Eggplant.place

35d

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 #ScotsItalian #Italy #FestaDellaRepubblica

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 & 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’
and 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
and was lost at sea when it was torpedoed.
Churchill was just trying to keep everyone happy.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

35d

Whether the weather be dreich or fair, my luve,
if guid times greet us, or we hae tae face the worst,
ahint and afore whit will happen tae us:
blind in the present, eyes open to the furore…

—Jackie Kay, “A Lang Promise”
published in BANTAM (Picador, 2017)

A poem for Pride Month 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/jackie-kay/bantam/9781509887927

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #love #lovepoem #Pride #PrideMonth #JackieKay

A Lang Promise
Jackie Kay

Whether the weather be dreich or fair, my luve,
if guid times greet us, or we hae tae face the worst,
ahint and afore whit will happen tae us:
blind in the present, eyes open to the furore,
unkempt or perjink, suddenly puir or poorly,
peely-wally or in fine fettle, beld or frosty,
calm as a ghoul or in a feery-farry,
in dork December or in springy spring weather,
doon by the Barrows, on the Champs-Elysees,
at midnicht, first licht, whether the mune
be roond or crescent, and yer o’ soond mind
or absent, I’ll tak your trusty haun
and lead you over the haw – hame, ma darlin.
I’ll carry ma lantern, and daur defend ye agin ony foe;
and whilst there is breath in me, I’ll blaw it intae ye.
Fir ye are ma true luve, the bonnie face I see;
nichts I fall intae slumber, it’s ye swimming up
in all yer guidness and blitheness, yer passion.
You’ll be mine, noo, an’ till the end o’ time,
ma bonnie lassie, I’ll tak the full guid o’ ye’
and gie it back, and gie it back tae ye:
a furst kiss, a lang promise, time’s gowden ring.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

47d

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

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

Today, 21 May, is International Tea Day
https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781847779656/collected-poems/

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

The Picnic
by Edwin Morgan

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

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

33d

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

“The twa Cats & the Cheese”, by Allan Ramsay (1686–1758)
😾😾🧀🐵

Today, 4 June, is National Cheese Day!

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

#Scottish #literature #Scots #Scotslanguage #poem #poetry #18thCentury #cats #cheese #NationalCheeseDay

The Twa Cats and the Cheese
Fable IX
by Allan Ramsay

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

ALT

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

ALT

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

ALT

Edited 33d ago

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

45d

I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face…

—Don Paterson, “Rain”
Published in RAIN (Faber, 2010)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/rain-2/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #rain #film #cinema

Don Paterson
Rain

I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face;

one big thundering downpour
right through the empty script and score
before the act, before the blame,
before the lens pulls through the frame

to where the woman sits alone
beside a silent telephone
or the dress lies ruined on the grass
or the girl walks off the overpass,

and all things flow out from that source
along their fatal watercourse.
However bad or overlong
such a film can do no wrong,

so when his native twang shows through
or when the boom dips into view
or when her speech starts to betray
its adaptation from a play,

I think to when we opened cold
on a starlit gutter, running gold
with the neon of a drugstore sign
and I’d read into its blazing line:

forget the ink, the milk, the blood –
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters

and none of this, none of this matters.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

32d

In favoured summers
These islands have the sun all to themselves
And light a toy to play with, weeks on end…

—Edwin Muir, “The Northern Islands”
published in The Complete Poems of Edwin Muir, ed. Peter H. Butter (ASLS, 1999)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Orkney #summer #EdwinMuir

Edwin Muir
The Northern Islands

In favoured summers
These islands have the sun all to themselves
And light a toy to play with, weeks on end.
The empty sky and waters are a shell
Endlessly turning, turning the wheel of light,
While the tranced waves run wavering up the sand.
The beasts sleep when they can, midnight or midday,
Slumbering on into unending brightness.
The green, green fields give too much, are too rank,
With beautiful beasts for breeding or for slaughter.
The horses, glorious useless race, are leaving.
Have the old ways left with them, and the faith,
Lost in this dream too comfortable and goodly
To make room for a blessing? Where can it fall?
The old ways change in the turning, turning light,
Taking and giving life to life from life.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

28d

The International Council on Archives / Conseil international des archives was founded #OTD, 9 June, 1948, under the auspices of UNESCO.

To celebrate, here’s Edwin Morgan’s poem “Archives”, published in Centenary Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2020)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #archives #poetry #InternationalArchivesDay #UNESCO #EdwinMorgan

Archives
by Edwin Morgan

generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
generation upon
g neration up n
g nerat on up n
g nerat n up n
g nerat n p n
g erat n p n
g era n p n
g era n n
g er n n
g r n n
g n n
g n
g

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

28d

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

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

Today, 9 June, is the feast day of St Columba (c.521–597), who led the Irish monastic missions to Dál Riata & the kingdoms of the Picts

1/4

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #EdwinMorgan #saints #StColumba

Columba's Song
by Edwin Morgan

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

ALT

1 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

31d

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

Alexander Scott landed in Normandy 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

Published in FROM THE LINE: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945, ed. David Goldie & Roderick Watson

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

#Scottish #literature #Scots #ScotsLanguage #poem #poetry #DDay #WW2 #WarPoetry

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.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

31d

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

—Colin McIntyre (1927–2012), “Infantryman”
Published in FROM THE LINE: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #DDay #poetry #WarPoetry #WW2

Infantryman
by Colin McIntyre

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

31d

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 collected by Hamish Henderson
Sung by Rod Paterson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDXoXx7RRWs&list=OLAK5uy_lyHb3w_CdLiyDsHl84M6obGIoyIc2Ydl4&index=2

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #song #soldiers #DDay #warpoetry #Italy

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

29d

as we find a way to wipe your armpit
without lifting your arm up and away

you say, you’ve never seen me so (I forget
the word you use and replace it with close

as in, we’ve never been so close) and I say
I was thinking that…

—Kathrine Sowerby, “about your armpit”
published in GUTTER 28

A poem for #Pride 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/about-your-armpit/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Pride #Pride2025 #LGBTQ

about your armpit
Kathrine Sowerby

as we find a way to wipe your armpit
without lifting your arm up and away

you say, you’ve never seen me so (I forget
the word you use and replace it with close

as in, we’ve never been so close) and I say
I was thinking that—it’s because, you say

I didn’t want you near what wasn’t my body
(I’m putting it into words before I forget)

there isn’t much space between the stiff
compression vest and your arm but I ease

the cloth in and two days later I’m thinking
of the word honour, as in what an honour

which is not a word I often use and I wonder
what you would say, if you knew I was writing

about your armpit

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

29d

To quote my distant friend Imran MacLeod,
“A man with no culture has no identity”…

—Hamid Shami, “Lost”
published in Wish I Was Here: a Scottish multicultural anthology (pocketbooks, 2000)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #multiculturalism

Lost
Hamid Shami

To quote my distant friend Imran MacLeod,
‘A man with no culture has no identity.’

The last I heard of him was, he was off
To the Himalayas.

He had a very confused childhood.

Father was Scottish,
Mother Pakistani.

They’d always be arguing over many things
Concerning him.

One was religion.

Father wanted him brought up
A Catholic; mother wanted a Muslim.

Was the only boy on our street who went
To mosque on Fridays and chapel on Sundays.

But in the mountains

God’s sure to find him.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

31d

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 #Scots #Scotslanguage #20thcentury #Mythology #GreekMythology

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.

ALT

1 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

41d

You told me the brightest flowers grow on sand.

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

—Jane McKie, “Rope”
Published in nobody remembers the birdman: New Writing Scotland 40 (ASL, 2022)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Jane McKie
ROPE

You told me the brightest flowers grow on sand.

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

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

41d

Moscow is milling with watermelons.
Everything breathes a boundless freedom.
And it blows with unbridled fierceness
from the breathless melonvendors…

“Commended as a Russian translator… for his rendering of Mayakovsky into Scots, Morgan gets the muscles of the English language working with similar vigour in his treatment of Voznesensky”

—Carol Rumens on Edwin Morgan’s translation of Andrei Voznesensky

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2025/may/26/poem-of-the-week-selling-watermelons-by-andrei-voznesensky-translated-by-edwin-morgan

#Scottish #literature #translation #Russian #poem #poetry

Selling Watermelons
by Andrei Voznesensky
translated by Edwin Morgan

Moscow is milling with watermelons.
Everything breathes a boundless freedom.
And it blows with unbridled fierceness
from the breathless melonvendors.

Stalls. Din. Girls’ headscarves.
They laugh. Change bangs down. Knives —

and a choice sample slice.
— Take one, chief, for a long life!
Who’s for a melon?
Freshly split! —

And just as tasty and just as juicy are
the capbands of policemen
and the ranks of motor-scooters.
The September air is fresh and keen
and resonant as a watermelon.

And just as joyfully on its own tack
as the city-limit melon-multitudes,
the earth swings in its great string-bag
of meridians and latitudes!

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

29d

This week; the sermon is salt
and the taste of it as song. A clean, cold burn

quickens the blood…

—A.M. Havinden, “Sea Chapel”
published in Break in Case of Silence: New Writing Scotland 39 (ASL, 2021)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

A. M. Havinden
Sea Chapel

This week; the sermon is salt
and the taste of it as song. A clean, cold burn

quickens the blood. Unseen, underfoot,
deep notes of wrack and weed wind

ankles. We raise our voices
in bright blasphemy, in shock and defiance

a hymn of human-scale endurance,
how great and small we are;

how outrageously alone; how far
we’ve come, suddenly, from shore.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

18d

Pink sand and sandpipers pink in the setting
sun and pink granite and the pink swirl
of green waves…

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

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/camas-tuath/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury

Camas Tuath
Tom Buchan

Pink sand and sandpipers pink in the setting
sun and pink granite and the pink swirl
of green waves: no mediterranean relics
here, no ruined amphitheatres, no amphorae,

no half-submerged statuary – only the
children’s wet sand-pies and a standing
stone, a druidic lingam standing for nothing
anyone knows about nowadays, a stony

finger, green with years, specific of an idea
which was no doubt straight, strong and complex
once, but is now obliterated by the hysterical
cries of children and the birds’ pink squealing.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

40d

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 🎂 🧵
Published in POETRY magazine, Dec 2008

1/5

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.

ALT

1 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

20h

My childhood passes on a bicycle
Down West Coats Road, beneath our sycamore
That filters July sunlight through the slow
Sidereal quiet of the suburb…

—Robert Crawford, “Cambuslang”
published in SELECTED POEMS, (Jonathan Cape, 2011)

https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/362438/selected-poems-by-robert-crawford/9781446484227

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Cambuslang #Glasgow

Cambuslang
Robert Crawford

My childhood passes on a bicycle
Down West Coats Road, beneath our sycamore
That filters July sunlight through the slow
Sidereal quiet of the suburb

Where my father calls our garden “the croft”, and grows
Rows of potatoes, a countryman Glasgow disguised
Too long as a bank teller. A piece of broken glass
Shines on the lawn. Something always glistens

In the yards of grass that gently separate
A small boy from this same house where my parents
Live on together, smiling just beyond
The flowers-only gardens, the conservation area.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

22d

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”
published in Selected Poems (Faber, 2012)

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

#Scottish #literature #FathersDay #poem #poetry

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.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

22d

In the house where he sleeps
let my ears
be the leaves at the window.

Let the bulbs of the lamps
be my eyes
on the animal street…

—Miriam Nash, “Prayer for My Father as a Child”
published in All the Prayers in the House (Bloodaxe, 2017)

https://www.bloodaxebooks.com/ecs/product/all-the-prayers-in-the-house-1150

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #FathersDay

Prayer for My Father as a Child
by Miriam Nash

In the house where he sleeps
let my ears
be the leaves at the window.

Let the bulbs of the lamps
be my eyes
on the animal street.

Let the shadows that harbour
my unborn body
stir when harm is stirring.

I’ll sleep in the drawer
with the knives.
I’ll turn in the locks.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

22d

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 #Gaelic #Gaidhlig #poetry #poem #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.

ALT

0 0 0 View Post & Replies See Original

22d

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 #literautre #poem #poetry #FathersDay