Eggplant.place

33d

What innocence? Whose guilt? What eyes? Whose breast?
Crumpled orphan, nembutal bed,
white hearse, Los Angeles…

—Edwin Morgan, “The Death of Marilyn Monroe”
published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

The funeral of Marilyn Monroe (1926–1962) took place #OTD, 8 August, 1962

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #MarilynMonroe

Edwin Morgan
The Death of Marilyn Monroe

What innocence? Whose guilt? What eyes? Whose breast?
Crumpled orphan, nembutal bed,
white hearse, Los Angeles,
DiMaggio! Los Angeles! Miller! Los Angeles! America!
That Death should seem the only protector –
That all arms should have faded, and the great cameras and lights
become an inquisition and a torment –
That the many acquaintances, the autograph-hunters, the
inflexible directors, the drive-in admirers should become
a blur of incomprehension and pain –
That lonely Uncertainty should limp up, grinning, with
bewildering barbiturates, and watch her undress and lie
down and in her anguish
call for him! call for him to strengthen her with what could
only dissolve her! A method
of dying, we are shaken, we see it. Strasberg!
Los Angeles! Olivier! Los Angeles! Others die
and yet by this death we are a little shaken, we feel it,
America.
Let no one say communication is a cantword.
They had to lift her hand from the bedside telephone.
But what she had not been able to say
perhaps she had said. “All I had was my life.
I have no regrets, because if I made
any mistakes, I was responsible.
There is now – and there is the future.
What has happened is behind. So
it follows you around? So what?” – This
to a friend, ten days before.
And so she was responsible.
And if she was not responsible, not wholly responsible, Los Angeles?
Los Angeles? Will it follow you around? Will the slow
white hearse of the child of America follow you around?

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117d

The English poet Roger McGough sends readers’ eyes travelling to and fro the way a tennis ball would across a net when they read 40-Love. Indeed, the poem itself – like the “middle aged couple” he writes about – is split by such a ‘net.’

#poetry #reading #Love #poem #poet #McGough #graficpoem #poems #bookstodon @bookstodon #books #book #poemaday #poetrycommunity #pictures #readers #readersofmastodon #booksky #bookish #BookTok #bookclub #readit #Bookwyrm #tennis #booklovers

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117d

Wring the Scottish rain clouds dry;
Take sleet, the driving snow, the hail;
Winter twilight; the summer’s sun slowed down
to pearl-sheen dusk on hillsides, city-roofs,
on lochs at midnight.
And, most of all, take the years that have already run
to dust, the dust we spill behind us…

—Ron Butlin, “A Recipe for Whisky”
published in WITHOUT A BACKWARD GLANCE (Barzan 2005)

Today, 17 May, is World Whisky Day 🥃
Slàinte mhath!

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #whisky #WorldWhiskyDay

A Recipe for Whisky
Ron Butlin

Wring the Scottish rain clouds dry;
Take sleet, the driving snow, the hail;
Winter twilight; the summer’s sun slowed down
to pearl-sheen dusk on hillsides, city-roofs,
on lochs at midnight.
And, most of all, take the years that have already run
to dust, the dust we spill behind us . . .

All this, distill. And cask. And wait.
The senselessness of human things resolves
to who we are – our present fate.
Let’s taste, let’s savour and enjoy.
Let’s share once more.
Another glass for absent friends. Pour
until the bottle’s done.

Here’s life! Here’s courage to go on!

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117d

THE CITY IS A MAGIC SCULPTURE OF
THE GROUP MIND THE CITY IS A
MYSTIC DREAM OF FOREST MEMORY\
WALLS ARE THE LAST GASP OF FAILING
IDEOLOGIES…

—Robert Montgomery, billboard poem

https://www.robertmontgomery.org/b6hov0ii4s1uuvhwr33vbfj0ihu8hj

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #art #visualart #billboard

$A street corner in Shoreditch, London, UK. A white billboard stands above a single-storey building on the corner. The street curves away, with a black sign saying "24hr CAR WASH in yellow letters, and a lamp-post carries a speed-limit sign reading "20 ZONE". A young woman is crossing the street, possibly holding something in her arms. She is wearing a red shirt, a grey tank-top and an orange skirt. A couple of other people can be seen further down the street, standing on the pavements and talking to each other. Beyond the billboard we can see some trees, and a red-brick wall, possibly sheltering a low-level train line. Further in the distance, beyond the wall, a slender modern multi-storey building of glass and concrete rises up against a pale grey sky. The white billboard has large black capital letters on it. They read: THE CITY IS A MAGIC SCULPTURE OF THE GROUP MIND THE CITY IS A MYSTIC DREAM OF FOREST MEMORY\ WALLS ARE THE LAST GASP OF FAILING IDEOLOGIES | FROM THE NEW GENERA- TION A PSYCHIC LOVE WAVE WILL EX- PLODE ACROSS ALL COUNTRIES \ IMMI- GRANTS WILL BE HUGGED IN THE STRE- ETS /YOU WILL RISE IN AIR BALLOONS/ THE FUTURE IS A RISK OF OUR HEARTS Below the billboard is another poster, the same width as the billboard, but black, with white lettering. The letters get bigger, running the full width of the poster. The poster reads: THE FUTURE IS AN INVISIBLE PLAYGROUND/ YA NO SOMOS TUS SIERVOS /NO PASARAN |$

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Edited 117d ago

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108d

Like all those red-faced boys
in brand-new football strips

dribbling a ball around
in a circle of streetlight

or practicing their footwork
in the park

in Cowdenbeath, Arbroath,
Kirkcudbright, Govan,

I wanted the triumph of willpower
over strength

grace over
money…

—John Burnside, “Euro 96: A Fan’s Farewell”

A poem for World Football Day ⚽

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #JohnBurnside #football #soccer #WorldFootballDay

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108d

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”

A poem for World Football Day ⚽

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #football #soccer #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #WorldFootballDay

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.

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80d

Having glided smoothly upwards –

Up ...!
And up ...!
And up ...!

Behold, Tony Blair standing where he should be –
poised sixty years and more above
the city of his birth…

—Ron Butlin, “Tony Blair’s Butterfly Effect”
published in THE MAGICIANS OF SCOTLAND (Birlinn, 2015)

Listen to Ron Butlin read this poem on the Poetry Archive:

https://poetryarchive.org/poem/tony-blairs-butterfly-effect/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #PimeMinister #TonyBlair #ButterflyEffect

ALT

Tony Blair’s butterfly effect – when these wings beat,
distant city walls tumble,
men, women and children die.

ALT

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107d

I see the old woman behind the flowering broom.
I have followed her from poem to poem …

—Iain Crichton Smith, “Old Woman”
published in Deer on the High Hills: Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2021)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781800170940/deer-on-the-high-hills/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury

Old Woman
Iain Crichton Smith

I see the old woman behind the flowering broom.
I have followed her from poem to poem

and her grey coat is almost hidden by that yellow and red
on a May day with white clouds overhead

billowing with pillows. Yes, she carries her bag
home from the village shop.
And behind her a stag

in my imagination rears its magnificent head
out of the stones and flowers and small hills of the dead.

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81d

Whatever the difference is, it all began
the day we woke up face-to-face like lovers
and his four-day-old smile dawned on him again,
possessed him, till it would not fall or waver…

—Don Paterson, “Waking with Russell”
Selected Poems (Faber, 2012)

A poem for Father’s Day

https://www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571281800-selected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Father #FathersDay

Waking with Russell
by Don Paterson

Whatever the difference is, it all began
the day we woke up face-to-face like lovers
and his four-day-old smile dawned on him again,
possessed him, till it would not fall or waver;
and I pitched back not my old hard-pressed grin
but his own smile, or one I’d rediscovered.
Dear son, I was mezzo del cammin
and the true path was as lost to me as ever
when you cut in front and lit it as you ran.
See how the true gift never leaves the giver:
returned and redelivered, it rolled on
until the smile poured through us like a river.
How fine, I thought, this waking amongst men!
I kissed your mouth and pledged myself forever.

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81d

Fade then, light; but longing never will.
Midsummer makes the west spectacular
and even gives its last glow a show
of reluctance, as if it had postponed
midnight…

—Edwin Morgan, “21 June”
Published in CATHURES (Carcanet, 2002)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781857546170/cathures/

#Scottish #literature #midsummer #poem #poetry

Edwin Morgan
21 June

Fade then, light; but longing never will.
Midsummer makes the west spectacular
and even gives its last glow a show
of reluctance, as if it had postponed
midnight. But midnight is too faithful.
You're back among the black, the black,
you're down and fit to drown, to drown,
you're padding into nightmare town.
You haven't got a house, a bed-light,
there are no clocks or telephones out there,
you are on your own, you have a large panic
waiting to break through your chest, you are panting,
you count, as it arrives, each brimming pang.
What a clutch of sheets! What a parody of pain!

The longest day, the night is not so long.
You fling back the curtains, the morning sky
is like a meadow. What is it you want?
I don't know. You cannot walk there. No.
So what do you want? The morning, perhaps,
and then I want the day, another day.

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81d

Dheigheadh sinn a dh’iasgach,
mi fhèin is m’ athair,
is lìonadh sinn an eathar le
peilichean de rionnach, liutha,
is dheigheadh sinn timcheall a’ bhaile
gu gach nàbaidh gus am biodh na peilichean falamh…

—Iain MacRath, “Dheigheadh sinn a dh’iasgach”
published in Don’t. Even. Ask. Too. Hot.: New Writing Scotland 42 (ASL, 2024)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws42/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #fathers #FathersDay

Iain MacRath
Dheigheadh sinn a dh’iasgach

Dheigheadh sinn a dh’iasgach,
mi fhèin is m’ athair,
is lìonadh sinn an eathar le
peilichean de rionnach, liutha,
is dheigheadh sinn timcheall a’ bhaile
gu gach nàbaidh gus am biodh na peilichean falamh.
Chunnaic mi m’ athair an raoir,
ged a chaochail e o chionn fichead bliadhna.
Chunnaic mi air na naidheachdan e
seacaid-teasairginn timcheall air
is an eathar làn,
làn de dhaoine.

ALT

Iain MacRae
We’d go fishing

We’d go fishing,
me and my father,
and we’d fill the dinghy
with pails of mackerel, lythe,
and we’d go round the village
to each neighbour till each pail was empty.
I saw my father last night,
though he died some twenty years ago.
I saw him on the news
a safety jacket around him
and the dinghy full,
full of people.

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81d

the back-en turnt grey
the colourt wuids wis wae an wan
ye’d taen the auld auld road, man
an left the rosie leaf ahint…

—Brian Holton, “For Ma Faither”
1st Prize winner for Scots in the inaugural Tannahill Poetry Competition, 2017

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/for-ma-faither/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #fathers #FathersDay #Scots #Scotslanguage

For Ma Faither
Brian Holton

In Memoriam Cyril Stanley Holton

the back-en turnt grey
the colourt wuids wis wae an wan
ye’d taen the auld auld road, man
an left the rosie leaf ahint
the spring wis late o comin
nae heat, nae graith wis gien ti the hill
an aa the wells o christentie cudna slocken
the drouth at cam an checkt oor season then
nae cauldrife bed for you, man, reishlt wi the wund
ye tuik the simmer’s lang white road
whaur lichtsome hills is daft wi sang
an siller watter rummles doun the linn
the herd hed come ti lead ye in
to set ye on yir auld white road
the birselt hill abune ye, the sweit upon yir brou
rinnin doun the tropic road yir lane
A mind ye yet, ye chairmer, an mercy me
in ither airts oo’ll aiblins meet, afore lang gae –
a gairden mebbes, whaur ye’ll turn an fauld uis,
ma weill-luvit an ma absent dear
ma gowd wis turnt ti bress then
an aa ma joys wis turn ti leid
in the birselt wearie days o hairst-en
ye tuik the bitter road, the auld white road, an ran
the back-en wis grey as stane, man,
the colourt wuids wis pale an wan
ye tuik the auld auld road, man
an aa yir warkin days wis dune

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81d

Lying asleep walking
Last night I met my father
Who seemed pleased to see me.
He wanted to speak. I saw
His mouth saying something
But the dream had no sound…

—W.S. Graham, “To Alexander Graham”
published in Collected Poems 1942–1977 (Faber, 1979)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48732/to-alexander-graham

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #fathers #FathersDay

To Alexander Graham
by W. S. Graham

Lying asleep walking
Last night I met my father
Who seemed pleased to see me.
He wanted to speak. I saw
His mouth saying something
But the dream had no sound.

We were surrounded by
Laid-up paddle steamers
In The Old Quay in Greenock.
I smelt the tar and the ropes.

It seemed that I was standing
Beside the big iron cannon
The tugs used to tie up to
When I was a boy. I turned
To see Dad standing just
Across the causeway under
That one lamp they keep on.

He recognised me immediately.
I could see that. He was
The handsome, same age
With his good brows as when
He would take me on Sundays
Saying we’ll go for a walk.

Dad, what am I doing here?
What is it I am doing now?
Are you proud of me?
Going away, I knew
You wanted to tell me something.

You stopped and almost turned back
To say something. My father,
I try to be the best
In you you give me always.

Lying asleep turning
Round in the quay-lit dark
It was my father standing
As real as life. I smelt
The quay’s tar and the ropes.

I think he wanted to speak.
But the dream had no sound.
I think I must have loved him.

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81d

I hate midsummer in the north.
There’s no night to speak of,
just day in and day in
with maybe a slight hesitancy
about two o’clock in the morning…

—Alasdair Maclean, “I Hate Midsummer in the North”
published in FROM THE WILDERNESS (Gollancz, 1973)

#Scottish #literature #midsummer #poem #poetry

I Hate Midsummer in the North
by Alasdair Maclean

I hate midsummer in the north.
There’s no night to speak of,
just day in and day in
with maybe a slight hesitancy
about two o’clock in the morning.

The sun’s at work continually,
zooming in from some part of the sky,
at some angle or another. In time
it penetrates the thickest skull. In time
it levels up the most forbidding brow.

Light pours down. It makes thing clear.
I see there’s only one world
after all, and it’s a hot one
and a bright one. My hayfield
curls up at the corners. My lips, too.

While the days swagger, elbow one another,
I wait, with what sadness I can muster.
This white weather doesn’t suit me,
I think. I get fatter all the time.
For weeks I live off my stored darkness.

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105d

Into perplexity: as an itch chased round
an oxter or early man in the cave mouth
watching rain-drifts pour from beyond

his understanding…

—“The Beautiful”, by Roddy Lumsden (1966–2020) – born #OTD, 28 May. A 🎂 🧵
from POETRY magazine, Dec 2008

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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/51938/the-beautiful

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #RoddyLumsden

The Beautiful
by Roddy Lumsden

Into perplexity: as an itch chased round
an oxter or early man in the cave mouth
watching rain-drifts pour from beyond

his understanding. Whether to admire
the mere sensation, enough, or hold out
for sweeter ornament, vessels of wonder

born with that ur-charm of symmetry;
lovely ones we ache to prize and praise,
climb into and become because they try

our day-by-day significance: some of us
ugly and most of us plain, walked past
in the drowned streets: pearls of paste,

salted butter, secondary colors. They
drift unapproached, gazed never-selves,
blunt paragons of genetic industry. We

desire them but cannot want such order.
We stand, mouths open, and cannot help
stammering our secrets, nailed to water.

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104d

Shel Silverstein is famous for his children’s poetry and illustrations.

In poem Lazy Jane the word "rain" hovers just above Jane’s open mouth, as the string of words above it seems to represent the trickle of water she longs for.

#poetry #reading #Love #poem #poet #Silverstein #graficpoem #poems #bookstodon @bookstodon #books #book #poemaday #poetrycommunity #pictures #readers #readersofmastodon #booksky #bookish #BookTok #bookclub #readit #Bookwyrm #rain #booklovers #LazyJane

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104d

Air iomall an talamh-àitich, eadar dhà sholas,
tha a’ churracag a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad, ʼs a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad…

—Ruaraidh MacThòmais, “Pabail”

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

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

Pabail
le Ruaraidh MacThòmais

Air iomall an talamh-àitich, eadar dhà sholas,
tha a’ churracag a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad, ʼs a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad,
is cobhar bàn a broillich, mar rionnag an fheasgair,
ga lorg ʼs ga chall aig mo shùilean,
is tùis an t-samhraidh
ga lorg ʼs ga chall aig mo chuinnlean,
is fras-mhullach tonn an t-sonais
ga lorg ʼs ga chall aig mo chuimhne.

Bàgh Phabail fodham, is baile Phabail air fàire,
sluaisreadh siorraidh a’ chuain, a lorg ʼs an eag nan sgeir,
is fo ghainmhich a’ gheodha,
gluasad bithbhuan a’ bhaile, am bàs ʼs an ùrtan,
an ùrnaigh ʼs an t-suirghe, is mile cridhe
ag at ʼs a’ seacadh, is ann an seo
tha a’ churracag a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad, ʼs a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad.

ALT

Bayble
Translator: Derick Thomson

On the edge of the arable land, between two lights, the
plover runs and stops, and runs and stops, the white foam of
its breast like the star of evening, discovered and lost in my
looking, and the fragrance of summer, discovered and lost by
my nostrils, and the topmost grains of the wave of content,
discovered and lost by my memory.

Bayble Bay below me, and the village on the
skyline, the eternal action of the ocean, its
seeking and searching between the pebble stones
and in the rock crannies, and under the sand
of the cove; the everlasting movement of the
village, death and christening, praying and courting,
and a thousand hearts swelling and sinking, and here,
the plover runs and stops, and runs and stops.

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79d

Schyr Hanry myssit the noble king…

Robert I, King of Scots, killed Sir Henry de Bohun in single combat on the first day of the Battle of Bannockburn #OTD, 23 June 1314. The epic vernacular #poem “The Brus” by John Barbour (c1320–95) describes the event

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https://www.gla.ac.uk/schools/critical/aboutus/resources/stella/projects/starn/poetry/the-brus/book-12/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #medieval #14thcentury #history #MiddleAges #Bannockburn #epic #vernacular #poem #Scots #Scotslanguage

Text is too long for ALT-text – however full text can be found via the link, lines 25 to 85.

Image description: “Bruce and de Bohun”, by John Duncan (1866–1945), Stirling Smith Art Gallery and Museum. King Robert I, wearing chain mail, with a gold circlet around his helmet, and a flowing red-gold cloak and a surcoat bearing the Scottish lion rampant (red, on a yellow background) , stands up in the stirrups of the grey horse he is riding. He holds the reins tightly in his left hand and wields a battle-axe in his right. Sir Henry de Bohun, with golden plate armour and a flowing red cloth tied to his helm, rides past, his long lance missing the king. He is crouched low, almost seeming to bow, his head lined up for the blow from the king's axe.

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103d

Thae laddies in the Celtic shirts,
a baker’s dozen
lumbering all the way to the summit cairn
the hot last Saturday of May
as larks trilled
and the loch-side braes released their midgies…

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

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Ben Lomond
Kathleen Jamie

Thae laddies in the Celtic shirts,
a baker’s dozen
lumbering all the way to the summit cairn
the hot last Saturday of May
as larks trilled
and the loch-side braes released their midgies …

Well, up at the raven-haunted trig-point
(as the sun shone bright o’er the whole lower Clyde)
they unfurled a banner,
and triumphant-sombre, ranked themselves behind it
for the photies,
‘R.I.P.’ it read, then the name of a wee boy

they’ll never meet again. Ach,
would the wean were playing fit-ba
on some bonny banks somewhere …

There’s no accounting for it, is there?
I mean the low road, and the high.

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101d

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window…

—Edwin Morgan, “Strawberries”🍓
published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

A poem for Pride Month 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #lovepoem #PrideMonth #LGBTQ #QueerLit

Strawberries
Edwin Morgan

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates

laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

ALT

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78d

Stillness grips the house, just me
and the old dog as I re-read Longley
in the living room. No need of lamp
or candle, just silver kettle of sky
as it pours a deluge of light
across firth, field and hamlet…

—Lynn Valentine, “Midnight, Midsummer, Croft na Creich”
published in DON’T.EVEN.ASK.TOO.HOT: New Writing Scotland 42 (ASL, 2024)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws42/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #midsummer #highlands

Lynn Valentine
MIDNIGHT, MIDSUMMER, CROFT NA CREICH

Stillness grips the house, just me
and the old dog as I re-read Longley
in the living room. No need of lamp
or candle, just silver kettle of sky
as it pours a deluge of light
across firth, field and hamlet.
Swifts still busy on the wing
gathering scattered mists of insects.
Moon and stars are shy as morning,
wide lustre of sky firing the land.
Every tree is molten lava, every puddle
burnished, every blade of grass a spark.
Too soon this place will be drenched in darkness,
winter curtains shut late afternoon, but for now
there is a galleon of pewter and pearls.
The old dog and I sail across the world.

ALT

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101d

Tenderness is mandatory.
Careless lurches may draw blood,
enthusiasms leave abrasions,
excessive ardour has been known
to snap off spinal plates…

—“The Mating of Dinosaurs”, by William Oliphant (1920–2004)
published in THE MATING OF DINOSAURS (Taranis Books, 1992)

Happy Dinosaur Day to all who celebrate 🦖🦕

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #dinosaurs #DinosaurDay

The Mating of Dinosaurs
William Oliphant

Tenderness is mandatory.
Careless lurches may draw blood,
enthusiasms leave abrasions,
excessive ardour has been known
to snap off spinal plates.

There is the constant burden of
the force of gravity that pulls
against the need for viable eggs.

The wear and tear on genitalia,
like spoil of grind of glacier, is
lost in some future fossil count.

The adaptationists suggest
that gentleness emerges here,
and some will come to call it love.

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78d

#OTD, 24 June, in 1314, the Scottish army under King Robert I destroyed a much larger English invasion force at Bannockburn, in one of the most decisive battles in medieval history. In 1793 Robert Burns composed “Scots Wha Hae”, originally entitled “Robert Bruce’s March To Bannockburn”

⚔️🧵

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#Scottish #literature #Bannockburn #BattleofBannockburn #14thcentury #medieval #history #18thcentury #RobertBurns #poem #poetry #song

Poem: "Scots Wha Hae", by Robert Burns

(tune: Hey, Tutti Tatie)

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed‍‍
‍‍Or to victorie!

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour:
See the front o’ battle lour,
See approach proud Edward’s power— ‍‍
‍‍Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?—‍‍
‍‍Let him turn, and flee!

Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa’, ‍‍
‍‍Let him follow me!

By Oppression’s woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins ‍‍
‍‍But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!—
‍‍Let us do or die!

ALT

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78d

Here lies our land: every airt
Beneath swift clouds, glad glints of sun,
Belonging to none but itself…

—Kathleen Jamie, “Here lies our land”

A poem commissioned to mark the 700th anniversary of the Scottish victory at Bannockburn – won #OTD, 24 June, 1314 – & inscribed on the Bannockburn monument

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Bannockburn #BattleofBannockburn

Here lies our land
Kathleen Jamie

Here lies our land: every airt
Beneath swift clouds, glad glints of sun,
Belonging to none but itself.

We are mere transients, who sing
Its westlin’ winds and fernie braes,
Northern lights and siller tides,

Small folk playing our part.
‘Come all ye’, the country says,
You win me, who take me most to heart.

ALT

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78d

Apon the Midsummer evin, mirriest of nichtis,
I muvit furth allane, neir as midnicht wes past…

—in “The Tretis of the Tua Mariit Wemen & the Wedo”, William Dunbar (c1465–1530) eavesdrops on three ladies discussing marriage. What begins as candid moves rapidly to obscene…

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#Scottish #literature #Scots #Scotslanguage #poem #poetry #satire #medieval #15thcentury #16thcentury #midsummer

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