Eggplant.place

17d

Rated Tongues Untied 10/10

Edited 17d ago

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14d

I am alive
In the way
A plucked
Flower is.
Doomed,
And still
Blooming.

#poetry

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13d

nuair a tha mi fhìn nam sheasamh
aig ceann Loch an Dala
’s mi a’ coimhead thar cuain geur
a’ deàrrsadh ’s a’ deàlradh
fo ghrian na sìorraidheachd
chan fhaic mi sgath dhen ghlasadh cheilteach…

—Iain S. Mac a’ Phearsain, “ceann Loch an Dala”
published in Friends & Kangaroos: New Writing Scotland 17

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #Islay

ceann Loch an Dala
Iain S. Mac a’ Phearsain

nuair a tha mi fhìn nam sheasamh
aig ceann Loch an Dala
’s mi a’ coimhead thar cuain geur
a’ deàrrsadh ’s a’ deàlradh
fo ghrian na sìorraidheachd
chan fhaic mi sgath dhen ghlasadh cheilteach
a’ ciaradh Ile
na eilean shìthichean faoin
ach soitheach mo shinnsearan
a’ triall dhan iar
Gilleasbaig is Eòghann
a’ cur cùl ri Cill’ Nèimh
an aghaidh leis a’ ghaoith
’s an làmhan air a’ chliathaich
blàth ’s cha mhòr air chrith.

ALT

head of Loch Indaal
John Scott MacPherson

personally, when I stand
at the head of Loch Indaal
and look out
over a razor-sharp sea
shining and radiating
under an everlasting sun
I see none of the Celtic twilight
reducing Islay
to an island of vacant faeries
but my ancestors’ ship
heading for the west
Archibald and Hugh
turning backs on Kilnave
facing downwind
their hands on the gunwhales
warm and almost shaking.

ALT

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13d

A boy leaves a small house
Of sea light. He leaves
The sea smells, creel
And limpet and cod.

The boy walks between steep
Stone houses, echoing
Gull cries, the all-around
Choirs of the sea…

—George Mackay Brown, “Island School”
published in Carve the Runes: Selected Poems (Polygon 2021)

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/carve-the-runes/

#Scottish #literature #Orkney #poem #poetry #GeorgeMackayBrown #backtoschool

Island School
George Mackay Brown

A boy leaves a small house
Of sea light. He leaves
The sea smells, creel
And limpet and cod.

The boy walks between steep
Stone houses, echoing
Gull cries, the all-around
Choirs of the sea,

Ship noises, shop noises, clamours
Of bellman and milkcart.
The boy comes at last
To a tower with a tall desk

And a globe and a blackboard
And a stern chalk-
smelling lady. A bell
Nods and summons.

A girl comes, cornlight
In the eyes, smelling
Of peat and cows
And the rich midden.

Running she comes, late,
Reeling in under the last
Bronze brimmings. She sits
Among twenty whispers.

ALT

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19d

#poetry
it was the name of me
that was colder than cumulous clouds
it is the name of me
that was lost, dropped inbetween thoughts
it was the name, was me
who writ all this, but for naught
it is the nameophile
who came to collect my heart

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13d

I pulled all my mother’s expectations
with me, like a child’s kite, giddy with stir
of spring…

—Lynn Valentine, “St Kilda Crossing”
from DON’T. EVEN. ASK. TOO. HOT.: New Writing Scotland 42 (ASL, 2024)

Today, 29 August, marks the 96th anniversary of the final evacuation of St Kilda.

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws42/11111

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #StKilda

ST KILDA CROSSING
by Lynn Valentine

I pulled all my mother’s expectations
with me, like a child’s kite, giddy with stir
of spring. Because she was cancer-cracked
I turned tourist by proxy, crouched into cleits
looking for leavings of last century.

I photographed fawn smallness of Soays
felt the crash of wind-whipped stacs,
my pockets salt-filled. I leant
on those islands as my mother leant on me,
filled my lungs with their breeze
and leaping green language of sea.

I tried to hold my breath for days,
took it back to my mother, exhaled
island air on her weakened frame –
whispered broken stories of birds and rain.

ALT

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11d

The blind man did not hate me.
I saw him through the window,
through the rippling circle my own
hot breath had melted
in the spiky flowers of the frost…

—Liz Lochhead, “2. What the Creature Said”, from DREAMING FRANKENSTEIN & Collected Poems 1967–1984 (Birlinn, 2011)

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/dreaming-frankenstein-2/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Frankenstein #FrankensteinDay

Liz Lochhead
from Dreaming Frankenstein

2. What the Creature Said

The blind man did not hate me.
I saw him through the window,
through the rippling circle my own
hot breath had melted
in the spiky flowers of the frost.

I was exhausted,
imagine it. Midwinter. Mountains.
Forest. Dragging my bad leg
over iron ground, impossible passes,
pained by that fleshwound where
that villager's silver bullet
grazed me.

There he was, bent
above the hot soup, supping
his solitude from a bone spoon.
And when my single rap
at the glass spun him full face
towards me, mild as a cat,
my heart stopped but oh
he did not flinch

Then I saw his
milky eyes stared right through me,
unblinking, and he fumbled
oddly forward to meet me at the latch.
I lifted it and entered,
sure that I found a friend.

ALT

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11d

Everywhere she dies. Everywhere I go she dies.
No sunrise, no city square, no lurking beautiful mountain
but has her death in it.

—Norman MacCaig, “Memorial”
from THE POEMS OF NORMAN MacCAIG (Birlinn, 2009)

Today, 30 August, is Grief Awareness Day

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/the-poems-of-norman-maccaig/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #NormanMacCaig #grief #GriefAwarenessDay

Memorial
by Norman MacCaig

Everywhere she dies. Everywhere I go she dies.
No sunrise, no city square, no lurking beautiful mountain
but has her death in it.
The silence of her dying sounds through
the carousel of language, it's a web
on which laughter stitches itself. How can my hand
clasp another's when between them
is that thick death, that intolerable distance?

She grieves for my grief. Dying, she tells me
that bird dives from the sun, that fish
leaps into it. No crocus is carved more gently
than the way her dying
shapes my mind. – But I hear, too,
the other words,
black words that make the sound
of soundlessness, that name the nowhere
she is continuously going into.

Ever since she died
she can't stop dying. She makes me
her elegy. I am a walking masterpiece,
a true fiction
of the ugliness of death.
I am her sad music.

ALT

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11d

[To Sheila Lanyon, on the Flyleaf of a Book]
W. S. Graham

Inscribed by W. S. Graham on the flyleaf of a copy of THE WHITE THRESHOLD belonging to Sheila Lanyon, widow of the painter Peter Lanyon. The poem is dated June 18, 1966 & the “second summer” referred to is the second since her husband’s death, after a gliding accident, on August 31, 1964.

Published in POETRY, January 2018

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/145185/to-sheila-lanyon-on-the-flyleaf-of-a-book

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WSGraham

[To Sheila Lanyon, on the Flyleaf of a Book]
BY W. S. Graham

Sheila, we speak here on the fly
Leaf of a book which was myself
A good few graves ago.
Now I am maintained by other
Words for better or for worse
To whisper my hello.

The seasons turn. Threshold on thresh
Hold forms continually and falls
Under grief’s lonely hammer.
What did you say? I thought between
These fly leaf words I heard you speak
Out of your Second Summer.

The summer chimes and turns its blue
Dragon-flying eyes to see
We two are not afraid.
Hello, Sheila, I can hear
Your breath on the other side of the word
And see you turn your head.

ALT

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9d

#SpeakingOutOfPlace welcomes #FadyJoudah, Palestinian-American physician, poet and translator, to talk about his book #ExhibitG: #Poems, #Essays, and #Photographs of #Gaza.

"Along with powerful and demanding texts, Exhibit G features a collection of photographs of Gaza presented in collaboration with Hani Almadhoun and the Gaza Soup Kitchen."

https://speakingoutofplace.buzzsprout.com/2084729/episodes/19545870-exhibit-g-viewing-palestinian-interiority-a-conversation-with-fady-joudah

#Palestine #oPt #poetry #books @bookstodon

Edited 9d ago

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9d

Alas! We must
bear witness
well

as fate unfurls
against our
will.

We burned the blanket
thickly
on

thus from above
the beating
sun

once captured, held
can scarce get
gone.

#nepal #poem #poetry

(Excerpt from oldie, written in anticipation of everything to come.)

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8d

Queer Scottish Voices: the suspended blue blue air
16 September, Typewronger Books, Edinburgh. Free, ticketed

Join host Iain Morrison for an evening with Scottish poets David Kinloch & Colin Herd, & hear them read from their latest books & talk about what queer poetics means to them today in Scotland.

The evening is raising money for the Terrance Higgins Trust in Glasgow.

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/queer-scottish-voices-the-suspended-blue-blue-air-tickets-1998667800193

#Scottish #literature #poetry #LGBTQ #queer #queerliterature #Edinburgh

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9d

An lùib na droighne
anns an dris-choille
tha meas an fhoghair
toradh mo ghràidh…

—Niall O’Gallagher, “Crindreas”

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

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #autumn

Crindreas
Niall O’Gallagher

An lùib na droighne
anns an dris-choille
tha meas an fhoghair
toradh mo ghràidh

is dealt na maidne
a’ fàgail taise
a’ gleansadh air a
craiceann làn.

Tha brìgh na deirce
mìlse nas seirbhe
na gèire deilge
a’ stailceadh làimh’

ach dh’aindeoin bhioran
bu mhi a spioladh
is le mo bhilean
bhlaisinn àgh.

ALT

Bramble
Niall O’Gallagher

Translated by Deborah Moffatt

Amongst the thorns
in the thicket of brambles,
the autumn berry
is my heart’s desire,

the damp sheen
of the morning dew
gleaming bright on
its full ripe skin.

The sap of the sweet berry
is sharper than the thorn
that pierces the thin skin
of the plundering hand,

but I would pick my fill,
in spite of the pricks
that my lips might taste
the glory of the bramble.

ALT

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8d

You are
The cosmos
Pretending
To be a
Person.

#poetry

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8d

The mile-high buildings flashed, flushed, greyed, went dark,
greyed, flushed, flashed, chameleons under flak
of cloud and sun…

—Edwin Morgan, “Clydegrad”
from CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

Today, 3 September, is Skyscraper Day

1/2

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #sonnet #skyscraper #SkyscraperDay #EdwinMorgan #Glasgow #scifipoetry

Clydegrad
Edwin Morgan

It was so fine we lingered there for hours.
The long broad streets shone strongly after rain.
Sunset blinded the tremble of the crane
we watched from, dazed the heliport-towers.
The mile-high buildings flashed, flushed, greyed, went dark,
greyed, flushed, flashed, chameleons under flak
of cloud and sun. The last far thunder-sack
ripped and spilled its grumble. Ziggurat-stark,
a power-house reflected in the lead
of the old twilight river leapt alive
lit up at every window, and a boat
of students rowed past, slid from black to red
into the blaze. But where will they arrive
with all, boat, city, earth, like them, afloat?

ALT

Book cover

EDWIN MORGAN
CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS

edited by
HAMISH WHYTE

Carcanet Classics

The cover image shows a view looking up the face of a concrete tower block, angled against a star-strewn sky – as if the skyscraper was a starship, cruising the cosmos.

ALT

Edited 8d ago

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7d

Nothing But The Poem – Imtiaz Dharker

The Scottish Poetry Library’s resident podcast host Sam Tongue takes a deep dive into two poems – “Bairn” & “Stitch” – by one of Britain’s most beloved poets, Imtiaz Dharker.

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/podcast/nothing-but-the-poem-imtiaz-dharker/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #ImtiazDharker #podcast

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7d

Afro-Scottish Events 2026: Voices Beyond Borders
11 September, Glasgow – £0–£15

Afro-Scottish Events returns with an evening of poetry, music, culture & community celebrating the stories, sounds & experiences that connect us across borders

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/afro-scottish-events-2026-tickets-1990760184301

#Scottish #AfroScottish #literature #poetry #music #storytelling #culture

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6d

Seven scythes leaned at the wall.
Beard upon golden beard
The last barley load
Swayed through the yard…

—George Mackay Brown, “Taxman”
Published in CARVE THE RUNES (Polygon, 2021)

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/carve-the-runes/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Orkney #farming #farminghistory #harvest #GeorgeMacKayBrown

Taxman
by George Mackay Brown

Seven scythes leaned at the wall.
Beard upon golden beard
The last barley load
Swayed through the yard.
The girls uncorked the ale.
Fiddle and feet moved together.
Then between stubble and heather
A horseman rode.

ALT

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8d

“Rise” from Library on Fire, now available for Pre-Order, along with Disremembering and Threnody at http://nihtgengapress.com

Thank you for supporting an independent poet! 🖤✨

#Poetry #Books #Independent

A poem from Library on Fire by Michelle Joy Gallagher Soffe. It reads:

Rise

The sun,
Halfway
Through its
Litespan,
Burning
Through its
Hydrogen,
Still rises
And so
Will
I.

ALT

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6d

The sky
Gives us
Constellations
When we
Can’t recognize
Ourselves.

#poetry

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6d

Daft gowk, in macaroni dress,
Are ye come here to shaw your face,
Bowden wi’ pride o’ simmer gloss,
To cast a dash at Reikie’s cross…

—“On Seeing a Butterfly in the Street”, by Robert Fergusson (1750–1774) – born #OTD, 5 Sept. In his short life he reinvigorated #poetry in Scots. A 🎂🧵

1/10

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #18thcentury #Edinburgh #RobertFergusson

On Seeing a Butterfly in the Street
Robert Fergusson

Daft gowk, in macaroni dress,
Are ye come here to shaw your face,
Bowden wi’ pride o’ simmer gloss,
To cast a dash at Reikie’s cross;
And glowr at mony a twa-legg’d creature,
Flees, braw by art, tho’ worms by nature?

Like country laird in city cleeding,
Ye’re come to town to lear’ good breeding;
To bring ilk darling toast and fashion
In vogue amang the flee creation,
That they, like buskit belles and beaux,
May crook their mou’ fu’ sour at those
Whase weird is still to creep, alas!
Unnotic’d ʼmang the humble grass;
While you, wi’ wings new buskit trim,
Can far frae yird and reptiles skim;
Newfangle grown wi’ new-got form,
You soar aboon your mither worm.

Kind Nature lent but for a day
Her wings to mak ye sprush and gay;
In her habuliments a while
Ye may your former sell beguile,
And ding awa’ the vexing thought
O’ hourly dwinin’ into nought,
By beengin’ to your foppish brithers,
Black corbies dress’d in peacock’s feathers;
Like thee they dander here and there,
Whan Simmer’s blinks are warm and fair,
And lo’e to snuff the healthy balm,
Whan E’enin’ spreads her wing sae calm;
But whan she girns and glow’rs sae dour
Frae Borean houff in angry show’r,
Like thee they scour frae street or field,
And hap them in a lyther bield;
For they were never made to dree
The adverse gloom o’ Fortune’s e’e,
Nor ever pried life’s pinin’ woes,
Nor pu’d the prickles wi’ the rose.

ALT

Poor Butterfly! thy case I mourn,
To green kail-yard and fruits return:
How could you troke the mavis’ note
For “penny pies all-pipin’ hot?”
Can lintie’s music be compar’d
Wi’ gruntles frae the City Guard?
Or can our flow’rs, at ten hour’s bell,
The gowan or the spink excel?

Now shou’d our sclates wi’ hailstanes ring,
What cabbage-fauld wad screen your wing;
Say, fluttering fairy! wert thy hap
To light beneath braw Nanny’s cap,
Wad she, proud butterfly of May!
In pity let you skaithless gae?
The furies glancing frae her een
Wad rug your wings o’ siller sheen,
That, wae for thee! far, far outvy
Her Paris artist’s finest dye;
Then a’ your bonny spraings wad fall,
And you a worm be left to crawl.

To sic mishanter rins the laird
Wha quits his ha’-house and kail-yard,
Grows politician, scours to court,
Whare he’s the laughing-stock and sport
O’ Ministers, wha jeer and jibe,
And heeze his hopes wi’ thought o’ bribe,
Till in the end they flae him bare,
Leave him to poortith, and to care.
Their fleetchin’ words owre late he sees,
He trudges hame, repines, and dies.

Sic be their fa’ wha dirk their ben
In blackest business nae their ain;
And may they scad their lips fu’ leal,
That dip their spoons in ither’s kail.

ALT

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18d

Ardent on the beach at Rossnowlagh
on the last day of summer,
you ran through the shallows
throwing off shoes, and shirt and towel
like the seasons, the city’s years…

—Robin Robertson, “Donegal”
published in SAILING THE FOREST (Picador, 2014)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #summer #Donegal #ageing