepoetry #deer

The Hinds
Kathleen Jamie

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

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12d

Learn from this picture how we journey in this world
Slithering as we go, the foolish and the wise…

—John Burnside, “Pieter Brueghel: Winter Landscape with Skaters and a Bird Trap, 1565”
from BLACK CAT BONE (Jonathan Cape, 2011)

https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/412331/black-cat-bone-by-john-burnside/9780224093859

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #art #visualart #Bruegel #winter #JohnBurnside

John Burnside
Pieter Brueghel: Winter Landscape with Skaters and a Bird Trap, 1565

Learn from this picture how we journey in this world
Slithering as we go, the foolish and the wise

We have to imagine the duties they leave behind
for the thrill of the river,
the kitchens and middens, the sheepfolds and clouded byres,
the old folk in their sick beds
mumbling prayers.

The day is bright
and this is their escape
from hardship,
but each has his private hurt, her secret dread:
the man who starts thirsty and tired, his body soured
with last nights schnapps,
then skates out to the bridge at breakneck speed,
away from the loveless matron he’s had to endure
for decades; the woman in blue and grey, keeping pace with her child,
untroubled for now, but never released from the fear
that her husband will catch her wasting his precious time
and beat her as he’s beaten her for years,
the moment he gets her home.

At midstream, the children play
with makeshift hockey sticks and, near the church,
a man finds the thoughtless grace
of the boy he once was
to glide free
in the very eye of heaven;
it could be simple – paradise foreseen –
but up on the rightmost bank, amid thorns and briars,

someone has built a bird trap from a plank
set on a perch, from which a length of rope
snakes to a half-closed door,
and all around it, birds dip from the air,
starlings and fieldfares, redwings, unaware
of any danger.

It seems a fable and perhaps it is:
we live in peril, die from happenstance,
a casual slip, a fault line in the ice;
but surely it’s the other thought that matters,
the sense that, now and then, there’s still a chance
a man might slide towards an old
belonging, momentarily involved
in nothing but the present, skating out
towards a white
horizon, fair
and gifted with the grace
to skate forever, slithering as he goes,
but hazarding a guess that someone else
is close beside him, other to his other.

A 1565 oil painting on an oak panel, attributed to the Flemish painter Pieter Bruegel the Elder. It shows a village scene where numerous small people skate on a frozen river, while on the right among trees and bushes, birds gather around a bird trap – a heavy wooden board propped up on a single stick, with a few crumbs underneath the board. A string is attached to the stick and leads off to a small dark hole in a wall at the very edge of the painting.

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1y

Sniff
Baking
Cookie smell
Grandma's cooking
Unmistakable -
Rich tantalising scents
Resistance impossible
Heaven - a moment on that tray
Fingers poised, waiting for approval
Once we have seized the day, all that's left - crumbs!

#Cookie #MastoPrompt #Etheree #Poem #Poetry #MicroPoems #WritingCommunity #PoetryCommunity

Toffee and Chocolate chip cookies cooling on a wire rack

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46d

The bell that tolls my syllables can tell
An underwater tale, clang how there fell
Suddenly out of a surface shouting world
Into dumb calm doomed children…

—“S.S. City of Benares”, by George Sutherland Fraser (1915–1980) – born #OTD, 8 Nov.

On 18 September, 1940, at one minute past midnight, the SS CITY OF BENARES was torpedoed in the Atlantic. Of 134 passengers, 90 were child refugees bound for Canada. Only 13 children survived.

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WarPoetry #WW2 #refugees

G.S. Fraser
S.S. City of Benares
(Drowned refugee children, 1940)

The bell that tolls my syllables can tell
An underwater tale, clang how there fell
Suddenly out of a surface shouting world
Into dumb calm doomed children, and there curled
(Currents’ sick fingers whispering at their hair)
Round them a coiling clutch, was our despair.
Sea’s soft sad pressure, like the sprawl of love,
Darkly spreadeagled, so they could not move,
The wide wet mouth was heavy, they would choke,
Till in that cold confusion pity spoke:
“This is a nightmare and one is asleep.
This is a dream, my brave one, do not weep,
Often may drown in dreams and not be dead:
Such weight is mother leaning on your bed.”

But having thought of this to cheat my pain,
That woe and wonder harrows me again,
Fat clouds seem bulked like whales, while through the green
Grave tons of twilight, in a submarine
Solidity of air like sea I move,
Pressure of horror how our hate hurts love.
Deeper than grief can plummet, mercy lies,
But not so deep as trust in children’s eyes,
Justice is high in heaven, but more high
Blood of the innocent shall smear the sky—
Or think that red the flame of seraph wings,
See stained-glass heaven, where each darling sings
In God’s dark luminous world of green and gold
As lovely as death’s waters, but less cold:
Think what you will, but like the crisping leaf
In whipped October, crack your thoughts to grief.
In the drenched valley, whimpering and cold,
The small ghosts flicker, whisper, unconsoled.

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45d

When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you’ll remember. For you need not so…

—Charles Hamilton Sorley (1895–1915)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47427/when-you-see-millions-of-the-mouthless-dead

#RemembranceSunday #Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW1

“When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead”
by Charles Hamilton Sorley

When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you’ll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,
“Yet many a better one has died before.”
Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.

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45d

Past life, past tears, far past the grave,
The tryst is set for me,
Since, for our all, your all you gave
On the slopes of Picardy…

—Violet Jacob, “To A.H.J.”

Violet Jacob’s only son, Harry, was killed at the Battle of the Somme on 16 July 1916, aged 20

https://www.cwgc.org/find-records/find-war-dead/casualty-details/502598/arthur-henry-augustus-jacob/

#RemembranceSunday #Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW1

Violet Jacob
“To A.H.J.”

Past life, past tears, far past the grave,‍‍
‍‍‍‍The tryst is set for me,
Since, for our all, your all you gave‍‍
‍‍‍‍On the slopes of Picardy.

On Angus, in the autumn nights,‍‍
‍‍‍‍The ice-green light shall lie.
Beyond the trees the Northern Lights‍‍
‍‍‍‍Slant on the belts of sky.

But miles on miles from Scottish soil‍‍
‍‍‍‍You sleep, past war and scaith,
Your country’s freedman, loosed from toil.‍‍
‍‍‍‍In honour and in faith.

For Angus held you in her spell,
‍‍‍‍Her Grampians, faint and blue,
Her ways, the speech you knew so well,
‍‍‍‍Were half the world to you.

Yet rest, my son; our souls are those‍‍
‍‍‍‍Nor time nor death can part,
And lie you proudly, folded close‍‍
‍‍‍‍To France’s deathless heart.

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45d

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

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

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

Sorley MacLean was severely wounded at El Alamein, 1942

#RemembranceSunday #Scottish #literature #Gaelic #Gaidhlig #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW2

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.

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.

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45d

He lacks the ordnance of words.
A self-portrait shows
stitches where his mouth should be;
eyes like empty casings.
He left a part of himself in the desert,
this ultra-Marine…

—Sandra Ireland, “Ultramarine”
published in New Writing Scotland 36 (2018)

#RemembranceSunday #Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #trauma

Sandra Ireland
Ultramarine

Trauma can affect the non-verbal
part of the brain. Art can free feelings of loss
and grief and pain from the subconscious,
aiding vocalisation.

He lacks the ordnance of words.
A self-portrait shows
stitches where his mouth should be;
eyes like empty casings.
He left a part of himself
in the desert,
this ultra-Marine,
the part which glows
Tyrian Purple.

Now he is bone black inside;
loaded with dark pigment;
aggregates
to be ground down and
made smooth with linseed words.
Time heals.
Give yourself time.

Time is just a jumbled mix
on his palette;
there was a lot of ochre out there,
and green earth and
sometimes, now he’s home,
he feels the trickle
of warm vermilion
seeping into
his boots.

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44d

Ravens are kekklin’ prophecies o’ woe,
Pyots in black an’ white spiel superstitions,
The rooks mak’ bedlam i’ the elms below,
An’ saft-winged hoolets plan their midnicht missions…

—Helen Cruickshank, “Corstorphine Woods”
pulished in A KIST O SKINKLAN THINGS (ASL, 2017)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #naturewriting

Helen Cruickshank
Corstorphine Woods

Ravens are kekklin’ prophecies o’ woe,
Pyots in black an’ white spiel superstitions,
The rooks mak’ bedlam i’ the elms below,
An’ saft-winged hoolets plan their midnicht missions.

Amang the haws an’ brambles whinchats clink,
The blue-tits flit amang their ferny covers,
The greedy gulls ahint the ploo-tail sink,
An’ hidden cushats croodle low like lovers.

Heich i’ the frosty air, uneirdly cries
Tell that a gaggle o’ wild geese are flightin’—
Luik! there they are against the parchment skies,
Like movin’ brush o’ ancient Chinese writin’.

Near hame, the ruif-heid raws o’ stirlins haud
Their evenin’ guild o’ scandal and o’ chatter,
And sparrows, randy gossips, rogue or jaud,
Scavenge their hindmost crumb wi’ fuss an’ clatter.

And, as I roond the corner, best of a’,
The mavis, singing on my gavel wa’—
Happy am I, altho’ I bide my lane,
To ha’e a singin’ hert that’s a’ my ain.

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