Eggplant.place

6d

Nam sheasamh thall aig geat a’ phreiridh,
feur glan fom bhotannan,
lamhan fuar nam phocaidean,
faileadh an dup
gu fann
gu neo-chinnteach
a’ nochdadh mu mo chuinnlean…

—Anne Frater, “Aig an Fhaing”

Today, 21 February, is UNESCO International Mother Language Day

https://www.unesco.org/en/days/mother-language

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #language #minoritylanguage #MotherLanguageDay #UNESCO

Aig an Fhaing
Anne Frater

Nam sheasamh thall aig geat a’ phreiridh,
feur glan fom bhotannan,
lamhan fuar nam phocaidean,
faileadh an dup
gu fann
gu neo-chinnteach
a’ nochdadh mu mo chuinnlean
’s mi a’ coimhead cach cruinn
lachanaich le cheile
timcheall air an fhaing:
a’ bruthadh nan caorach,
guthan ard ag eigheachd
’s a’ gearain, ’s a’ gaireachdainn
’s gach druim thugams’
gam ghlasadh a-mach.
Mi seasamh, ’s a’ coimhead
’s a’ feitheamh airson facal
mo ghluasad gu feum.
Mi siubhal gu slaodach
a’ cruinneachadh nan uan
’s gan ruagadh romham
a-steach gu cach;
uain a’ ruith
gu meulaich math’r.
Boinneagan uisge
mar mhillean mialan
a’ leum as an dup,
agus crathadh cinn nan adharcan
fliuch, fuar, feagalach
a’ deanamh as.
Ceum no dha eile
’s chi mi aodannan nan gair’.
Mo lamhan fhin a’ breith air cloimh,
faileadh an dup air mo chorragan,
peant a’ camharradh mo chasan,
poll dubh bog air mo bhotannan
’s mo chanan fhin nam bheul.

ALT

At the Fank
Anne Frater

Standing over by the prairie gate
with clean grass under my wellies,
cold hands in my pockets,
the smell of the sheep dip
faintly
hesitantly
coming to my nostrils
as I watch the others gathered
around the fank
and laughing with each other:
pushing the sheep,
loud voices shouting
and moaning, and laughing
and all with their backs to me
shutting me out.
I stand and watch
and wait for a word
to move me to usefulness.
Moving slowly
gathering the lambs
and driving them before me
in towards the others;
lambs running
to a mother’s bleat.
Drops of water
jump from the sheep dip
like millions of fleas
and the horns’ head-shaking,
wet, cold, fearful
running off.
Another step or two
and I can see the laughing faces.
My own hands holding wool,
the smell of sheep dip on my fingers.
Paint marking my legs,
soft black mud on my wellies
and my own language on my tongue.

ALT

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201d

My grandfather didn’t know he was a Taoist.
He had fished the river Awe for sixty years.
Life is sensed as a flowing movement,
a power like wind or water. When he cast,
it was the bank that moved, not the river…

—Lorn Macintyre, “Satori”
published in The Bridport Prize Anthology 2013 (Redcliffe Press, 2013)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #fishing #naturepoetry #naturewriting #Zen

Satori
Lorn Macintyre

My grandfather didn’t know he was a Taoist.
He had fished the river Awe for sixty years.
Life is sensed as a flowing movement,
a power like wind or water. When he cast,
it was the bank that moved, not the river.
The osprey with the salmon in its talons
needed no metaphor to describe its beauty.
He saw the suchness of the landscape,
the great whole, perfect, sky, mountain,
as in a painting by the Zen K’un-t’an.
There is no Gaelic for the term satori,
the solution lying beyond the intellect,
that flash of delighted intuition, sensing
that a salmon is lying in the current,
while not seeing a ripple with the eye.
If I had told him: ‘you read the river
like a book, noting between the lines
what other fishermen fail to spy,’
he would have clouted me on the head,
the way Zen Masters took the big stick
to pupils who insisted on comparison.
The river needs no language, no homage.
It goes its own way, like the osprey
which will never run out of sky.

ALT

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6d

At times, in those last few months,
he would think of a word
and he had to remember the tree, or the species of frog,

the sound denoted…

—John Burnside, “The Last Man to Speak Ubykh“
published in the London Review of Books, August 2002

https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v24/n16/john-burnside/the-last-man-to-speak-ubykh

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #MotherLanguageDay #UNESCO #linguistics

The Last Man to Speak Ubykh
John Burnside

The linguist Ole Stig Andersen was keen to seek out the remaining traces of a West Caucasian language called Ubykh. Having heard that there was one remaining speaker he set out to find the man and arrived in his village on 8 October 1992. The man had died a few hours earlier.

At times, in those last few months,
he would think of a word
and he had to remember the tree, or the species of frog,

the sound denoted:
the tree itself, or the frog, or the state of mind
and not the equivalent word in another language,

the speech that had taken his sons
and the mountain light;
the graves he swept and raked; the wedding songs.

While years of silence gathered in the heat,
he stood in his yard and whispered the name of a bird
in his mother tongue,

while memories of snow and market days,
his father’s hands, the smell of tamarind,
inklings of milk and blood on a sunlit floor

receded in the names no longer used:
the blue of childhood folded like a sheet
and tucked away.

Nothing he said was remembered; nothing he did
was fact or legend
in the village square,

yet later they would memorise the word
he spoke that morning, just before he died:
the word for death, perhaps, or meadow grass,

or swimming to the surface of his mind,
that other word they used, when he was young,
for all they knew that nobody remembered.

ALT

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201d

Well Versed Author Events: Niall Campbell
20 August, online, free

Niall Campbell reads some of his poetry, discusses his work, & answers questions as part of the Well Versed series in partnership with StAnza International Poetry Festival

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/well-versed-author-events-niall-campbell-tickets-1561423853779

#Scottish #literature #poetry

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6d

I knit one purl one
A pale rainbow of seed stitch
Keeping hope alive

#knitting #tricot #mentalhealth #haiku #poetry

A knitting work in progress in a pale multicolore seed stitch. The grey needles and three balls of yarn are visible, as well à a vessel with walnuts and a red nutcracker.

ALT

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10d

Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field – I wonder, why, just now,
They seemed terrible, so wild and strange,
Like magic power on the stony grange…

—Edwin Muir (1887–1959), “Horses” 🐴
published in THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF SCOTTISH VERSE, @canongatebooks 2021

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

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #EdwinMuir #YearoftheHorse #LunarNewYear #ChineseNewYear #poem #poetry #horse #horses #Orkney

Edwin Muir
Horses

Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field – I wonder, why, just now,
They seemed terrible, so wild and strange,
Like magic power on the stony grange.

Perhaps some childish hour has come again,
When I watched fearful, through the blackening rain,
Their hooves like pistons in an ancient mill
Move up and down, yet seem as standing still.

Their conquering hooves which trod the stubble down
Were ritual that turned the field to brown,
And their great hulks were seraphims of,
Or mute ecstatic monsters on the mould.

And oh the rapture, when, one furrow done,
They marched broad-breasted to the sinking sun!
The light flowed off their bossy sides in flakes;
The furrows rolled behind like struggling snakes.

But when at dusk with steaming nostrils home
They came, they seemed gigantic in the gloam,
And warm and glowing with mysterious fire
That lit their smouldering bodies in the mire.

Their eyes as brilliant and as wide as night
Gleamed with a cruel apocalyptic light,
Their manes the leaping ire of the wind
Lifted with rage invisible and blind.

Ah, now it fades! It fades! And I must pine
Again for the dread country crystalline,
Where the blank field and the still-standing tree
Were bright and fearful presences to me.

ALT

Edited 5d ago

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200d

I’ll ha’e nae hauf-way hoose, but aye be whaur
Extremes meet – it’s the only way I ken
To dodge the curst conceit o’ bein’ richt
That damns the vast majority o’ men.

—from “A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle”

A 🎂🧵 for Hugh MacDiarmid—born #OTD, 11 Aug 1892

1/8

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/hugh-macdiarmid

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

ALT

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5d

Escape to the tailored suit,
the pan-loaf speech,
the benefits of higher education…

—“Kailyard & After” by William Neill (1922–2010), b. #OTD, 22 Feb. He wrote poetry in all three of Scotland’s languages & was an active campaigner for Scots & Gaelic

A 🎂 🧵

1/4

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #minoritylanguage

William Neill
Kailyard and After

When I wes wee I hud tae dae ma share
mulkan the kye wi the weemin in the byre;
I mind hou I wad scoosh lang streeman jaups
that loupit in the luggie makkin froth
rise oot frae yon rich deeps.

The douce kye skelpit roon thaim wi their tails
tae dicht the flees aff; whiles they’d cotch yir lug
a fair bit ding: ye’d sweir ablo yir braith.
An whiles the wilder yins wad try tae pit
their fit intil the luggie an caa ye oot
on tae the settles, luggie, stuil an aa …
an gin ye didna sett in ticht eneuch
there ye wad be, rubbin a sair hainch
a loch o mulk aboot ye in the grup,
the auld dug barkan an the weemin lauchan
tae see yir breeks aa smoort wi mulk an sharn.
Man, whit a contrast tae ma life-style nou …
nae dungarees, nae luggie and nae kye.

Escape to the tailored suit,
the pan-loaf speech,
the benefits of higher education,
the dull rewards of strict conformity.

O what a fall was there, my countrymen.

ALT

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5d

The Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh and the School of English, University of St Andrews are offering a Joseph Bell Writer’s residency. The residency is open to writers or researchers in fiction, non-fiction, poetry, drama, screenplay, literary and/or historical scholarship, life-writing and medical humanities.

Closing date: 12 noon, 6 March 2026

https://www.vacancies.st-andrews.ac.uk/Vacancies/W/7234/0/464724/889/joseph-bell-writer-in-residence-at-the-royal-college-of-surgeons-of-edinburgh-and-the-school-of-english-university-of-st-andrews

#Scottish #literature #writers #medicalhumanities #fiction #nonfiction #poetry #drama #screenplay #screenwriting

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199d

Now westlin winds, and slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
And the moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather…

—Robert Burns, “Song, Composed in August”
First published in POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT (Kilmarnock, 1786)

Pages digitised by the National Library of Scotland

1/3

https://digital.nls.uk/poems-chiefly-in-the-scottish-dialect/archive/74464614#?c=0&m=0&s=0&cv=230&xywh=-1574%2C0%2C5647%2C4185

#Scottish #literature #poetry #song #RobertBurns #18thcentury #nature #environment

SONG
composed in August

Tune, I had a horse, I had nae mair

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;

ALT

And the moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary Farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my Charmer.

The Partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The Plover loves the mountains;
The Woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring Hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves the Cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the Thrush,
The spreading thorn the Linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander:

ALT

Avaunt, away! the cruel sway!
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The Sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But PEGGY dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming Swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ilka happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the Farmer,
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely Charmer!

ALT

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199d

Now, on the moors where the guns bring down
The predestinated birds,
Shrill, wavering cries pass
Like the words of an international peace;
And I would that these cries were heard in every town,
Astounding the roar of the wheel
And the lying mouth of the news…

—William Soutar (1898–1943), “The Guns”

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury