poetry

178d

THE CITY IS A MAGIC SCULPTURE OF
THE GROUP MIND THE CITY IS A
MYSTIC DREAM OF FOREST MEMORY\
WALLS ARE THE LAST GASP OF FAILING
IDEOLOGIES…

—Robert Montgomery, billboard poem

https://www.robertmontgomery.org/b6hov0ii4s1uuvhwr33vbfj0ihu8hj

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #art #visualart #billboard

$A street corner in Shoreditch, London, UK. A white billboard stands above a single-storey building on the corner. The street curves away, with a black sign saying "24hr CAR WASH in yellow letters, and a lamp-post carries a speed-limit sign reading "20 ZONE". A young woman is crossing the street, possibly holding something in her arms. She is wearing a red shirt, a grey tank-top and an orange skirt. A couple of other people can be seen further down the street, standing on the pavements and talking to each other. Beyond the billboard we can see some trees, and a red-brick wall, possibly sheltering a low-level train line. Further in the distance, beyond the wall, a slender modern multi-storey building of glass and concrete rises up against a pale grey sky. The white billboard has large black capital letters on it. They read: THE CITY IS A MAGIC SCULPTURE OF THE GROUP MIND THE CITY IS A MYSTIC DREAM OF FOREST MEMORY\ WALLS ARE THE LAST GASP OF FAILING IDEOLOGIES | FROM THE NEW GENERA- TION A PSYCHIC LOVE WAVE WILL EX- PLODE ACROSS ALL COUNTRIES \ IMMI- GRANTS WILL BE HUGGED IN THE STRE- ETS /YOU WILL RISE IN AIR BALLOONS/ THE FUTURE IS A RISK OF OUR HEARTS Below the billboard is another poster, the same width as the billboard, but black, with white lettering. The letters get bigger, running the full width of the poster. The poster reads: THE FUTURE IS AN INVISIBLE PLAYGROUND/ YA NO SOMOS TUS SIERVOS /NO PASARAN |$

Edited 178d ago

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178d

Having spent the week in Yorkshire, I couldn’t resist picking up The Poems of Sylvia Plath, a new landmark edition edited by Amanda Golden and Karen V. Kukil and published just last week. This edition draws on decades of research and almost doubles the content of the 1981 Collected Poems.

The second image here is from a visit to Plath’s grave at the church at Heptonstall, back in September 2020. I still find it hard to believe that she was only 30 when she died, and yet she produced so much incandescent work.

#SylviaPlath #Poetry #Poets #Faber #AmandaGolden #KarenVKukil #Heptonstall #Yorkshire #Bookstodon @bookstodon

A large hardback volume, The Poems of Sylvia Plath, resting in the corner of an inglenook in front of a basket of logs. The book features a cover image by Justine Ellis.

The cover text reads:

Edited by Amanda Golden and Karen V.

THE
POEMS
OF
SYLVIA
PLATH

A simple granite headstone in a cemetery. The ground around the grave is overgrown. The headstone has some stones laid on top of it. Its text reads:

IN MEMORY
SYLVIA PLATH HUGHES
1932 - 1963
EVEN AMIDST FIERCE FLAMES
THE GOLDEN LOTUS CAN BE PLANTED

The word HUGHES has been defaced/erased.

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141d

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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169d

Like all those red-faced boys
in brand-new football strips

dribbling a ball around
in a circle of streetlight

or practicing their footwork
in the park

in Cowdenbeath, Arbroath,
Kirkcudbright, Govan,

I wanted the triumph of willpower
over strength

grace over
money…

—John Burnside, “Euro 96: A Fan’s Farewell”

A poem for World Football Day ⚽

https://www.un.org/en/observances/football-day

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #JohnBurnside #football #soccer #WorldFootballDay

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169d

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”

A poem for World Football Day ⚽

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #football #soccer #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #WorldFootballDay

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.

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.

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141d

Having glided smoothly upwards –

Up ...!
And up ...!
And up ...!

Behold, Tony Blair standing where he should be –
poised sixty years and more above
the city of his birth…

—Ron Butlin, “Tony Blair’s Butterfly Effect”
published in THE MAGICIANS OF SCOTLAND (Birlinn, 2015)

Listen to Ron Butlin read this poem on the Poetry Archive:

https://poetryarchive.org/poem/tony-blairs-butterfly-effect/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #PimeMinister #TonyBlair #ButterflyEffect

Tony Blair’s butterfly effect – when these wings beat,
distant city walls tumble,
men, women and children die.

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168d

I see the old woman behind the flowering broom.
I have followed her from poem to poem …

—Iain Crichton Smith, “Old Woman”
published in Deer on the High Hills: Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2021)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781800170940/deer-on-the-high-hills/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury

Old Woman
Iain Crichton Smith

I see the old woman behind the flowering broom.
I have followed her from poem to poem

and her grey coat is almost hidden by that yellow and red
on a May day with white clouds overhead

billowing with pillows. Yes, she carries her bag
home from the village shop.
And behind her a stag

in my imagination rears its magnificent head
out of the stones and flowers and small hills of the dead.

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167d

Uncomfortable Truths – Voices of the Commonwealth
12 June, Waterstones Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow – free

Four leading poets from across the Commonwealth – Imtiaz Dharker, Peter MacKay, Nick Makoha & Fawzia Muradali Kane – celebrate its diverse voices & perspectives, but also read powerful work challenging uncomfortable truths & engage in active discussions.

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/uncomfortable-truths-voices-of-the-commonwealth-tickets-1987490015137

#Scottish #literature #poetry #Commonwealth #identity

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142d

Whatever the difference is, it all began
the day we woke up face-to-face like lovers
and his four-day-old smile dawned on him again,
possessed him, till it would not fall or waver…

—Don Paterson, “Waking with Russell”
Selected Poems (Faber, 2012)

A poem for Father’s Day

https://www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571281800-selected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Father #FathersDay

Waking with Russell
by Don Paterson

Whatever the difference is, it all began
the day we woke up face-to-face like lovers
and his four-day-old smile dawned on him again,
possessed him, till it would not fall or waver;
and I pitched back not my old hard-pressed grin
but his own smile, or one I’d rediscovered.
Dear son, I was mezzo del cammin
and the true path was as lost to me as ever
when you cut in front and lit it as you ran.
See how the true gift never leaves the giver:
returned and redelivered, it rolled on
until the smile poured through us like a river.
How fine, I thought, this waking amongst men!
I kissed your mouth and pledged myself forever.

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142d

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 #midsummer #poem #poetry

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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142d

Dheigheadh sinn a dh’iasgach,
mi fhèin is m’ athair,
is lìonadh sinn an eathar le
peilichean de rionnach, liutha,
is dheigheadh sinn timcheall a’ bhaile
gu gach nàbaidh gus am biodh na peilichean falamh…

—Iain MacRath, “Dheigheadh sinn a dh’iasgach”
published in Don’t. Even. Ask. Too. Hot.: New Writing Scotland 42 (ASL, 2024)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #fathers #FathersDay

Iain MacRath
Dheigheadh sinn a dh’iasgach

Dheigheadh sinn a dh’iasgach,
mi fhèin is m’ athair,
is lìonadh sinn an eathar le
peilichean de rionnach, liutha,
is dheigheadh sinn timcheall a’ bhaile
gu gach nàbaidh gus am biodh na peilichean falamh.
Chunnaic mi m’ athair an raoir,
ged a chaochail e o chionn fichead bliadhna.
Chunnaic mi air na naidheachdan e
seacaid-teasairginn timcheall air
is an eathar làn,
làn de dhaoine.

Iain MacRae
We’d go fishing

We’d go fishing,
me and my father,
and we’d fill the dinghy
with pails of mackerel, lythe,
and we’d go round the village
to each neighbour till each pail was empty.
I saw my father last night,
though he died some twenty years ago.
I saw him on the news
a safety jacket around him
and the dinghy full,
full of people.

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167d

Stir the ash
And you’ll find
A spark still
Remains,
Enough to
Burn down
The dark.

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142d

the back-en turnt grey
the colourt wuids wis wae an wan
ye’d taen the auld auld road, man
an left the rosie leaf ahint…

—Brian Holton, “For Ma Faither”
1st Prize winner for Scots in the inaugural Tannahill Poetry Competition, 2017

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/for-ma-faither/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #fathers #FathersDay #Scots #Scotslanguage

For Ma Faither
Brian Holton

In Memoriam Cyril Stanley Holton

the back-en turnt grey
the colourt wuids wis wae an wan
ye’d taen the auld auld road, man
an left the rosie leaf ahint
the spring wis late o comin
nae heat, nae graith wis gien ti the hill
an aa the wells o christentie cudna slocken
the drouth at cam an checkt oor season then
nae cauldrife bed for you, man, reishlt wi the wund
ye tuik the simmer’s lang white road
whaur lichtsome hills is daft wi sang
an siller watter rummles doun the linn
the herd hed come ti lead ye in
to set ye on yir auld white road
the birselt hill abune ye, the sweit upon yir brou
rinnin doun the tropic road yir lane
A mind ye yet, ye chairmer, an mercy me
in ither airts oo’ll aiblins meet, afore lang gae –
a gairden mebbes, whaur ye’ll turn an fauld uis,
ma weill-luvit an ma absent dear
ma gowd wis turnt ti bress then
an aa ma joys wis turn ti leid
in the birselt wearie days o hairst-en
ye tuik the bitter road, the auld white road, an ran
the back-en wis grey as stane, man,
the colourt wuids wis pale an wan
ye tuik the auld auld road, man
an aa yir warkin days wis dune

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142d

Lying asleep walking
Last night I met my father
Who seemed pleased to see me.
He wanted to speak. I saw
His mouth saying something
But the dream had no sound…

—W.S. Graham, “To Alexander Graham”
published in Collected Poems 1942–1977 (Faber, 1979)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48732/to-alexander-graham

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #fathers #FathersDay

To Alexander Graham
by W. S. Graham

Lying asleep walking
Last night I met my father
Who seemed pleased to see me.
He wanted to speak. I saw
His mouth saying something
But the dream had no sound.

We were surrounded by
Laid-up paddle steamers
In The Old Quay in Greenock.
I smelt the tar and the ropes.

It seemed that I was standing
Beside the big iron cannon
The tugs used to tie up to
When I was a boy. I turned
To see Dad standing just
Across the causeway under
That one lamp they keep on.

He recognised me immediately.
I could see that. He was
The handsome, same age
With his good brows as when
He would take me on Sundays
Saying we’ll go for a walk.

Dad, what am I doing here?
What is it I am doing now?
Are you proud of me?
Going away, I knew
You wanted to tell me something.

You stopped and almost turned back
To say something. My father,
I try to be the best
In you you give me always.

Lying asleep turning
Round in the quay-lit dark
It was my father standing
As real as life. I smelt
The quay’s tar and the ropes.

I think he wanted to speak.
But the dream had no sound.
I think I must have loved him.

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142d

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 #midsummer #poem #poetry

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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166d

Something understood. How to read poetry.

"I want to be the sort of person who reads poetry, but I don’t always understand it."

by Henry Oliver

https://www.commonreader.co.uk/p/something-understood-how-to-read

Books in Poetry at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/bookshelf/60

#Books #Literature #Poetry

The Blue Poetry Book

Editor: Andrew Lang

Illustrator: H. J. Ford & Lancelot Speed

The central illustration is a dark, swirling Romantic vignette of a reclining female figure surrounded by turbulent, dreamlike forms.

https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/46515/pg46515-images.html

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166d

Into perplexity: as an itch chased round
an oxter or early man in the cave mouth
watching rain-drifts pour from beyond

his understanding…

—“The Beautiful”, by Roddy Lumsden (1966–2020) – born #OTD, 28 May. A 🎂 🧵
from POETRY magazine, Dec 2008

1/7

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/51938/the-beautiful

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #RoddyLumsden

The Beautiful
by Roddy Lumsden

Into perplexity: as an itch chased round
an oxter or early man in the cave mouth
watching rain-drifts pour from beyond

his understanding. Whether to admire
the mere sensation, enough, or hold out
for sweeter ornament, vessels of wonder

born with that ur-charm of symmetry;
lovely ones we ache to prize and praise,
climb into and become because they try

our day-by-day significance: some of us
ugly and most of us plain, walked past
in the drowned streets: pearls of paste,

salted butter, secondary colors. They
drift unapproached, gazed never-selves,
blunt paragons of genetic industry. We

desire them but cannot want such order.
We stand, mouths open, and cannot help
stammering our secrets, nailed to water.

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163d

Sometimes,
I Can’t tell the
Difference between
Hell and an
Ordinary Sunday.

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165d

Shel Silverstein is famous for his children’s poetry and illustrations.

In poem Lazy Jane the word "rain" hovers just above Jane’s open mouth, as the string of words above it seems to represent the trickle of water she longs for.

#poetry #reading #Love #poem #poet #Silverstein #graficpoem #poems #bookstodon @bookstodon #books #book #poemaday #poetrycommunity #pictures #readers #readersofmastodon #booksky #bookish #BookTok #bookclub #readit #Bookwyrm #rain #booklovers #LazyJane

Lazy Jane

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165d

Air iomall an talamh-àitich, eadar dhà sholas,
tha a’ churracag a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad, ʼs a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad…

—Ruaraidh MacThòmais, “Pabail”

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

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

Pabail
le Ruaraidh MacThòmais

Air iomall an talamh-àitich, eadar dhà sholas,
tha a’ churracag a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad, ʼs a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad,
is cobhar bàn a broillich, mar rionnag an fheasgair,
ga lorg ʼs ga chall aig mo shùilean,
is tùis an t-samhraidh
ga lorg ʼs ga chall aig mo chuinnlean,
is fras-mhullach tonn an t-sonais
ga lorg ʼs ga chall aig mo chuimhne.

Bàgh Phabail fodham, is baile Phabail air fàire,
sluaisreadh siorraidh a’ chuain, a lorg ʼs an eag nan sgeir,
is fo ghainmhich a’ gheodha,
gluasad bithbhuan a’ bhaile, am bàs ʼs an ùrtan,
an ùrnaigh ʼs an t-suirghe, is mile cridhe
ag at ʼs a’ seacadh, is ann an seo
tha a’ churracag a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad, ʼs a’ ruith ʼs a’ stad.

Bayble
Translator: Derick Thomson

On the edge of the arable land, between two lights, the
plover runs and stops, and runs and stops, the white foam of
its breast like the star of evening, discovered and lost in my
looking, and the fragrance of summer, discovered and lost by
my nostrils, and the topmost grains of the wave of content,
discovered and lost by my memory.

Bayble Bay below me, and the village on the
skyline, the eternal action of the ocean, its
seeking and searching between the pebble stones
and in the rock crannies, and under the sand
of the cove; the everlasting movement of the
village, death and christening, praying and courting,
and a thousand hearts swelling and sinking, and here,
the plover runs and stops, and runs and stops.

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139d

I’m excited to announce my book, Into The Fire: A Poet's Journey through Hell's Kitchen, will be discounted on @Smashwords during their month-long Summer/Winter Sale in July! #books #Smashwords #bookstodon #poetry #memoir

Book Cover for Into The Fire: A Poet's Journey through Hell's Kitchen, by Mary Clark, with photograph of sun setting over tenements and water towers

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140d

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 (c1320–95) describes the event

1/3

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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164d

Thae laddies in the Celtic shirts,
a baker’s dozen
lumbering all the way to the summit cairn
the hot last Saturday of May
as larks trilled
and the loch-side braes released their midgies…

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

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Ben Lomond
Kathleen Jamie

Thae laddies in the Celtic shirts,
a baker’s dozen
lumbering all the way to the summit cairn
the hot last Saturday of May
as larks trilled
and the loch-side braes released their midgies …

Well, up at the raven-haunted trig-point
(as the sun shone bright o’er the whole lower Clyde)
they unfurled a banner,
and triumphant-sombre, ranked themselves behind it
for the photies,
‘R.I.P.’ it read, then the name of a wee boy

they’ll never meet again. Ach,
would the wean were playing fit-ba
on some bonny banks somewhere …

There’s no accounting for it, is there?
I mean the low road, and the high.

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164d

When you were people
We could have loved you,
Found out your names
And brought you presents…

—“Poem for Innocent Victims of War” by AC Jacobs (1937–1994) – born #OTD, 30 May
Published in NAMELESS COUNTRY: Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2018)

A 🎂 🧵

1/6

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784106751/nameless-country/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #Jewish #diaspora #20thcentury #warpoetry

Poem for Innocent Victims of War
A. C. Jacobs

You did not die for me
Or love or desperation.
No-one chipped your names
On plaques on peaceful blocks of stone.
You are just the useless dead
Who mock our daily sin of passion,
Climb through our heads in cold, slow silence.

When you were people
We could have loved you,
Found out your names
And brought you presents.
We could have walked around with your response.

Or even if you chose to die
We might have understood your longing
And written down your utmost fear.

Now, though, you have got beyond our feelings,
And we can never almost follow
To learn your last shared and perfect secret.

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Taylor Strickland in conversation with Aoife Lyall
3 June, Ullapool – free

Taylor Strickland in conversation with Aoife Lyall about his debut poetry collection DWELL TIME, which is longlisted for the Highland Book Prize. Strickland explores contemporary experiences of love, language, technology & spirituality. Chaired by Aoife Lyall, who writes poetry on queerness, motherhood, emigration, & legacy.

https://www.tapsalteerie.co.uk/product/dwell-time-by-taylor-strickland/

#Scottish #literature #poetry

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Taylor Strickland in conversation with Aoife Lyall
3 June | 20:00
The Ceilidh Place, Ullapool

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