Eggplant.place

132d

Moonrise, an maudlin in the mirk,
we coorie in, hoose selt, hame hawked,
oor labour thirled tae yesterday,
the morra pawned fur brick-a-brack…

—Janet Paisley, “Aw Jock Tamson’s”
published in THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF SCOTTISH VERSE, @canongatebooks 2021

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #InternationalWorkersDay #MayDay #Scots #Scotslanguage

Aw Jock Tamson’s
Janet Paisley

Moonrise, an maudlin in the mirk,
we coorie in, hoose selt, hame hawked,
oor labour thirled tae yesterday,
the morra pawned fur brick-a-brack.

Thieves tout the mercat, flashin cash
in credit caird tricks yince cried tick.
Gowks gawp. It’s easy money. Hauns
dip threidbare pooches skint by lees;

yin cat feeds fat, an hunners sterve.
Dunderheids, we bocht intae grief,
gied up sense fur greed, furgoat brass
barters work, its worth inventit.

A dreich rain faws oan rentit roofs.
We pey tae drain the run-aff, pey
again tae pipe it back. Nae debt
is gain. If lochs fill, mountains droon.

Yit bairns sleep an dream, fit tae bigg
a warld whaur love gies shelter, breid
daily, care redds up, prood tae bide
an fecht whaur fowk cry foul at cheats:

nae man worth mair. It’s wha we are.
Tak tent. Waukened, sleeves rowed up,
drookit, set tae work, a new stert.
Day breks, mornin sun ay rises.

ALT

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149d

We used to think the universe was made
of tiny invisible pin-points of energy, jostling
and tumbling and buzzing together…

—J.O. Morgan, “We used to think the universe was made…”
published in INTERFERENCE PATTERN (Jonathan Cape, 2016)

Today, 14 April, is World Quantum Day!

https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/431702/interference-pattern-by-j-o-morgan/9781910702024

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WorldQuantumDay #physics #quantumphysics #quantum

We used to think the universe was made…
J.O. Morgan

We used to think the universe was made
of tiny invisible pin-points of energy, jostling
and tumbling and buzzing together, and so,
by whatever particular arrangement they took,
and the way in which they bounced off one another,
all sorts of physical matter could be produced.
Later we found the universe, in actual fact, is made
of tiny invisible threads of incredible length, and,

in the same way a violin string changes pitch
when touched at points along its measured span,
so all these interweaving loops and knots,
this tangle of quantum spaghetti,
as it flexes and line crosses line,
so it resonates throughout the whole bundle
a complex vibratory code that defines
any outward appearance and characteristic.

After which we discovered the likely reality
was of tiny invisible sheets, many layers
of infinitesimal thinness, each film
undulating at tremendous speeds;
multiple parallel oceans, their rippling surfaces
folding and flattening, wave-crests on wave-crests,
nudged at and nosed at, their lingering kisses
collected, expressed as specific material forms.

ALT

We were young, we were anxious to clutch at
whatever proof fitted. Still, humility liberates;
when it comes to matters of truth we’re not picky.
Ironing our numbers presented the ideal
of tiny invisible shapeshifting blocks that squirm
and bulge, interlock and uncouple, that rub,
knock, wobble, split, and so make up
the whole gamut of substances we take for granted.

All this was long ago. Our models had risen
to eleven-dimensional-space when
our application for further funding was rejected
and we were asked to vacate the premises.
We took it well, were optimistic for the future,
though that was hardly the crux of the issue:
just try transporting eleven-dimensional furniture
in an incontrovertibly three-dimensional van.

ALT

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133d

A thousand-foot slog, then a cairn of old stones –
hand-shifted labour,
and much the same river, shining
way below
as the Romans came, saw,
and soon thought the better of…

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

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #rewilding

Glacial
by Kathleen Jamie

A thousand-foot slog, then a cairn of old stones –
hand-shifted labour,
and much the same river, shining
way below
as the Romans came, saw,
and soon thought the better of.

Too many mountains, too many
wanchancy tribes
whose habits we wouldn’t much care for
(but could probably match),
too much grim north, too much faraway snow.

Let's bide here a moment, catching our breath
and inhaling the sweet scent of whatever
whin-bush is flowering today

and see for miles, all the way hence
to the lynx’s return, the re-established wolf’s.

ALT

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133d

Tha sinn air a bhith ri rudan do-dhèanta a-rithist.
A’ crochadh san adhair, a’ feitheamh diog, tiotag, linn,
nas fhàide nas àirde na bu chòir a bhith comasach.
Chaidh leintean-T a dhèanamh dhinn mus do landaig sinn…

—Pàdraig MacAoidh, “Ris an do-dhèanta”

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/ris-an-do-dheanta/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #football #ScottishFootball #TartanArmy

Ris an do-dhèanta
Pàdraig MacAoidh

Tha sinn air a bhith ri rudan do-dhèanta a-rithist.
A’ crochadh san adhair, a’ feitheamh diog, tiotag, linn,
nas fhàide nas àirde na bu chòir a bhith comasach.
Chaidh leintean-T a dhèanamh dhinn mus do landaig sinn.

Tha sinn air fhaighinn tharais air na rudan as miosa,
a’ coiseachd nam mìltean fada sin – coig ceud, coig mìle –
gus cnàmhan agus buill-nasg a chur ceart, gus ar corragan a shìneadh,
agus mion-car a chur air an t-saoghal, tharais air a’ bhàr.

O agus chum sin ar n-anail nar milleanan,
air bhoile le chèile, a’ coimhead bàla a’ tùirling
na àrc àbhaisteach mìorbhaileach coileanta
agus a’ tuiteam, meath mar bhogha-frois, dhan talamh.

Seadh, rinn sinn rudan do-dhèanta. Ach a-nis –
ann am Miami, Boston, ge b’àit – tha againn rin dèanamh
a-rithist. Agus an uairsin, yes sir, nì sinn boogie,
ri òran sam bith a tha sinn ag iarraidh.

ALT

At the Impossible
Peter Mackay

We’ve been at the impossible again. Levitating.
Hanging in the air one, two seconds, an age,
longer and higher than should be possible.
The T-shirts were printed before we’d hit the ground.

We have recovered from the worst of times,
walking long miles – five hundred, five thousand –
to wrest bones and ligaments back to fitness
and tip the world over with the last skelf of skin.

And we have held a million breaths
in frantic unison, watching a ball tumble
in its everyday, humdrum perfect parabola,
to fall plump as a rainbow back to earth.

O we’ve been at the impossible but must now –
in Miami, Boston, anywhere, anyhow –
do it all over again. And then yes sir, we shall boogie,
absolutely, to whatever song we choose.

ALT

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149d

Until
Your bones
Are dust,
There’s
Still
Time.

#poetry

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138d

Mrs Gilfillan

When Mrs Gilfillan
Is troubled with troubles,
She flies to the kitchen
And sits blowing bubbles.
When Mrs Gilfillan
Is worried by money,
When her feet are like lead
And her head's feeling funny,
When there's too much to do,
And the chimney is smoking,
And everything's awkward
And wrong and provoking,
When the washing won't dry
For the rain's never ending,
When the cupboards need cleaning
And stockings want mending,
When the neighbours complain
Of the noise of the cat,
And she ought to be looking
For this and for that,
And never a line comes
From her married daughter —
Then off to the kitchen
With soap and warm water
Goes Mrs Gilfillan
And all her troubles;
And she puffs them away
In a great cloud of bubbles.
In joyful abandon
She puffs them and blows them,
And all round about her
In rapture she throws them;
When round, clear and shiny
They hang in the air,
Away like a shadow
Goes worry and care.

– James Reeves

<http://lchiacchierini.free.fr/poemes.html#Mrs_Gilfillan>

#poetry

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131d

John Hollander’s poem Kitty and Bug is self-explanatory in its simplicity. The cat’s unpunctuated, almost stream-of-consciousness thoughts fit into a physical ‘cat’ shape, while the bug – in sharp contrast – is but a 3-letter word near the edge of the page.

Happy #Caturday !

#poetry #poem #cat #cats #kitty #catsOfMastodon #books #reading #literature #bookstodon @bookstodon

ALT

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113d

Once did I see
A sounding bee,
Amongst her sweetned swarme…

—“Madrigall: Of a Bee”, by Simion Grahame (c.1570–1614)
published in JACOBEAN PARNASSUS: Scottish Poetry from the Reign of James I (ASL, 2022)

A poem for World Bee Day 🐝 – today, 20 May

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/jacobean-parnassus/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #EarlyModern #16thcentury #17thcentury #Jacobean #bees #WorldBeeDay

Madrigall: Of a Bee.
Simion Grahame

Once did I see
A sounding bee,
Amongst her sweetned swarme;
Still would shee flee
And favour me,
Then did I dreade no harme.

Now, whilst in nectred-glorie of her gaines
She sitts and suckes the fayre well-florisht flower,
My sugred hopes are turn’d to bitter paines,
And lookt-for-sweete is nothing elles but sower.
Ah, cruel sweet, bee sweet and cure my smart;
Honny my mouth, but doe not stinge my hart.

ALT

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135d

With 29 Spoken Word albums you need a sampler. A couple years ago I released "Joined The Sounds Of Waves" as an opinionated introduction to my recordings. But I've done a lot of writing since then. It's time for an update! My new Rural Gloom Sampler is now free to stream/download via bandcamp. https://damonthomas.bandcamp.com/album/joined-the-sounds-of-waves-a-rural-gloom-sampler #writing #poetry #SpokenWord #recording #florida #bandcamp

ALT

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113d

Seillean
dian, dùrachdach
a’ siubhal nam blàth…

—Ruaraidh MacThòmais, “A’ Siubhal nam Blàth”
from Sùil air fàire: dain ùra le Ruaraidh MacThòmais / Surveying the horizon: recent poems by Derick Thomson (Acair, 2007)

A Gaelic poem for World Bee Day 🐝

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #20thcentury #bees #WorldBeeDay

A’ Siubhal nam Blàth
Ruaraidh MacThòmais

Seillean
dian, dùrachdach
a’ siubhal nam blàth
mar a bhà
ann an Àird nam Murchan
o chionn dà cheud bliadhna gu leth
agus an dubh-Mhùideartach
ga dhian-amharc,
agus a-rithist
ann am meadhan a’ gheamhraidh
a’ dùsgadh na cuimhne sin.
An dùil am mair
blas na meala sin
dà cheud bliadhna gu leth eile
is a’ Ghàidhlig leth-bheò
ann an duilleagan sgoileir.
Carson nach maireadh
agus Horace is Catullus
fhathast a’ dùsgadh am blàth
nar cridheachan.

ALT

Reconnoitering the Blossoms
Derick Thomson

A bee
steadily, industriously
reconnoitering the blossoms
just as
in Ardnamurchan
two and a half centuries ago
while the Dark-Moidart-man
observed it keenly
and later
in midwinter
revived the memory of it.
I wonder if the taste
of that honey will last
another two and a half centuries,
with Gaelic half-alive
on the pages of scholars.
Why not
when Horace and Catullus
still blossom
in our hearts.

ALT

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113d

Here are my bees,
brazen, blurs on paper,
besotted; buzzwords, dancing
their flawless, airy maps…

—Carol Ann Duffy, “Bees”
published in THE BEES (Picador, 2017)

A poem for World Bee Day 🐝

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/carol-ann-duffy/the-bees/9781509852925

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #bees #WorldBeeDay

Bees
by Carol Ann Duffy

Here are my bees,
brazen, blurs on paper,
besotted; buzzwords, dancing
their flawless, airy maps.

Been deep, my poet bees,
in the parts of flowers,
in daffodil, thistle, rose, even
the golden lotus; so glide,
gilded, glad, golden, thus –

wise – and know of us:
how your scent pervades
my shadowed, busy heart,
and honey is art.

ALT

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130d

It’s living with ships
makes a rough springtime
and who is safe
when they sing and blow
their music …

—Edwin Morgan, “Floating Off to Timor”
published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Spring #Glasgow

Floating Off to Timor
Edwin Morgan

If only we’d been strangers
we’d be floating off to Timor,
we’d be shimmering on the Trades
in a blue jersey boat
with shandies, flying fish,
a pace of dolphins
to the copra ports.
And it’s no use crying
to me, What dolphins?
I know where they are
and I’d have snapped you up
and carried you away
snapped you up
and carried you away
if we had been strangers.

But here we are care
of the black roofs.
It’s not hard to find
with a collar turned up
and a hoot from the Clyde.
The steps come home
whistling too. And a kettle
steams the cranes out slowly.
It’s living with ships
makes a rough springtime
and who is safe
when they sing and blow
their music – they seem
to swing at some light rope
like those desires
we keep for strangers.
God, the yellow deck

ALT

breathes, it heaves spray
back like a shout.
We’re cutting through
some straits of the world
in our old dark room
with salty wings
in the shriek of the dock wind.
But we’re caught – meshed
in the fish-scales, ferries,
mudflats, lifebelts
fading into football cries
and the lamps coming on
to bring us in.

We take in
the dream, a cloth from the line
the trains fling sparks on
in our city. We’re better awake.
But you know I’d take
you all the same,
if you were my next stranger.

ALT

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128d

This Week in Literary History: Lord Byron Swims Across the Hellespont

“I plume myself on this achievement more than I could possibly do on any kind of glory, political, poetical, or rhetorical.”

https://lithub.com/this-week-in-literary-history-lord-byron-swims-across-the-hellespont/

"Don Juan" at PG:

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21700

#books #literature #poetry

Portrait of George Gordon Byron. It is an engraving based on a painting by artist George Sanders. His head is turned towards the right, and he is wearing a white shirt with a scarf about the collar.

ALT

Edited 128d ago

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112d

Celestial Tea!—A fountain that can cure
The ills of passion, and can free the fair
From frowns and sighs, by Disappointment earn’d…

—For International Tea Day: Robert Fergusson’s (1750–1774) “Tea. A Poem” takes a less than enthusiastic approach to the beverage

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #18thcentury #RobertFergusson #tea #InternationalTeaDay

Robert Fergusson
TEA. A Poem

Ye maidens modest! on whose sullen brows
Hath weaning Chastity her wrinkles cull’d,
Who constant labour o’er consumptive oil,
At midnight knell, to wash sleep’s nightly balm
From closing eye-lids, with the grateful drops
Of Tea’s blest juices; list th’ obsequious lays
That come not with Parnassian honours crown’d,
To dwell in murmurs o’er your sleepy sense;
But fresh from Orient blown to chace far off
Your lethargy, that dormant needles rous’d
May pierce the waving Mantua’s silken folds:
For many a dame in chamber sadly pent,
Hath this reviving limpid call’d to life;
And well it did, to mitigate the frowns
Of anger reddening on Lucinda’s brow,
With flash malignant, that had harbour’d there,
If she at masquerade, or play, or ball,
Appear’d not in her newest, best attire.
But Venus, goddess of th’ eternal smile,
Knowing that stormy brows but ill become
Fair patterns of her beauty, hath ordain’d

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112d

In a little rainy mist of white and grey
we sat under an old tree,
drank tea toasts to the powdery mountain…

—Edwin Morgan, “The Picnic”
published in COLLECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 1990)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781847779656/collected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #EdwinMorgan #tea #InternationalTeaDay

The Picnic
by Edwin Morgan

In a little rainy mist of white and grey
we sat under an old tree,
drank tea toasts to the powdery mountain,
undrunk got merry, played catch
with the empty flask, on the pine needles
came down to where it rolled stealthily away –
you lay
with one arm in the rain, laughing
shaking only your wet hair
loose against the grass, in that enchanted place
of tea, with curtains of a summer rain
dropped round us, for a rainy day.

ALT

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59d

The room has been emptied for decorating.
White paint, wooden floor and window frames,
sun bursting through summer’s open doors,
a single chair for me to sit and read…

—Mark Russell, “Tabula Rasa”
published in nobody remembers the birdman: New Writing Scotland 40 (ASL, 2022)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws40/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Mark Russell
Tabula Rasa

The room has been emptied for decorating.
White paint, wooden floor and window frames,
sun bursting through summer’s open doors,
a single chair for me to sit and read.

Next door takes the chance to mow the lawn;
rose and salvia stretch and yawn, posturing;
a buzz of far-off traffic settles beneath
birdcall in the ripe mountain’s steep slumber.

Just when I think there’s nothing, nothing
floods the space, pregnant, brisk, swarming.

ALT

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126d

#OTD in 1812 Robert Browning was born.

He was "English poet and playwright whose dramatic monologues put him high among the Victorian poets. He was noted for irony, characterisation, dark humour, social commentary, historical settings and challenging vocabulary and syntax."

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

Browning at PG:

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/146

#books #literature #poetry

An 1865 photo of Robert Browning taken by Julia Margaret Cameron. It shows him from the waist up. In this he is an older man with a beard that is mostly gray. He is looking towards his left and wrapped in a dark robe.

ALT

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127d

I'm reading a book of classical poems by Arab women, and found this gem from some 1000 years ago:

"Leave me alone, you’re not my equal, you’re not a man of the world nor a man of faith, yet you want to own me, you mindless twit."

(by Umm Ja'far bint Ali)

That's it. That's the whole poem.

#poetry #poem #WomensHistory #women #literature #art #bookstodon

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112d

There is
A cemetery
In me, a
Permanent
Memento mori,
But look at all
The flowers.

#poetry

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125d

Now the soldier has come home.

He has fought his way back
To the faces of the gnome-children
With still magic in their glances…

—James Findlay Hendry (1912–1986), “The Return”

Today, 8 May, is the 81st anniversary of VE Day

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WarPoetry #WW2 #VEDay

The Return
J. F. Hendry

Now the soldier has come home.

He has fought his way back
To the faces of the gnome-children
With still magic in their glances.

Wearing the green birk in his hat
And clad in the brown earth
He has torn barbed sorrow down
With his bare hands.

He has gone out into the open fields
Superb, in final camouflage.

ALT

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125d

Thàinig uair-san leis na sligean,
leis na spealgan-iarainn beàrnach,
anns an toit is anns an lasair,
ann an crith is maoim na h-àraich…

—Somhairle MacGill-Eain (Sorley MacLean) (1911–1996), “Curaidhean” (“Heroes”)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #WarPoetry #WW2 #VEDay

Curaidhean
Somhairle MacGill-Eain

Chan fhaca mi Lannes aig Ratasbon
no MacGillFhinnein aig Allt Èire
no Gill-Ìosa aig Cùil Lodair,
ach chunnaic mi Sasannach san Èipheit.

Fear beag truagh le gruaidhean pluiceach
is glùinean a’ bleith a chèile,
aodann guireanach gun tlachd ann –
còmhdach an spioraid bu trèine.

Cha robh buaidh air ‘san taigh-òsta
’n àm nan dòrn a bhith gan dùnadh’,
ach leòmhann e ri uchd a’ chatha,
anns na frasan guineach mùgach.

Thàinig uair-san leis na sligean,
leis na spealgan-iarainn beàrnach,
anns an toit is anns an lasair,
ann an crith is maoim na h-àraich.

Thàinig fios dha san fhrois pheilear
e bhith gu spreigearra ’na dhiùlnach:
is b’ e sin e fhad ’s a mhair e,
ach cha b’ fhada fhuair e dh’ùine.

Chùm e ghunnachan ris na tancan,
a ’ bocail le sgreuch shracaidh stàirnich
gus an d’ fhuair e fhèin mun stamaig
an deannal ud a chuir ri làr e,
beul sìos an gainmhich ’s an greabhal,
gun diog o ghuth caol grànda.

Cha do chuireadh crois no meadal
ri uchd no ainm no g’ a chàirdean:
cha robh a bheag dhe fhòirne maireann,
’s nan robh cha bhiodh am facal làidir;
’s co-dhiù, ma sheasas ursann-chatha,
leagar mòran air a shàillibh
gun dùil ri cliù, nach iarr am meadal
no cop sam bith à beul na h-àraich.

Chunnaic mi gaisgeach mòr à Sasainn,
fearachan bochd nach laigheadh sùil air;
cha b’ Alasdair à Gleanna Garadh –
is thug e gal beag air mo shùilean.

ALT

Heroes
Translator: Sorley MacLean

I did not see Lannes at Ratisbon
nor MacLennan at Auldearn
nor Gillies MacBain at Culloden,
but I saw an Englishman in Egypt.

A poor little chap with chubby cheeks
and knees grinding each other,
pimply unattractive face –
garment of the bravest spirit.

He was not a hit ‘in the pub
in the time of the fists being closed,’
but a lion against the breast of battle,
in the morose wounding showers.

His hour came with the shells,
with the notched iron splinters,
in the smoke and flame,
in the shaking and terror of the battlefield.

Word came to him in the bullet shower
that he should be a hero briskly,
and he was that while he lasted,
but it wasn’t much time he got.

He kept his guns to the tanks,
bucking with tearing crashing screech,
until he himself got, about the stomach,
that biff that put him to the ground,
mouth down in sand and gravel,
without a chirp from his ugly high-pitched voice.

No cross or medal was put to his
chest or to his name or to his family;
there were not many of his troop alive,
and if there were their word would not be strong.
And at any rate, if a battle post stands,
many are knocked down because of him,
not expecting fame, not wanting a medal
or any froth from the mouth of the field of slaughter.

I saw a great warrior of England,
a poor manikin on whom no eye would rest;
no Alasdair of Glen Garry;
and he took a little weeping to my eyes.

ALT

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125d

Cantie in seaside simmer on the dunes,
I fling awa my dowp of cigarette
whaur bairns hae biggit castles out of sand
and watch the reik rise frae the parapet…

—Robert Garioch Sutherland (1909–1987), “During a Music Festival”

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW2 #VEDay #Scots #Scotslanguage