poetry

1y

On seeing Iran in the news, I want to say

my grandmother was called Nasreen,
that she died two years ago in Tabriz
and I couldn’t go to say goodbye,
that she knew nothing of power,
nuclear or otherwise…

—Marjorie Lotfi, “On seeing Iran in the news, I want to say”
published in THE WRONG PERSON TO ASK (Bloodaxe, 2024). D.A. Prince reviews THE WRONG PERSON TO ASK on The Friday Poem:

https://thefridaypoem.substack.com/p/the-friday-poem-on-16th-may-2025

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Iran

Marjorie Lotfi
On seeing Iran in the news, I want to say

my grandmother was called Nasreen,
that she died two years ago in Tabriz
and I couldn’t go to say goodbye,
that she knew nothing of power,
nuclear or otherwise. I want to say
that the bonfires for Chahar Shanbeh Suri
were built by our neighbour’s hands;
as children we were taught to jump over
and not be caught by the flames. I want to say
my cousin Elnaz, the one born after I left,
has a son and two degrees in Chemistry,
and had trouble getting a job. I want to say
that the night we swam towards
the moon hanging over the horizon
of the Caspian Sea, we found ourselves
kneeling on a sandbar we couldn’t see
like a last gift. I want to say
I’m the wrong person to ask.

Edited 1y ago

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1y

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window…

—Edwin Morgan, “Strawberries”
published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

Hot poetry for a hot day 🍓🍓🍓

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #summer #love #lovepoem #LGBTQ

Strawberries
Edwin Morgan

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates

laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

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1y

I have fled through land and sea, blank land and sea,
because my house is besieged by murderers
And I was wrecked in the ocean, crushed and swept,
Spilling salt angry tears on the salt waves…

—Edwin Muir, “The refugees born for a land unknown”
published in Collected Poems, 1921–1958 (Faber, 1960)

20 June is World Refugee Day

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #refugees #WorldRefugeeDay #asylum #humanrights

Edwin Muir
‘The refugees born for a land unknown’

The refugees born for a land unknown
We have dismissed their wrongs, now dull and old,
And little judgment days lost in the dark.

‘I have fled through land and sea, blank land and sea,
Because my house is besieged by murderers
And I was wrecked in the ocean, crushed and swept,
Spilling salt angry tears on the salt waves,
My life waste water drawn down through a hole,
Yet lived. And now with alien eyes I see
The flowering trees on the unreal hills,
And in an English garden all afternoon
I watch the bees among the lavender.
Bees are at home, and think they have their place,
And I outside.
Footsteps on the stairs, two heavy, two light,
The door opens. Since then I remember nothing,
But this room in a place where no doors open.
I think the world died many years ago.’

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1y

Use no names. Roads
have been whited out,
redacted. Hone your oldest sense…

—Pippa Little, “For Refuge”
published in AIBLINS: New Scottish Political Poetry (Luath Press, 2016)

20 June is World Refugee Day

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WorldRefugeeDay #refugees #humanrights

For Refuge
Pippa Little

Use no names. Roads
have been whited out,
redacted. Hone your oldest sense.
Learn the wind,
memorise where it goes
bearing your odours. The truck-stops
are roofless churches.
Comma-birds on power lines
swollen by rain
fall away.
Comfort yourself,
there will be stars in the dark
travelling towards you,
smaller and smaller.
Trust the earth
with your bandaged feet,
the pockets sewn shut by your mother.
Carry only such things
as snowflakes, eyelashes,
for the future may not make you out.

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1y

I would like to tell her not to wear such flimsy shoes,
that rubble contains the whole spectrum of knowable
and unknowable dangers…

—Marjorie Lotfi, “Picture of Girl and Small Boy (Burij, Gaza, 2014)”
published in THE WRONG PERSON TO ASK (Bloodaxe Books, 2023)

20 June is World Refugee Day

Photo: REUTERS/Finbarr O’Reilly

https://www.reuters.com/news/picture/idUSRTR40EE6/undefined

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #refugees #WorldRefugeeDay #humanrights #Gaza

Picture of Girl and Small Boy (Burij, Gaza, 2014)
Marjorie Lotfi

I would like to tell her not to wear such flimsy shoes,
that rubble contains the whole spectrum of knowable
and unknowable dangers: sheets of metal ripped
to knife edge, live wires, bloated arms reaching

for light. Her hair, scraped back into a ponytail,
is open to sky; remnants of buildings filter down
one concrete chunk at a time, and the midday bells
of rockets ring out above her. She carries a boy

on her still narrow hips, his legs entwined around
her yellow dungarees. Like a rodeo rider, his left arm
grips her shoulder to steady himself, or her,
while his torso reels back and away; his body

is asking to slow down, to turn back. Instead,
her eyes comb the ground for a next step, fingers
of her free hand curled into a claw, as if
to frighten off what she somehow sees ahead.

A Palestinian girl carries a child across rubble from a building that police said was destroyed by an Israeli air strike, in the Burij refugee camp in the central Gaza Strip, August 1, 2014. REUTERS/Finbarr O'Reilly.

Marjorie Lotfi's poem describes the picture in detail:

Picture of Girl and Small Boy (Burij, Gaza, 2014)
Marjorie Lotfi

I would like to tell her not to wear such flimsy shoes,
that rubble contains the whole spectrum of knowable
and unknowable dangers: sheets of metal ripped
to knife edge, live wires, bloated arms reaching

for light. Her hair, scraped back into a ponytail,
is open to sky; remnants of buildings filter down
one concrete chunk at a time, and the midday bells
of rockets ring out above her. She carries a boy

on her still narrow hips, his legs entwined around
her yellow dungarees. Like a rodeo rider, his left arm
grips her shoulder to steady himself, or her,
while his torso reels back and away; his body

is asking to slow down, to turn back. Instead,
her eyes comb the ground for a next step, fingers
of her free hand curled into a claw, as if
to frighten off what she somehow sees ahead.

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1y

I can see da rüfs aa taekit, an da hens aroond da door;
Fok kerryin twartree paets hame, an rigs delled every voar.
Aa da lums ir reekin, an I hear da happy soonds
O peerie bairns skirlin, as dey play dem ower da toons…

—“Da Clearance”, by Rhoda Bulter (1929–94), born #OTD, 15 July

A 🎂🧵 – 1/3

Listen to Rhoda Bulter reading “Da Clearance” here

https://www.shetlanddialect.org.uk/da-clearance

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #Shetland #Shetlandic

Da Clearance
Rhoda Bulter

I can see da rüfs aa taekit, an da hens aroond da door;
Fok kerryin twartree paets hame, an rigs delled every voar.
Aa da lums ir reekin, an I hear da happy soonds
O peerie bairns skirlin, as dey play dem ower da toons.

I see eens sittin roond da fire, an twartree mair oot by;
Sookin infants at da breest, an weemen gjaan ta cry.
Da tochtfil, tried faces o dem at’s lived ower lang;
Fractious bairns feytin sleep, an sensin somethin wrang.

I hear a lood, lood knockin, an da crump o monny feet;
Men's voices raised in anger, an da bairns start to greet.
I see da fok aa girded oot afore da laandloard’s men;
An aa da bits a things dey hed, fired ower da briggy-stane.

I see da bare waas staandin, an aa da laand lie green;
Lang syne da fire wis slokkit, an monny a year is geen.
Noo dey aa hae equal portions o aert ta tak dir sleep.
Tell me, wis it wirt it aa for twartree extry sheep?

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1y

Fade then, light; but longing never will.
Midsummer makes the west spectacular
and even gives its last glow a show
of reluctance, as if it had postponed
midnight…

—Edwin Morgan, “21 June”
Published in CATHURES (Carcanet, 2002)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781857546170/cathures/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #midsummer #EdwinMorgan

Edwin Morgan
21 June

Fade then, light; but longing never will.
Midsummer makes the west spectacular
and even gives its last glow a show
of reluctance, as if it had postponed
midnight. But midnight is too faithful.
You're back among the black, the black,
you're down and fit to drown, to drown,
you're padding into nightmare town.
You haven't got a house, a bed-light,
there are no clocks or telephones out there,
you are on your own, you have a large panic
waiting to break through your chest, you are panting,
you count, as it arrives, each brimming pang.
What a clutch of sheets! What a parody of pain!

The longest day, the night is not so long.
You fling back the curtains, the morning sky
is like a meadow. What is it you want?
I don't know. You cannot walk there. No.
So what do you want? The morning, perhaps,
and then I want the day, another day.

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1y

My seventy-seven-year-old father
put his reading glasses on
to help my mother do the buttons
on the back of her dress…

—“George Square”, by Jackie Kay
LIFE MASK (Bloodaxe, 2005)

Hear Jackie Kay read this poem on the Poetry Archive:

https://poetryarchive.org/poem/george-square/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Glasgow #peace

George Square
by Jackie Kay

My seventy-seven-year-old father
put his reading glasses on
to help my mother do the buttons
on the back of her dress.
‘What a pair the two of us are!’
my mother said, ‘Me with my sore wrist,
you with your bad eyes, your soft thumbs!’

And off they went, my two parents
to march against the war in Iraq,
him with his plastic hips, her with her arthritis
to congregate at George Square where the banners
waved at each other like old friends, flapping,
where they’d met for so many marches over their years,
for peace on earth, for pity’s sake, for peace, for peace.

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1y

It is a land of wee
hard men and all I
am wanted for is to
stand and cheer…

Prof Alan Riach considers the life & work of the poet & playwright Joan Ure (1918–1978) – born #OTD, 22 June

1/6

https://www.thenational.scot/news/17455955.joan-ure-the-scots-poet-and-playwright-who-set-a-precedent/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #poet #drama #playwright #20thcentury #womenwriters

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1y

Schyr Hanry myssit the noble king…

Robert I, King of Scots, killed Sir Henry de Bohun in single combat on the first day of the Battle of Bannockburn #OTD, 23 June 1314. The epic vernacular poem “The Brus” by John Barbour (c.1320–1395) describes the event

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https://www.gla.ac.uk/schools/critical/aboutus/resources/stella/projects/starn/poetry/the-brus/book-12/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #medieval #14thcentury #history #MiddleAges #Bannockburn #epic #vernacular #poem #Scots #Scotslanguage

Text is too long for ALT-text – however full text can be found via the link, lines 25 to 85.

Image description: “Bruce and de Bohun”, by John Duncan (1866–1945), Stirling Smith Art Gallery and Museum. King Robert I, wearing chain mail, with a gold circlet around his helmet, and a flowing red-gold cloak and a surcoat bearing the Scottish lion rampant (red, on a yellow background) , stands up in the stirrups of the grey horse he is riding. He holds the reins tightly in his left hand and wields a battle-axe in his right. Sir Henry de Bohun, with golden plate armour and a flowing red cloth tied to his helm, rides past, his long lance missing the king. He is crouched low, almost seeming to bow, his head lined up for the blow from the king's axe.

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1y

Frae the broo o’ a brae I saw them gang,
I saw them hirple to a lanesome shore.
I saw them pass abune the ferly seals
Withouten keel and sail and oar…

—William Jeffrey, “The Refugees”
Published in A KIST O SKINKLAN THINGS (ASL, 2017)

20 June is World Refugee Day

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #WorldRefugeeDay #refugees #humanrights

William Jeffrey
The Refugees

‘Arise and flee into Egypt’

‘There’s a carline walkin’ the road ootby,
A body wi’ hair o’ the streekit snaw,
And an auld man daunders at her side,
A chiel that’s laggie and bent in twa.’

‘They maun be folk frae a fremit toun.
Bid them come in and bide a wee.’
Sae the carline and the auld man came
And supp’d guid brose anent the swee.

I speer’d the taen, and I speer’d the tither,
And scant the answer did I get—
But O, the licht in their eldren e’en
Shone frae some gouden unkenned yett.

Quo’ the carline frail, ‘There’s hame nae mair
In kintras raxt on the crookit sword’;
But the bodach murmured, ‘Nay, there’s hame
Where folks are free wi’ the kindly word.

‘Natheless,’ quo’ she, ‘gang west, my son,
Westlins to isles o’ Bride and the sea.’
Syne they rose and quaitlike went frae the door
And steppit west by the flowery lea.

Frae the broo o’ a brae I saw them gang,
I saw them hirple to a lanesome shore.
I saw them pass abune the ferly seals
Withouten keel and sail and oar.

I saw them gang in a siller glore,
Walkin’ the sea in’ a calm sae still—
The braid eard faulded like a rose
And Bethlehem gloss’d an island hill.

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1y

He picked up a pebble
and threw it into the sea.

And another, and another.
He couldn’t stop…

—Norman MacCaig, “Small Boy”
Published in The Poems of Norman MacCaig, Birlinn 2011

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #NormanMacCaig

Text of a poem, dated July 1985

Small boy
by Norman MacCaig

He picked up a pebble
and threw it into the sea.

And another, and another.
He couldn’t stop.

He wasn’t trying to fill the sea.
He wasn’t trying to empty the beach.

He was just throwing away,
nothing else but.

Like a kitten playing
he was practising for the future

when there’ll be so many things
he’ll want to throw away

if only his fingers will unclench
and let them go.

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1y

"A Deeper Sky", a collection of my longer (not haiku / senryu) poems, up to the end of 2024, is available on Amazon and Rakuten Kobo. Paperback, hardcover and e-reader. If interested in a signed copy, DM me to discuss.

amazon .com link:
https://tinyurl.com/DeeperSkyAmazon

For Amazon UK link, see my author homepage:
https://tinyurl.com/fc3njxup

Kobo link:
https://tinyurl.com/DeeperSkyKobo

Boosts appreciated.

#indie #author #SJAshcroftsPoems #poems #poetry #PoetryCommunity #MyWordsMyWork

Cover of "A Deeper Sky"

Blue sky dotted with broken cloud, takes up about two thirds of the image, above a lake. A line of trees is silhouetted against the evening light and reflects in the water. "A Deeper Sky" appears across the sky in dark letters. "Simon J Ashcroft is in white along the dark line of trees.

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1y

She’s goat her legs oot –
her foldin plastic chair
oan the gress at Glesga Green –
an her airms an enough
creamy dimpled bosom
tae please Renoir…

—Sheila Templeton, “Glesga Fair”
published in Songs of Other Places: New Writing Scotland 32 (ASL, 2014)

Happy Fair Weekend to all the Glasgow Fairies!

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #Glasgow #GlasgowFair

Glesga Fair
Sheila Templeton

She’s goat her legs oot –
her foldin plastic chair
oan the gress at Glesga Green –
an her airms an enough
creamy dimpled bosom
tae please Renoir;
bra straps oan show,
frock lirkit richt up
ower her knees
sittin lik a mannie
legs weel splayed as if
tae accommodate
magnificent baws –
but it’s no that.
It’s tae mak room
mak a space
for her belly,
lovely big roon
wumman’s belly
growthie in the sun.

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1y

The Man He Killed

by Thomas Hardy

https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2025/07/the-man-he-killed-by-thomas-hardy-2.html

Books by Thomas Hardy at PG:

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/23

#poetry #literature

Portrait of Thomas Hardy

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1y

I hate midsummer in the north.
There’s no night to speak of,
just day in and day in
with maybe a slight hesitancy
about two o’clock in the morning…

—Alasdair Maclean, “I Hate Midsummer in the North”
published in From the Wilderness (Gollancz, 1973)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #midsummer

I Hate Midsummer in the North
by Alasdair Maclean

I hate midsummer in the north.
There’s no night to speak of,
just day in and day in
with maybe a slight hesitancy
about two o’clock in the morning.

The sun’s at work continually,
zooming in from some part of the sky,
at some angle or another. In time
it penetrates the thickest skull. In time
it levels up the most forbidding brow.

Light pours down. It makes thing clear.
I see there’s only one world
after all, and it’s a hot one
and a bright one. My hayfield
curls up at the corners. My lips, too.

While the days swagger, elbow one another,
I wait, with what sadness I can muster.
This white weather doesn’t suit me,
I think. I get fatter all the time.
For weeks I live off my stored darkness.

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1y

Here lies our land: every airt
Beneath swift clouds, glad glints of sun,
Belonging to none but itself…

—Kathleen Jamie, “Here lies our land”

This poem was commissioned in 2014 to mark the 700th anniversary of the battle of Bannockburn – fought #OTD, 24 June, 1314. The poem is inscribed on the Bannockburn monument.

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/here-lies-our-land/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Bannockburn #BattleofBannockburn

Here lies our land
Kathleen Jamie

Here lies our land: every airt
Beneath swift clouds, glad glints of sun,
Belonging to none but itself.

We are mere transients, who sing
Its westlin’ winds and fernie braes,
Northern lights and siller tides,

Small folk playing our part.
‘Come all ye’, the country says,
You win me, who take me most to heart.

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193d

The Kirk Sessions: an evening of poetry & music
3 April, Kirriemuir. Tickets £12/£10

Poetry from Kathleen Jamie, Don Paterson, John Glenday, Lesley Harrison & Lisa Brockwell, with music from David Ogilvy & Don Paterson

https://www.northseapoets.com/events/the-kirk-sessions-an-evening-of-poetry-and-music

#Scottish #literature #poetry

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1y

Today, 16 July, is #WorldSnakeDay – so here is “Siesta of a Hungarian Snake”, by Edwin Morgan 🐍

Published in New Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2012)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #concretepoetry #snake #snakes #EdwinMorgan

Edwin Morgan
Siesta of a Hungarian Snake

s sz sz SZ sz SZ sz ZS zs ZS zs zs z

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1y

The grey roots circle thee, who never knew
At any hour within thy travels lone
A human shape but mine…

—Olive Fraser, “The Adder of Quinag”
First published in The Pure Account (Aberdeen University Press, 1981), & included in The Wrong Music (@canongatebooks 1989)

A poem for #WorldSnakeDay 🐍

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/adder-quinag/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #naturewriting #Scotland #highlands #snake #snakes

The Adder of Quinag
Olive Fraser

The grey roots circle thee, who never knew
At any hour within thy travels lone
A human shape but mine. Thou com’st to view,
Wild, unafraid, what stands beside thy stone
And gazes on thee in thy wilderness
Of fifty miles. What thinkst thou of me,
For I am of a race thou could’st not guess
Would murder all thy hapless innocency?

O mountain, take thy small heart back again
And keep him in thy care when I shall go,
Unvisited by all things but the rain,
The hurtless sunbeams, and the winds that blow
For ever in his moors. O let him hold
No intricate memory of that being who stood
Just once by his wild beauty, and did fold
Him with a blessing alien to my blood.

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204d

Remember, man, that thou art dust.

The earl kneels, the ash of the end is written on his brow.

A captain of ships kneels, to be put in mind of a death in a far port, or at home, or on a rock of the sea.

And the boy that holds cinders for the priest,
His forehead is smeared,
Who wears a coat of fourteen Aprils…

—George Mackay Brown, “Ash Wednesday”
Published in TRAVELLERS (John Murray, 2013)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #religion #GeorgeMackayBrown #Orkney #AshWednesday

George Mackay Brown
Ash Wednesday

Remember, man, that thou art dust.

The earl kneels, the ash of the end is written on his brow.

A captain of ships kneels, to be put in mind of a death in a far port, or at home, or on a rock of the sea.

And the boy that holds cinders for the priest,
His forehead is smeared,
Who wears a coat of fourteen Aprils.

The lady of Paplay
Thinks, most mornings, she will live forever; kneeling now
Is touched with the grave-stoor.

The ploughman folds sun-grained hands,
He tilts his face
To the dust drained of warmth and light.

Fisherman, the spindrift
Will wash the ashes from you tomorrow.
Still you remember, between two waves,
St Peter and the fire of his denials.

And the old bishop, “I know this,
One God-ground deed or thought
Endures, when the circle of diamond-and-gold on my finger is dust.”
In the kirk of Magnus
Stood a multitude of islanders, death-farers, that day,
Hungry, after, for panis angelicus.

And unto dust thou shalt return.

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1y

Der a ön o haet ida gairden here,
Whaar da sun-flooer proodly staands,
An dark-red roses trowe da green
Laek da lowe fae fiery braands…

—T.A. Robertson (“Vagaland”), “Haem Tochts”
published in The Collected Poems of Vagaland (Shetland Times, 1975)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/haem-tochts/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #Shetland #Shetlandic

Poem is too long for ALT-text: full text available via link in the post.

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1y

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near…

Robert Burns (1759–96) died #OTD, 21 July, aged 37. “A Bard’s Epitaph” is the final poem in the 1786 Kilmarnock Edition of Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect

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#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #RobertBurns #18thcentury #romanticism #epitaph

A Bard’s Epitaph
Robert Burns

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,
Wild as the wave,
Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn the wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain’d his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom’s root.

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1y

An iarmailt cho soilleir tana
mar gum biodh am brat-sgàile air a reubadh
’s an Cruthaidhear ’na shuidhe am fianuis a shluaigh
aig a’ bhuntàt ’s a sgadan…

—Ruaraidh MacThòmais, “Leodhas as t-Samhradh”

Published in Scottish Religious Poetry from the sixth century to the present (Saint Andrew Press, 2024)

https://standrewpress.hymnsam.co.uk/books/9781800830479/scottish-religious-poetry

#Scottish #literautre #poem #poetry #Gaelic #Gaidhlig #Hebrides #Lewis #summer

Leodhas as t-Samhradh
Ruaraidh MacThòmais

An iarmailt cho soilleir tana
mar gum biodh am brat-sgàile air a reubadh
’s an Cruthaidhear ’na shuidhe am fianuis a shluaigh
aig a’ bhuntàt ’s a sgadan,
gun duine ris an dèan E altachadh.
’S iongantach gu bheil iarmailt air an t-saoghal
tha cur cho beag a bhacadh air daoine
sealltainn a-steach dha’n an t-sìorruidheachd;
chan eil feum air feallsanachd
far an dèan thu chùis le do phrosbaig.

------------------------------

Lewis in Summer
Translator: Derick Thomson

The atmosphere clear and transparent
as though the veil had been rent
and the Creator were sitting in full view of His people
eating potatoes and herring,
with no man to whom He can say grace.
Probably there’s no other sky in the world
that makes it so easy for people
to look in on eternity;
you don’t need philosophy
where you can make do with binoculars.

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1y

just to see how you’re
faring up there
with little company

just the odd bat or hare
that careers around
‘turning the world’

so you tell me…

—Kathleen Jamie, “Considering a Hike to Yon Tree”
in the London Review of Books, 24 July 2025

https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v47/n13/kathleen-jamie/considering-a-hike-to-yon-tree

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

A poem by Kathleen Jamie
Considering a Hike to Yon Tree

just to see how you’re
faring up there
with little company

just the odd bat or hare
that careers around
‘turning the world’

so you tell me. I gather
you snap your fingers
in the face of the east wind

feel the moon groan as she
learns the ropes again
tangled among branches

that you bend, so you say,
to shake her free. You tell me
good will prevail, all

shall be well etcetera,
the same old saws I suspect
you rehearse when you

spot me toiling uphill
in my torn coat, expressly
to listen to your havers.

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