poetry

73d

The Orphic Hymns are a collection of 87 hymns in ancient Greek, addressed to various deities.

Attributed in antiquity to the mythical poet Orpheus, they were composed in Asia Minor, most likely around the 2nd or 3rd centuries AD, and seem to have belonged to a cult community which used them in ritual. The collection is preceded by a proem in which Orpheus addresses the legendary poet Musaeus.

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

Greek Mythology in Literature at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/subject/17235

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73d

Oh ye, wha in your oors o ease, ‍‍
‍‍Are fashed wi golochs, mauks, an flees,
Fell stingin wasps an bumble bees,
Tak tent o this:
There’s ae sma pest that’s waur nor these
To mar your bliss…

—W.R. Darling, “The Pest”
published in Oor Mither Tongue: An Anthology of Scots Vernacular Verse (Alexander Gardner, 1937)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #midge #midges

The Pest
W. R. Darling

Oh ye, wha in your oors o ease, ‍‍
‍‍Are fashed wi golochs, mauks, an flees,
Fell stingin wasps an bumble bees,
Tak tent o this:
There’s ae sma pest that’s waur nor these
To mar your bliss.

They hing ower hedges, burns, an wuds, ‍‍
‍‍An dance at een in dusky cluds;
Wi aw your random skelps an scuds,
They’re naeweys worrit:
Gin there’s a hole in aw your duds,
They’ll mak straucht for it.

I’ve traivled wast, I’ve traivled east; ‍‍
‍‍‍I’m weel aquaint wi mony a beast;
Wi lions, teegers, bears – at least
I’ve kent their claw:
I’ve been the fell mosquito’s feast –
But this cowes aw.

Auld Scotland, on thy bonnie face, ‍‍
‍‍Whan Mither Nature gied ye grace,
Lown, birken glens an floery braes,
Wild windy ridges,
To save ye frae deleerit praise,
She gied ye midges.

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73d

At the Canongate Wall

“Stone suits the poetry. Or perhaps it’s the other way round. I think poetry suits stone, more than it suits paper, certainly more than it suits a screen. The poetry releases something latent in the stone.”

Kathleen Jamie visits the Canongate Wall in Edinburgh.

https://www.lrb.co.uk/blog/2025/june/at-the-canongate-wall

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #scottishparliament #publicart

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73d

This photo’s saying nothing, is black and white, opaque.
A frozen moment, not a memory.
The boyfriend with the Pentax took it for the sake
Of taking it…

—Liz Lochhead, “Photograph, Art Student, Female, Working Class, 1966”
published in FUGITIVE COLOURS (Birlinn, 2016)

29 June is #NationalCameraDay

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/fugitive-colours/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #1960s #photograph #photography #womenwriters

Photograph, Art Student, Female, Working Class
Liz Lochhead

Her hair is cut into that perfect slant –
An innovation circa ‘64 by Vidal Sassoon.
She’s wearing C&A’s best effort at Quant
Ending just below the knicker-line, daisy-strewn.
Keeping herself in tights could blow her grant
Entirely, so each precious pair is soon
Spattered with nail varnish dots that stop each run.
She’s a girl, eighteen – just wants to have fun.

She’s not ‘a chick’. Not yet. Besides, by then
She’ll find the term ‘offensive’. ‘Dollybird’ to quote
Her favourite mags, is what she aspires to when
Her head’s still full of Honey and Petticoat.
It’s almost the last year that, quite this blithely, men
Up ladders or on building sites wolf-whistle to note
The approval they’re sure she will appreciate.
Why not? She did it for their benefit, looks great.

Nor does she object. Wouldn’t think she has the right.
Though when that lech of a lecturer comments on her tits
To a male classmate, openly, she might
Feel – quick as a run in nylon – that it’s
Not what ought to happen, is not polite,
She’ll burn, but smile, have no word that fits
The insult, can’t subject it to language’s prism.
In sixty-six there’s plenty sex, but not ‘sexism’.

Soon: The Female Eunuch and enough
Will be enough. Thanks to newfound feminism and Greer,
Women’ll have the words for all this stuff,
What already rankles, but confuses her, will seem clear
And she’ll (consciously) be no one’s ‘bit of fluff’
Or ‘skirt’ or ‘crumpet’. She’ll know the rule is ‘gay’ not ‘queer’,
‘Ms’ not ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs’ – she’ll happily obey it
And, sure as the Pill in her pocket, that’s how she’ll say it.

This photo’s saying nothing, is black and white, opaque.
A frozen moment, not a memory.
The boyfriend with the Pentax took it for the sake
Of taking it, a shot among many others, randomly,
To see how it would develop. Didn’t imagine it’d make
An image so typical it’d capture time so perfectly.
How does she feel? Hey, girl, did it feel strange
To be waiting for the a-changing times to change?

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40d

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie…

—Robert Burns, “Corn Rigs”
pages from Robert Burns: Selected Poems & Songs (OUP, 2013)

Today, 1 August, is Lammas Day

https://global.oup.com/academic/product/selected-poems-and-songs-9780199682324?cc=gb&lang=en&

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #song #18thcentury #folksong #RobertBurns #Lammas #LammasDay #romanticism #Scots #Scotslanguage

SONG
Tune-Corn Rigs are bonie

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie:®
The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,
Till 'tween the late and early;
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed,
To see me thro' the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:
I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her ore and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She ay shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I hae been blythe wi' Comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu gath'rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

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40d

WRITERS!

Submissions are invited to NEW WRITING SCOTLAND 44! We want poetry & prose in English, Gaelic, & Scots from writers who are Scottish by residence, birth, or inclination. All successful contributors are paid – deadline 31 Oct!

@writingcommunity

Submit free via Submittable 👇

https://nws.submittable.com/submit

#Scottish #literature #writing #WritingCommunity #IAmWriting #poetry #shortfiction #shortstories #Scots #Scotslanguage #Gaelic #Gaidhlig

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72d

so we’re doing the 1960s and leah who’s eleven
nearly twelve says what’s vietnam sir and scott
who has already turned twelve but looks about eight
says it’s in korea isn’t it sir…

—Mark Russell, “Drama”
published in With Their Best Clothes On: New Writing Scotland 36 (ASL, 2018)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws36/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #drama #teaching #teachers

Mark Russell
Drama

so we’re doing the 1960s and leah who’s eleven
nearly twelve says what’s vietnam sir and scott
who has already turned twelve but looks about eight
says it’s in korea isn’t it sir and stephanie laughs
well sort of snorts and looks like she might pee herself
and i say no but it is in the far east like korea
and we look on the map i bought and tacked to the wall
and see why north vietnam was supported by china
but not quite why south vietnam was supported by the usa
and then rab whose name is robbie but he prefers rab
spots korea and says look there’s a north and a south
just like that vietnam hingy and thomas says
wasn’t there a war there too and aiden says shut up
twatface and I have to send him out to mrs lennon
and thomas says it again and we see that north korea
was supported by china and that the americans found
another way of fighting another war a long way from home
and then katie who is very quiet most of the time
says no that wasn’t in the past because it’s happening
today it’s happening now she saw it on her phone
and that we’re all going to die tomorrow or the day after
and both rebeccas stand up waving their hands shouting
we’re not are we sir we’re not are we we’re not going to die
tomorrow are we sir and I say no but what would we do if
we thought we were going to die tomorrow how would we feel
maybe we can make a play about it let’s get into groups

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49d

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

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49d

“To anyone reading this who is just starting out or feeling unsure, I want to say: keep going. Poetry needs your voice”

Nazaret Ranea on her journey from being one of the Scottish Poetry Library’s Young Makars to publishing her first poetry collection with Drunk Muse Press

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/2025/07/my-journey-from-scotlands-next-generation-young-makar-to-published-poet/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #writingcommunity

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71d

The First Battle of the Somme began #OTD, 1 July, 1916. Violet Jacob’s only child, Harry, was killed in action in the battle. Jacob’s war poems are some of the most poignant & affecting works from the Home Front.

“To A.H.J.”, from MORE SONGS OF ANGUS & OTHERS (1918)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoem #warpoetry #Somme #WW1 #FirstWorldwar

Violet Jacob
“To A.H.J.”

Past life, past tears, far past the grave,‍‍
‍‍‍‍The tryst is set for me,
Since, for our all, your all you gave‍‍
‍‍‍‍On the slopes of Picardy.

On Angus, in the autumn nights,‍‍
‍‍‍‍The ice-green light shall lie.
Beyond the trees the Northern Lights‍‍
‍‍‍‍Slant on the belts of sky.

But miles on miles from Scottish soil‍‍
‍‍‍‍You sleep, past war and scaith,
Your country’s freedman, loosed from toil.‍‍
‍‍‍‍In honour and in faith.

For Angus held you in her spell,
‍‍‍‍Her Grampians, faint and blue,
Her ways, the speech you knew so well,
‍‍‍‍Were half the world to you.

Yet rest, my son; our souls are those‍‍
‍‍‍‍Nor time nor death can part,
And lie you proudly, folded close‍‍
‍‍‍‍To France’s deathless heart.

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48d

The Battle of Harlaw was fought #OTD, 24 July, 1411. Before the battle the Clan Donald bard Lachlann Mòr MacMhuirich composed this brosnachadh or incitement to battle. Each line contains 2 describing words, & each successive pair of lines all begin with the same letter while retaining the 7-syllable format of each line. The poet works through the entire Gaelic alphabet in sequence.

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https://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/inverurie/battleofharlaw/index.html

#Scottish #literature #poetry #Gaelic #Gaidhlig #medieval #history #battle

Brostughadh-catha Chlann-Domhnaill, Là Chatha Gharbhaich
Lachlann Mòr MacMhuirich

A Chlanna Cuinn, cuimhnichibh
Cruas an am na h-iorghaile:
Gu h-àirneach, gu h-arranta,
Gu h-athlamh, gu h-allanta,
Gu beòdha, gu barramhail,
Gu brìoghmhor, gu buan-fheargach,
Gu calma, gu curanta,
Gu cròdha, gu cath-bhuadhach,
Gu dùr is gu dàsannach,
Gu dian is gu deagh-fhulang,
Gu h-èasgaidh, gu h-eaghnamhach,
Gu h-éidith’, gu h-eireachdail,
Gu fortail, gu furachail,
Gu frithir, gu forniata,
Gu gruamach, gu gràineamhail,
Gu gleusta, gu gaisgeamhail,
Gu h-ullamh, gu h-iorghaileach,
Gu h-olla-bhorb, gu h-àibheiseach,
Gu h-innill, gu h-inntinneach,
Gu h-iomdha, gu h-iomghonach,
Gu laomsgar, gu làn-athlamh,
Gu làidir, gu luath-bhuilleach,
Gu mearghanta, gu mór-chneadhach,
Gu meanmnach, gu mìleanta,
Gu neimhneach, gu naimhdeamhail,
Gu niatach, gu neimh-eaglach,
Gu h-obann, gu h-olla-ghnìomhach,
Gu h-oirdheirc, gu h-oirbheartach,
Gu prap is gu prìomh-ullamh,
Gu prosta, gu prionnsamhail,
Gu ruaimneach, gu ro-dhàna,

Gu ro-bhorb, gu rìoghamhail,
Gu sanntach, gu sèanamhail,
Gun socair, gu sàr-bhuailteach,
Gu teannta, gu togarrach,
Gu talcmhor, gu traigh-èasgaidh,
Gu h-urlamh, gu h-ùr-mhaiseach,
Do chosnadh na cath-làthrach
Re bronnaibh bhar biodhbhadha.
A Chlanna Cuinn Cèad-chathaich
A nois uair bhar n-aitheanta,
A chuileanan confadhach,
A leómhannan làn-ghasta,
A onchonaibh iorghaileach,
Chaoiribh chròdha, churanta
De Chlanna Cuinn Cèad-chathaich –
A Chlanna Cuinn, cuimhnichibh
Cruas an am na h-iorghaile.

The Harlaw Brosnachadh
Lachlann Mòr MacMhuirich
Translated by Meg Bateman

Children of Conn, recall now
courage in time of combat:
be attentive, audacious,
agile, ambitious,
be bold, beautiful,
brawny, belligerent,
contumacious, courageous,
clever, combative,
deliberate, destructive,
deadly, enduring,
be eager, expert,
well-equipped, elegant,
be forceful, fitful,
fervent, feisty,
be grim, gruesome,
gymnastic, glorious,
alert, awesome,
intractable, impetuous,
well-accoutred, ardent,
innumerable, incisive,
be lethal, lusty,
swiftly lopping, giving it laldy,
mirthful, mortally-wounding,
mettlesome, military,
be noxious, nasty,
never-daunted, never-fearing,
overwhelming, omnipotent,
outshining, outreaching,
precipitate, prepared,
powerful, princely,
be robust, reckless,
ruinous, regal,

be sharp, sainèd,
steady, sure-hitting,
tight, triumphant,
tenacious, tripping,
youthful and yearning
to beat in battle
the foe's forces.

O Children of Conn of a hundred conflicts,
now is the hour for honour,
O warring whelps,
O bulky bears,
O leading lions,
O obstinate otters,
live, courageous coals
of the Children of Conn of a hundred conflicts –
O Children of Conn, recall now
courage in time of combat.

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46d

Let us now give thanks
for these salt-blown

wind-burned pastures
where oatgrass and timothy
shrink from the harrow of the sea…

—John Glenday, “A Westray Prayer”
in SELECTED POEMS (Picador 2020)

John Glenday reads this poem on the Poetry Archive:

https://poetryarchive.org/poem/westray-prayer/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

John Glenday
A Westray Prayer

in memoriam Mike and Barbara Heasman

Let us now give thanks
for these salt-blown

wind-burned pastures
where oatgrass and timothy
shrink from the harrow of the sea

where Scotland at long last
wearies of muttering its own name
where we may begin

to believe we have always known
what someone in his wisdom
must have meant

when he gave us everything
and told us nothing.

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70d

It clamps itself to a rock, like a limpet,
And creeps up and down in a tide of people,
Hardly ever stranded in a tideless sabbath:
A pilgrimage place where all hymns are jubilant…

—Norman MacCaig, “A.K.’s Summer Hut”
published in THE POEMS OF NORMAN MACCAIG (Birlinn, 2009)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #NormanMacCaig

A.K.’s summer hut
Norman MacCaig

It clamps itself to a rock, like a limpet,
And creeps up and down in a tide of people,
Hardly ever stranded in a tideless sabbath:
A pilgrimage place where all hymns are jubilant.

The starry revolutions around it,
The deer circling in new foundations
Of old worlds, the immortal noise
Of the river ghosted with salmon - these

Are a bloodstream it’s a blood-drop in.
Such sharing. Such giving. See, at the window,
That silly chaffinch, practically talking Gaelic,
And the eiders domestic as farmyard ducks

And the lady gull yacking for her breakfast.
If I were a bethlehemish star I’d stand fixed
Over that roof, knowing there’d be born there
No wars, no tortures, no savage crucifixions.

But a rare, an extraordinary thing –
An exhilaration of peace, a sounding
Grace with trinities galore – if only
Those three collared doves in the rowan tree.

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48d

Miscarriage

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45d

I am pulled to the river by the hook in
my teeth. Swans, herring gulls, flick
of a cormorant, a bridge in lunular arch:
write down each…

—Siobhan Mulligan, “Salmon Run”
published in The Last Good Year: New Writing Scotland 38 (ASL, 2020)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws38/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #naturewriting

Siobhan Mulligan
SALMON RUN

I am pulled to the river by the hook in
my teeth. Swans, herring gulls, flick
of a cormorant, a bridge in lunular arch:
write down each. No vein of iron, no piston
to pump. My grandmother
would have avoided this. Her lungs
would swallow smoke as

salmon swallowed sewage, slag and
oil, steel and cistern smell, home settling
in choking gills. Years combed the water
into river again, but cycles stalled.
Rewilding required.
Now they swarm in shattered
patterns, fins glinting like
slicked stone.

Taste calls them on the currents:
the delicate peat of their hatching stream.
Generations flick past like calendar pages:
salt, smoke, citrus scent, calling me
like a dream.

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69d

I had a holiday from awkwardness. Can you have sex? was solved. Most people have been or known a doubled self like us…

—Nuala Watt, “Pregnant & Squint”
from The Department of Work & Pensions Assesses a Jade Fish (Blue Diode, 2024)

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https://www.bluediode.co.uk/product-page/the-department-of-work-and-pensions-assesses-a-jade-fish-by-nuala-watt

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #disability #pregnant #pregnancy #motherhood

Nuala Watt
Pregnant and Squint

I had a holiday from awkwardness. Can you have sex? was solved. Most people have been or known a doubled self like us. Briefly my conditions were disabled.

Test to term I never had to console a passer-by spooked by my movement. People knew what to say. When are you due? Do you know what you’re having? Yes, a break.

We were disconcertingly well. Nothing Abnormal Detected said midwives’ scribbles. Just before childbirth, everyone’s disabled. For me, same old, same old. I had cohabited with fatigue for years; my balance was dreadful; I already leaked.

Suddenly I had twice the rights on buses. I could be the belly, if I liked, or the girl balanced on a semi-circle. I qualified for both the reserved seats.

I liked the quaint but truthful phrase ‘with child’.

The government forced me to list what I couldn’t do. I had to excise you from my answers. Whilst I described the most disastrous days, the falls, the fits, the faff, the time I collapsed while trying to use a tampon, my oddly capable body made your kidneys.

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44d

“Jock, when ye hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye’re sleeping.”

—The Laird of Dumbiedikes, on his death-bed, to his son (in THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN, by Walter Scott)

28 July is World Conservation Day. Here’s “Dumbiedikes”, by James Robertson – you can listen to him read the poem online here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0z2ZrMu__OY

#Scottish #literature #poetry #poem #Scots #Scotslanguage #WalterScott #WorldConservationDay #environment

Dumbiedikes
James Robertson

“Jock, when ye hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye’re sleeping."
—The Laird of Dumbiedikes, on his death-bed, to his son
(The Heart of Midlothian, by Sir Walter Scott)

Hoo mony trees tae prent a thoosan buiks?
Hoo mony buiks tae pulp a thoosan trees?
Hoo mony trees tae launch a thoosan boats?
Hoo mony boats tae sink a thoosan trees?
Hoo mony trees tae licht a thoosan fires?
Hoo mony fires tae smoor a thoosan trees?
Hoo mony trees tae mak a thoosan kists?
Hoo mony kists tae yird a thoosan trees?
Jock, when I’m awa, dae this for me –
howk oot a hole and in it stick a tree.
I carena gin it’s birk, beech, aik or rowan,
Sae be’t when ye’re sleepin, Jock, it’s growin.
Its canopy will spreid, its seeds will faw;
it micht be hame tae mavis, merle or craw;
speeders will hing their brigs on it, I doot,
and peerie-weerie beasties venture oot
upon the mappa mundi o its bark,
while kail-worms mak a denner o its sark.
Amang its ruits the glunchin taid will rest,
the frettin, fykie yird-moose bigg her nest,
and dentylions and puddock-stools upheeze…
In sair times, Jock, we’re sair in need o trees.
Stick in a tree, stick in a thoosan mair,
and mind o me when I’m nae langer there.
Hoo mony daiths afore the planet dees?
Tae gie the planet braith, hoo mony trees?

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41d

For anyone looking at those reposts on Burns I just shared, and curious about Scottish poetry, but not sure where to begin, may I suggest some of our new generation of younger poets such as Len Pennie, Michael Pedersen or Jeda Pearl. And of course the veterans such as the wonderful Jackie Kay, or the (sadly now late) John Burnside.

For more ideas, snippets of the works etc, try the Scottish Poetry Library https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/

#Scotland #ScottishLiteratyre #poetry #bookstodon

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44d

For years I wandered hill and moor
Half looking for the road
Winding into fairyland
Where that blacksmith kept a forge

Who’d heat red hot the dragging links
That bound me to the past…

—Kathleen Jamie, “The Tradition”
published in THE BONNIEST COMPANIE (Picador, 2015)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Kathleen Jamie
The Tradition

For years I wandered hill and moor
Half looking for the road
Winding into fairyland
Where that blacksmith kept a forge

Who’d heat red hot the dragging links
That bound me to the past,
Then, with one almighty hammer-blow
Unfetter me at last.

Older now, I know nor fee
Nor anvil breaks those chains
And the wild ways we think we walk
Just bring us here again.

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41d

Robert Burns’s POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT was published #OTD, 31 July 1786.

Copies are 3 times rarer than the Shakespeare First Folio: Patrick Scott & Allan Young are tracking the histories of surviving Kilmarnock Editions

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https://www.thebottleimp.org.uk/2017/11/kilmarnock-burns-book-history/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #RobertBurns #Scots #Scotslanguage #18thcentury #BookHistory #RareBooks

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68d

It’s the cocktail hour. The air is still.
Mister gets busy on the charcoal grill.
Social-kissing women, backslapping men
has failed to break the ice. But then
Missiz appears like magic from the dusk.
Cool, ten years his junior, she smells of musk
and ‘Madame Rochas’. Two small spots of anger
high on her cheekbones linger…

—Liz Lochhead, “Fourth of July Fireworks”

Published in THREE SCOTTISH POETS, @canongatebooks 1992

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #4thofJuly #FourthofJuly

Fourth of July Fireworks
by Liz Lochhead

The guests are gathered.
Boston-Irish Nancy, half in huff
says, ‘Better help yourselves,
you all know Mister’s timing well enough.’
Aside at me she mutters.
‘Millionaires can afford to let things wait.
Honest-to-God Mister would be late
for his own funeral.’ Cigarstore Indian,
I hide behind my apron, wait and drink in all I can.

(We don’t exist. They pick our trays,
Tom Collinses, Martinis and canapés.)

Oh horror, New England night,
when I fetched the ice down and that snake
looped my feet in the kitchen garden! I still shake.
‘Harmless,’ says Nancy.
I hear her hiss, ‘Some host!
That beggar’ll only get here when he’s sure he’s last.’

Fourth of July. Cape Cod. Dead on cue,
last-man Mister comes running to his barbecue.
Arms flailing like a cricketer’s across the lawn
from his ‘so English’ house with a flame red shirt on.

It’s the cocktail hour. The air is still.
Mister gets busy on the charcoal grill.
Social-kissing women, backslapping men
has failed to break the ice. But then
Missiz appears like magic from the dusk.
Cool, ten years his junior, she smells of musk

and ‘Madame Rochas’. Two small spots of anger
high on her cheekbones linger.

When Mister says it’s done enough
the guests spread ketchup on the fatted calf.
The night hots up. Liquor flows. Listless
couples come alive. A bit apart, restless,
Missiz sways gently on her own
to Glen Miller on the gramophone.
All eyes are on the soignee cling
of this year’s leisure favourite, velvety stretch towelling
for patio-party wear. Those purples and electric pinks
‘Just far too hectic altogether,’ Nancy thinks.

(Ten years with Missiz, Nancy’s face
is quite professional, impervious.)

Ice melts in the Martini tray. Midges
drown. The whole night edges
to a thunderstorm. Maybugs big as golfballs thud
as screendoors bounce them. But, after our blood,
divebombing mosquitoes dodge the mesh and slide
in down their own thin whine.
They bite despite insecticide.

All at sea,
white and dayglo orange fins spinnaker the bay.
Music blares
from the jazzed-up clubhouse round the Cape, Cotuit way.
The whole damn town is two thirds empty after Labour Day.
These summer people
migrate to Florida, lock, stock and barrel.
Tonight their parked cars sprawl the drive and trail

behind those his-and-hers coupled custom Cadillacs
like a comet tail.

(Oh I can see it all quite clearly, feeling small
and stone-cold sober. But I do not count at all.)

Out on the lawn the sprinklers, oddly luminous,
sputter like Roman Candles, ominous
as the sudden snap of queer clear light
from one weird streak unzips the dark.
The German Shepherd guard dogs bark.
A wind gets up. These beach-house boards
are flimsier than playing cards.

(Over the bay, like flares
odd rockets go up with a shock of stars.)

Mister drags off his box of fireworks to the shore.
Missiz drains her drink and hits the floor
with someone half her age. His snake-arms slur
around her waist. Eyes glaze. Sentence endings blur.
Missiz (‘mutton dressed as lamb’)
comes in slowly as the false-calm
lead-slow sea that slicks the beach. Sinatra sings.
The tide ravels up slowly, shelving things.

Raindrops big as bullets dent the roof we all stand under,
watching Canute’s fireworks outrage the storm,
try to steal its thunder.

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43d

We needed it—and he stood there,
feet on the dry porch, saying rain,
cloud and skyful, the sound of drumming…

—Niall Campbell, “The Rainmaker”
from POETRY, July/August 2020

We probably don’t appreciate the rain here in Scotland as much as we should…

Today, 29 July, is World Rain Day 🌧️

1/3

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/153822/the-rainmaker

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #rain #WorldRainDay

The Rainmaker
by Niall Campbell

We needed it—and he stood there,
feet on the dry porch, saying rain,
cloud and skyful, the sound of drumming;

the bath trough in the garden listened,
white and bone dry, as he described
a bright wash across the dust fields,

the surest downpour, the flushed skin,
my soaked shirt, heavy as a bell.
Then off he went to the scorched fields,

humming, and weighing what we paid.
What did he say: prayer is moisture;
hope is a well—I didn’t care,

I wanted just the words from him—
what I couldn’t dare say—not there
beneath that sun, that blur of fire-sky.

My thoughts all thoughts of water, I
spun my head round—to hear the spill
of the word rain across the boards,

and nothing grew dark, nothing fell—
but something fell, and the ground took,
and something wild as garlic grew.

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43d

The latest issue of NORTHWORDS NOW (#46, Summer–Autumn 2025) is available free online – featuring poems, short stories, articles & book reviews, in English, Gaelic & Scots

New writing, fresh from Scotland and the wider North
Sgrìobhadh ùr à Alba agus an Àird a Tuath

https://www.northwordsnow.co.uk/Issue46

#Scottish #literature #poetry #shortstories #shortfiction #Scots #Scotslanguage #Gaelic #Gaidhlig

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42d

We who loved sincerely; we who loved sae fiercely.
The snow ne’er looked sae barrie,
Nor the winter trees sae pretty.
C’mon, c’mon my dearie – tak my hand, my fiere!

—Jackie Kay, “Fiere”
fron FIERE (Picador 2011)

30 July is International Friendship Day 🤝

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #friend #friends #friendship #InternationalFriendshipDay

Fiere
Jackie Kay

If ye went tae the tapmost hill, fiere
whaur we used tae clamb as girls,
ye’d see the snow the day, fiere,
settling on the hills.
You’d mind o’ anither day, mibbe,
we ran doon the hill in the snow,
sliding and singing oor way tae the foot,
lassies laughing thegither – how braw,
the years slipping awa; oot in the weather.

And noo we’re suddenly auld, fiere,
oor friendship’s ne’er been weary.
We’ve aye seen the wurld differently.
Whaur would I hae been weyoot my jo,
my fiere, my fiercy, my dearie O?
Oor hair micht be silver noo,
oor walk a wee bit doddery,
but we’ve had a whirl and a blast, girl,
thru the cauld blast winter, thru spring, summer.

O’er a lifetime, my fiere, my bonnie lassie,
I’d defend you – you, me; blithe and blatter,
here we gang doon the hill, nae matter,
past the bracken, bonny braes, barley,
oot by the roaring sea, still havin a blether.
We who loved sincerely; we who loved sae fiercely,
the snow ne’er looked sae barrie,
nor the winter trees sae pretty.
C’mon, c’mon my dearie – tak my hand, my fiere!

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43d

A bird’s voice chinks and tinkles
Alone in the gaunt reedbed –
Tiny silversmith
Working late in the evening…

—Norman MacCaig, “July evening”
published in THE POEMS OF NORMAN MacCAIG (Birlinn, 2009)

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

#Scottish #literature #poetry #poem #NormanMacCaig

July evening
Norman MacCaig

A bird’s voice chinks and tinkles
Alone in the gaunt reedbed –
Tiny silversmith
Working late in the evening.

I sit and listen. The rooftop
With a quill of smoke stuck in it
Wavers against the sky
In the dreamy heat of summer.

Flowers’ closing time: bee lurches
Across the hayfield, singing
And feeling its drunken way
Round the air’s invisible corners.

And grass is grace. And charlock
Is gold of its own bounty.
The broken chair by the wall
Is one with immortal landscapes.

Something has been completed
That everything is part of,
Something that will go on
Being completed forever.

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