Eggplant.place

1y

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.

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1y

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.

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1y

Do you like hedgehogs? Artist @KarenKasparArt and I certainly do! We have created two designs of #haikuart with them, from T-shirts and throw pillows to cards and prints. Now with a 25% discount at Redbubble!

For Europe:
https://www.redbubble.com/i/t-shirt/Hedgehog-in-Hibernation-Haiku-English-Watercolor-Painting-by-KarenKaspar/170755239.WFLAH

https://www.redbubble.com/i/throw-pillow/The-Scent-of-Spring-Hedgehog-Haiku-English-Watercolor-by-KarenKaspar/170756430.5X2YF

https://www.artheroes.de/de/motiv/Igel-im-Winterschlaf-Haiku-Englisch/1732219?mediumId=1&size=45x60&var2=0&var3=2

https://www.artheroes.de/de/motiv/Der-Duft-des-Fruehlings-Igel-Haiku-Englisch/1732230

For ao The US :
https://karen-kaspar.pixels.com/featured/hibernating-hedgehog-haiku-english-karen-kaspar.html

https://karen-kaspar.pixels.com/featured/the-scent-of-spring-karen-kaspar.html

#haiku #haikuart #poetry #art #buyintoart #ayearforart #FAA #writing #hedgehog #hedgehogs #nature #animals

Blue T-shirt with a watercolour painting of a snow landscape with a fir tree and a hibernating hedgehog under a blanket of snow.
Haikuart:
art by : @KarenKasparArt@socel.net
haiku by : @MarjoleinRotsteeg@mastodon.nl

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1y

"We Paid The Debts Of Others" #writing #poetry #debt #florida

My parents bought a used station wagon. We all took it shopping. Then came out of the store to a shattered back window. Witnesses helped find the culprit. The previous owner had owed him money. We paid the debts of others. And it was a cold drive home.

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1y

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

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1y

Well Versed Author Event: Peter Mackay

18 June, free online

Open Book welcomes Scotland’s Makar Peter Mackay to share some poems, have a chat, & give attendees a chance to ask questions. Part of Open Book’s Well Versed series in partnership with StAnza International Poetry Festival.

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/well-versed-author-events-peter-mackay-tickets-1383659144749

#Scottish #literature #poetry

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1y

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

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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!

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1y

“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.

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1y

‘Do you know what we should do
what turns over in my mind?
Begin to sing old songs!
Lend voice to our runes.’

Reading the Kalevala

By Lyonel Perabo

https://wildhunt.org/2025/06/reading-the-kalevala.html

Kalevala at PG:
https://gutenberg.org/ebooks/5186

#books #literature #poetry

Inside front title page of The "Old" Kalevala, Finnish national epos, collection of old Finnish poems, by Elias Lönnrot. First edition; volume 1, 1835.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalevala#/media/File:Kalevala1.jpg

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1y

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.

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1y

From the Scottish Poetry Library archives: poet & novelist John Burnside discusses fellow Scottish poet W.S. Graham. During the talk, recorded at the National Library of Scotland, Burnside talks about poetry & visual art, the poet as nomad, & “feeding the dead”

https://splpodcast.podbean.com/e/john-burnside-on-ws-graham

#Scottish #literature #poetry #visualart #poets #JohnBurnside #WSGraham

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1y

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

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1y

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

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1y

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.

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1y

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

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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.

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81d

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 #FathersDay #poetry #father

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.

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1y

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.

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1y

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!

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1y

#poetry

new text up on my site: "health"

https://anarchive.mooo.com/blog/health

"... mind is the bathrooms and plumbing of a parliament of diseases and what rushes through it is the unending stream of their shit piss sweat and spittle as they debate, deliberate, yell, carp, filibuster, scuffle, none of which the lowly minds pipes is privy to, and that piped shit of the diseases, rather than the parliamentary debate it cannot hear, mind calls structure, form (a kinda platos cave of cubicle shit), which it knows all to be made of...."

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1y

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.

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1y

#OTD The Irish writer and poet Thomas Moore was born in 1779. He was "widely regarded in the late Georgian era as Ireland's "national bard."

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Moore

Thomas Moore at PG

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/2185

#books #poetry #literature

Painting of Thomas Moore by Thomas Lawrence.

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1y

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.

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1y

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

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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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1y

Helen Craik (1751–1825), Gothic novelist & friend of Robert Burns, died 200 years ago #OTD, 11 June. Craik published 5 novels but no poetry. In 1919, excerpts of her poems appeared in a newspaper, but the source – a notebook Craik presented to a family friend – disappeared…

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#Scottish #literature #18thcentury #romanticism #poetry #Gothic #WomenWriters #manuscripts

A manuscript page, headed

Poems
by
A LADY

Underneath is a paragraph in ornate copperplate handwriting (it's from Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, by Mr Yorick, vol. II):

Dear sensibility! source inexhausted of all that’s precious in our Joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw—and ’tis thou who lifts him up to Heaven—Eternal fountain of our feelings, ’tis here I trace thee.—

Below is a drawing of a curly-haired cherub's face, with wings made of looping pen-strokes.

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1y

Afro-Scottish Poetry Event 2025
25 July, Glasgow. Tickets £0–£10

A multicultural evening of poetry, music, & storytelling that celebrates African & Scottish identities through powerful performances. Created & curated by Chisom Okoronkwo with U Belong Glasgow

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/afro-scottish-poetry-event-2025-tickets-1396145632169

#Scottish #literature #African #poetry #storytelling #performance #identity #Glasgow

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