Eggplant.place

59d

You are a
Thing of fire.
You burn any
Darkness
Given you.

92d

I mind when I was a bairnie hou ma mither
brocht out ae day a kist o skinklan things,
ferlies I thocht them, ilk mair rare nor anither,
aa kind o gowdies, stanes and chains and rings…

—Douglas Young, “Thesaurus Paleo-Scoticus”

10 June is Gies a Scots Poem Day

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #GiesAScotsPoemDay

Thesaurus Paleo-Scoticus
Douglas Young

I mind when I was a bairnie hou ma mither
brocht out ae day a kist o skinklan things,
ferlies I thocht them, ilk mair rare nor anither,
aa kind o gowdies, stanes and chains and rings,
braw orleges that made her guidsire vauntie,
auld fallals that belanged her grannie’s auntie.
I thocht ma forebears maun be queens and kings,
sic sma delytes can mak a bairnie canty.
I’m canty yet wi sma delytes, albeid
ma baird’s sae black and swack. I ken a thing
that’s like a kist o ferlies gif ye read.
Frae Jamieson’s muckle buik the words tak wing,
auld douce or ramstam, lown or virrfu words,
for musardry o thocht or grame o dirds,
our forebears useit, to flyte or scryve or sing.
I’d wuss to be a falkner o sic birds.

ALT

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91d

Someone is waving a white handkerchief
from the train as it pulls out with a white
plume from the station and rumbles its way
to somewhere that does not matter…

—George Bruce (1909–2002), “Departure and Departure and…”
published in The Edinburgh Book of Twentieth-Century Scottish Poetry (EUP 2005)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury

Departure and Departure and ...
George Bruce

Someone is waving a white handkerchief
from the train as it pulls out with a white
plume from the station and rumbles its way
to somewhere that does not matter. But
it will pass the white sands and the broad sea
that I have watched under the sun and moon
in the stop of time in my childhood as I am
now there again and waiting for the white
handkerchief. I shall not see her again
but the waters rise and fall and the horizon
is firm. You who have not seen that line
hold the brimming sea to the round earth
cannot know this pain and sweetness of departure.

ALT

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70d

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: 6th century to the present

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

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #poetry #20thcentury #Summer #Lewis #Hebrides

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.

ALT

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69d

Congratulations to the six poets shortlisted for the 2026 Edwin Morgan Poetry Award!

✨Tom Bailey
✨Emmett Coleman
✨Zainab Imran
✨Flora Leask Arizpe
✨Kate Millar
✨Caitlin Palmer

Find out more about the shortlist & read a selection of their poems on the Edwin Morgan Trust’s website:

https://edwinmorgantrust.com/2026/07/03/empa-2026-shortlist/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #poets #EdwinMorgan

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89d

James Clerk Maxwell (1831–1879) was born #OTD, 13 June. As a physicist, he ranks alongside Newton & Einstein (“He achieved greatness unequalled”—Max Planck)

He also wrote poetry: “Rigid Body Sings” is based on “Comin’ Through the Rye” by Robert Burns.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45774/in-memory-of-edward-wilson-who-repented-of-what-was-in-his-mind-to-write-after-section

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #19thcentury #Victorian #Scots #Scotslanguage #physics #science #sciencepoetry

In Memory of Edward Wilson, Who Repented of what was in his Mind to Write after Section
BY JAMES CLERK MAXWELL

Rigid Body (sings).

Gin a body meet a body
Flyin’ through the air,
Gin a body hit a body,
Will it fly? and where?
Ilka impact has its measure,
Ne’er a ane hae I,
Yet a’ the lads they measure me,
Or, at least, they try.

Gin a body meet a body
Altogether free,
How they travel afterwards
We do not always see.
Ilka problem has its method
By analytics high;
For me, I ken na ane o’ them,
But what the waur am I?

ALT

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69d

Creativity, Community & Class with Kevin P. Gilday

The Creative Resistance Podcast talks to Glasgow poet, performer, & playwright Kevin P. Gilday about gatekeeping of working-class stories, the role of art as a tool for survival rather than a luxury, & Kevin’s groundbreaking community projects like The Bank of Springburn & the Care in Scotland installation

https://thecreativeresistancepodcast.substack.com/p/creativity-community-and-class-with?utm_id=97758_v0_s00_e0_tv0

#Scottish #literature #poetry #drama #art #culture #workingclass #workingclasswriters #podcast

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68d

RE: https://mastodon.social/@gutenberg_org/116860757849700230

A great site for many of your #reading needs!

#books #literature #poetry

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32d

“We travelled north from London together on the Caledonian Sleeper. The tree got the upper bunk, I had the lower one.”

On 9 August 1945, the second – & so far, last – nuclear weapon used in war fell on Nagasaki. One of the few things to survive the bomb was a persimmon tree. In 2002, the poet Gerry Loose brought a sapling from that tree to Glasgow’s Botanic Gardens

https://www.thebottleimp.org.uk/2015/06/travels-with-a-tree/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #Nagasaki #NagasakiDay #Glasgow

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69d

Still radiant
Against the
Agony,
You defy
Apathy
With your
Spark.

#poetry

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68d

This morning I watched from here
a helicopter skirting like a damaged insect
the Empire State Building, that
jumbo size dentist’s drill, and landing
on the roof of the PanAm skyscraper.
But now midnight has come in
from foreign places…

—Norman MacCaig, “Hotel Room, 12th Floor”
published in THE POEMS OF NORMAN MacCAIG (Birlinn, 2009)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #FourthofJuly #july4th #IndependenceDay #NewYork #USA

Hotel Room, 12th Floor
Norman MacCaig

This morning I watched from here
a helicopter skirting like a damaged insect
the Empire State Building, that
jumbo size dentist’s drill, and landing
on the roof of the PanAm skyscraper.
But now midnight has come in
from foreign places. Its uncivilised darkness
is shot at by a million lit windows, all
ups and acrosses
But midnight is not
so easily defeated. I lie in bed, between
a radio and a television set, and hear
the wildest of warwhoops continually ululating through
the glittering canyons and gulches –
police cars and ambulances racing
to the broken bones, the harsh screaming
from coldwater flats, the blood
glazed on sidewalks.

The frontier is never
somewhere else. And no stockades
can keep the midnight out.

ALT

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68d

Mister drags off his box of fireworks to the shore.
Missiz drains her drink and hits the floor
with someone half her age…

—Liz Lochhead, “Fourth of July Fireworks”
published in THREE SCOTTISH POETS: MacCaig • Morgan • Lochhead, @canongatebooks 1992

🇺🇸 🎆

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #FourthofJuly #America250 #IndependenceDay

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

ALT

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

ALT

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 out-rage the storm,
try to steal its thunder.

ALT

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68d

Burns & the Scottish Enlightenment in America
4 Aug, Robert Burns Ellisland Farm
Tickets by donation

Ian Houston will examine how the ideas that shaped Burns's world – liberty, equality, democracy, & human dignity – also influenced the emerging American republic

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/burns-and-the-scottish-enlightenment-in-america-tickets-1990854549550

#Scottish #literature #RobertBurns #poetry #Enlightenment #ScottishEnlightenment #18thcentury #America250

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87d

“A Jacobite By Name?”: Jacobitism in the Life & Work of Robert Burns
5 July, Ellisland – £4

Patrick Jamieson explores how ideas of identity, naming & political memory shaped Burns’s engagement with Jacobitism throughout his life & writing

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/a-jacobite-by-name-jacobitism-in-the-life-and-work-of-robert-burns-tickets-1990504417295

#Scottish #literature #RobertBurns #18thcentury #Jacobites #romanticism #poetry

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56d

“PLEASE USE AI” — poem by Joanna Atkins-Potts

Source: hxxps://www.instagram.com/p/DZaR5o_iKNy/

Edited 56d ago

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87d

The true #Filipino #Haiku is called #Diyona (7-7-7).

Sumakay ako ng jeep
Barya lang sa umaga
Kasi walang panukli

#DiyonaChallenge #Philippines #Tula #Poetry #Poem

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87d

The true #Filipino #Haiku is called #Diyona (7-7-7).Sumakay ako ng jeepBarya lang sa umagaKasi walang panukli#DiyonaChallenge #Philippines #Tula #Poetry #Poem

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58d

Heard ye o’ the tree o’ France,
I watna what’s the name o’t;
Around it a’ the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o’t…

—“The Tree of Liberty”, attributed to Robert Burns (disputed). First printed in Chambers’ THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS (1838)

A poem for 🇫🇷 Bastille Day!

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#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #RobertBurns #BastilleDay #quatorzejuillet #18thcentury #19thcentury

The Tree of Liberty
attributed to Robert Burns

Heard ye o’ the tree o’ France,
I watna what’s the name o’t;
Around it a’ the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o’t.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition’s hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.

Upo’ this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a’ can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It mak’s him ken himsel, man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He ’s greater than a lord, man,
An’ wi’ the beggar shares a mite
O’ a’ he can afford, man.

This fruit is worth a’ Afric’s wealth:
To comfort us ’twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o’ health,
An’ mak us a’ content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Maks high and low gude friends, man;
And he wha acts the traitor’s part,
It to perdition sends, man.

My blessings aye attend the chiel
Wha pitied Gallia’s slaves, man,
And staw a branch, spite o’ the deil,
Frae yont the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue water’d it wi’ care,
And now she sees wi’ pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.

But vicious folk aye hate to see
The works o’ Virtue thrive, man;
The courtly vermin’s bann’d the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man;
King Loui’ thought to cut it down,
When it was unco sma’, man;
For this the watchman crack’d his crown,
Cut aff his head and a’, man.

A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne’er should flourish to its prime,
I wat they pledged their faith, man.
Awa’ they gaed wi’ mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o’ the trade
And wished they’d been at hame, man.

For Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca’, man.
She sang a sang o’ liberty,
Which pleased them ane and a’, man.

ALT

By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran—her foes gied chase,
And banged the despot weel, man.

Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o’er her neighbours shine, man.
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon ’twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found,
’Twixt London and the Tweed, man.

Without this tree, alake this life
Is but a vale o’ woe, man;
A scene o’ sorrow mixed wi’ strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man;
And a’ the comfort we ’re to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.

Wi’ plenty o’ sic trees, I trow,
The warld would live in peace, man;
The sword would help to mak a plough,
The din o’ war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We’d on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
Wad gladden every isle, man.

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat
Sic halesome dainty cheer, man;
I’d gie the shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
Syne let us pray, auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we’ll sing, and hail the day
That gives us liberty, man.

ALT

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58d

“Scots poets might have a few lessons to teach the French”

In “Towards a Post-Colonial Alliance?”, Paul Malgrati offers some perspectives on Franco-Scots poetry translation, exploring questions of voice, place, & power

🇫🇷🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

https://www.thebottleimp.org.uk/2019/12/towards-a-post-colonial-alliance-some-perspectives-on-franco-scots-poetry-translation/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #language #translation #French #BastilleDay #quatorzejuillet

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58d

Cinquevalli in sepia
looks at me from an old postcard: bundle of enigmas.
Half faun, half military man…

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

Paul Cinquevalli (1859–1918) died #OTD, 14 July

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781857541885/collected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #EdwinMorgan #poem #poetry #19thcentury #Victorian #Edwardian #circus #juggling #Cinquevalli

Paul Cinquevalli, by London Stereoscopic & Photographic Company, published by Rotary Photographic Co Ltd. Bromide postcard print, circa 1912. National Portrait Gallery.

A sepia photograph of Paul Cinquevalli (1859–1918). He has short, curly hair and a thick moustache, and is wearing an elaborate acrobat's leotard covered in tassels, braid, and frogging. He has a thick neck and stands half-facing us, his head turned to look directly at the camera. His left arm is cocked on his hip; his left elbow rests against a cannonball which sits on top of a stone plinth beside him.

ALT

Cinquevalli
Edwin Morgan

Cinquevalli is falling, falling.
The shining trapeze kicks and flirts free,
solo performer at last.
The sawdust puffs up with a thump,
settles on a tangle of broken limbs.
St Petersburg screams and leans.
His pulse flickers with the gas-jets. He lives.

Cinquevalli has a therapy.
In his hospital bed, in his hospital chair
he holds a ball, lightly, lets it roll round his hand,
or grips it tight, gauging its weight and resistance,
begins to balance it, to feel its life attached to his
by will and knowledge, invisible strings
that only he can see. He throws it
from hand to hand, always different,
always the same, always
different, always the
same.
His muscles learn to think, his arms grow very strong.

Cinquevalli in sepia
looks at me from an old postcard: bundle of enigmas.
Half faun, half military man; almond eyes, curly hair,
conventional moustache; tights, and a tunic loaded
with embroideries, tassels, chains, fringes; hand on hip
with a large signet-ring winking at the camera
but a bull neck and shoulders and a cannon-ball
at his elbow as he stands by the posing pedestal;
half reluctant, half truculent,
half handsome, half absurd,
but let me see you forget him: not to be done.

Cinquevalli is a juggler.
In a thousand theatres, in every continent,
he is the best, the greatest. After eight years perfecting
he can balance one billiard ball on another billiard ball
on top of a cue on top of a third billiard ball
in a wine glass held in his mouth. To those
who say the balls are waxed, or flattened,
he patiently explains the trick will only work
because the spheres are absolutely true.
There is no deception in him. He is true.

ALT

Cinquevalli is juggling with a bowler,
a walking-stick, a cigar, a coin.
Who foresees? How to please.
The last time round, the bowler
flies to his head, the stick sticks in his hand,
the cigar jumps into his mouth, the coin
lands on his foot—ah, but
is kicked into his eye
and held there as the miraculous monocle
without which the portrait would be incomplete.

Cinquevalli is practising.
He sits in his dressing-room talking to some friends,
at the same time writing a letter with one hand
and with the other juggling four balls.
His friends think of demons, but
‘You could do all this,’ he says,
sealing the letter with a billiard ball.

Cinquevalli is on the high wire in Odessa.
The roof cracks, he is falling, falling
into the audience, a woman breaks his fall,
he cracks her like a flea, but lives.

Cinquevalli broods in his armchair in Brixton Road.
He reads in the paper about the shells whining
at Passchendaele, imagines the mud and the dead.
He goes to the window and wonders through that dark evening
what is happening in Poland where he was born.
His neighbours call him a German spy.
‘Kestner, Paul Kestner, that’s his name!’
‘Keep Kestner out of the British music-hall!’
He frowns; it is cold; his fingers seem stiff and old.

Cinquevalli tosses a plate of soup
and twirls it on his forefinger; not a drop spills.
He laughs, and well may he laugh
who can do that. The astonished table
breathe again, laugh too, think the world
a spinning thing that spills, for a moment, no drop.

Cinquevalli’s coffin sways through Brixton
only a few months before the Armistice.
Like some trick they cannot get off the ground
it seems to burden the shuffling bearers, all their arms
cross-juggle that displaced person, that man
of balance, of strength, of delights and marvels,
in his unsteady box at last into the earth.

ALT

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21d

Rǫgnvaldr Kali Kolsson (c. 1100–1158), Earl of Orkney, died #OTD, 20 August.

Rǫgnvaldr was a skilled poet (& after his death – slightly surprisingly – canonised as St Ronald of Orkney – f.d. 20 August). Ian Crockatt has translated many of his poems; this one is from CRIMSONING THE EAGLE’S CLAW: The Viking Poems of Rǫgnvaldr Kali Kolsson (Arc Publications, 2014)

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https://www.arcpublications.co.uk/books/rognvaldr-kali-kolsson-crimsoning-the-eagles-claw-the-viking-poems-of-rgnvaldr-kali-kolsson-earl-of-orkney-518

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Orkney #medieval #Viking #Norse

He laments his wife’s illness, seeks comfort in shaping words

Akr verðk opt fyr sjúkri
eyfitja þó sitja
– rjð es mér in mæra
menbrik – Njǫrun síka;
heiðis fylgjask hauðri
(hauk tínik svá) mínu,
(setrs leitandi sútar
slœgr á hverju dœgri).

I brood at her bedside
– I've brought lace, necklaces,
bone combs – who lies, limbs and
lips feverish – wishing
back our glad hours hawking
low-sled water-meadows.
I shape grave words – heart-deep,
honed, brief – to imprison grief.

ALT

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50d

#QuestionOfTheDay what's a speech/line in fiction that is meaningful to you and you still think about a lot?

#writing #fiction #books #poetry #music #musicals #comics #comicbooks #movies #film #anime #manga #television #TV #videogames #CCGs #TTRPG #gaming #boardgames #scifi #fantasy

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52d

Five stars:

The Fatal Lozenge by Edward Gorey (1960) reads like the prototype of the Gashlycrumb Tinies (1963). Like its more famous cousin, this book is a Gothic exploration of the alphabet, but with adults.

https://pussreboots.com/blog/2026/comments_07/fatal_lozenge.html

#bookstodon #poetry #picturebook
@bookstodon

ALT

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58d

Currently #Reading two very different #nonfiction books and loving them both. "Humsafar: The World of Urdu Poetry" by is strengthening my desire to learn more of that language to get more out of its #poetry - poetry the book breaks down so clearly as in the attached diagram of how a ghazal is structured. Highly recommended!

As is Zeinab Badawi's "An African History of Africa" - the first book I've ever read to consider the history of the continent from within. A laudable and MUCH-needed objective. I'm only halfway but already I've learned so much and had so many preconceptions and orthodox, eurocentric historical assumptions challenged.
#History #africa #bookstodon
@bookstodon

cover of the book "Humsafar - The World of Urdu Poetry" by Hitesh Gupta Aadil

ALT

from the book "Humsafar - The World of Urdu Poetry" by Hitesh Gupta Aadil, a diagram breaking down the structure and form of a traditional Urdu ghazal

ALT

Cover of "An African History of Africa" By Zeinab Badawi

ALT

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57d

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 #Shetland #Shetlandic #Scots #Scotslanguage

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?

ALT

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