Eggplant.place

43d

Rock an’ stane lay glisterin’ on aa the heichs abune.
Cool an’ kind an’ whisperin’ it drifted gently doon,
till hill an’ howe war rowed in it, an’ land an’ sea war gane.
Aa was still an’ saft an’ silent in the smoky smirr o rain.

—George Campbell Hay, “The Smoky Smirr o’ Rain”

A poem for World Rain Day 🌧️

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #rain #WorldRainDay

The Smoky Smirr o Rain
George Campbell Hay

A misty mornin’ doon the shore wi a hushed an’ caller air,
an’ ne’er a breath frae East or West tie sway the rashes there,
a sweet, sweet scent frae Laggan’s birks gaed breathin’ on its ane,
their branches hingin beaded in the smoky smirr o rain.

The hills aroond war silent wi the mist alang the braes.
The woods war derk an’ quiet wi dewy, glintin’ sprays.
The thrushes didna raise for me, as I gaed by alane,
but a wee, wae cheep at passin’ in the smoky smirr o rain.

Rock an’ stane lay glisterin’ on aa the heichs abune.
Cool an’ kind an’ whisperin’ it drifted gently doon,
till hill an’ howe war rowed in it, an’ land an’ sea war gane.
Aa was still an’ saft an’ silent in the smoky smirr o rain.

ALT

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44d

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

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

Today, 29 July, is World Rain Day 🌧️

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

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

The Rainmaker
by Niall Campbell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALT

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28d

There is recent talk
of re-introducing wolves
to this demi-nation
of lambs and glaikit rams
and scraggy ewes,
(and – let’s face it –
hardly any shepherds left to care)…

—Douglas Lipton, “Wolves”
published in Such Strange Joy (inyx, 2001)

Today, 13 August, is International Wolf Day 🐺

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #rewilding #Scotland #wolf #wolves #InternationalWolfDay

Wolves
Douglas Lipton

for the new Scottish Parliament

The icy rain is spitting
on the pines and golden birches.
Hangings of black cloud
are torn apart by sunbursts
and then tugged shut again.

Behind us wait Przewalski’s Horses,
black Aurochs, Arctic Fox, Wisent, Lynx
and the other extinct of the country.
We are approaching the enclave
of the Wolves. You hold me,
Kiss me. The children are scurrying.
Our friends, too, are there
with two more scurriers
and a screamer in a papoose
and we are followed by other little packs
of back-bitten families,
out for a day of different frictions,
weather-incited.

From a crag of varnished wood
and plate-glass
we watch those almost-
wild dogs of the north
examine their territory,
tear meat and socialise.
Their puppies play,
rollicking like boulders of fur
in a river of pure air.

There is recent talk
of re-introducing wolves
to this demi-nation
of lambs and glaikit rams
and scraggy ewes,
(and – let’s face it –
hardly any shepherds left to care),
but the wolves are sure to be enclosed
or else we’d dare
to be entire again,
let forests grow,
and take our chances.

ALT

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28d

Bring back the wolf!
He’s not long gone, you know.
He went out when sheep came in.
Sheep cleared men and women.
Now let wolves clear sheep…

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

A poem for International Wolf Day 🐺

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #wolf #wolves #InternationalWolfDay #Scotland #rewilding #EdwinMorgan

from BEASTS OF SCOTLAND

Wolf
by Edwin Morgan

Bring back the wolf!
He’s not long gone, you know.
He went out when sheep came in.
Sheep cleared men and women.
Now let wolves clear sheep.
A little wildness please,
a little howling to be heard from the chalets,
a circling of yellow eyes at Aviemore.
That legend much discredited,
of the following of the sledges,
let us test it in the Cairngorms,
in the winter playgrounds with their merry cries,
in the white paths through the forest.
It would be good to get not a few scalps
to crawl with fear when they hear
that eerie arctic song
as one by one the muzzles
lift and open in the dark,
and the dark is long.

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43d

I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face…

—Don Paterson, “Rain”
Published in RAIN (Faber, 2010)

A poem for World Rain Day 🌧️

https://www.faber.co.uk/product/9780571251742-rain/

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

Don Paterson
Rain

I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face;

one big thundering downpour
right through the empty script and score
before the act, before the blame,
before the lens pulls through the frame

to where the woman sits alone
beside a silent telephone
or the dress lies ruined on the grass
or the girl walks off the overpass,

and all things flow out from that source
along their fatal watercourse.
However bad or overlong
such a film can do no wrong,

so when his native twang shows through
or when the boom dips into view
or when her speech starts to betray
its adaptation from a play,

I think to when we opened cold
on a starlit gutter, running gold
with the neon of a drugstore sign
and I’d read into its blazing line:

forget the ink, the milk, the blood –
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters

and none of this, none of this matters.

ALT

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43d

the rain has stopped
but still it’s falling
under the trees

—Alan Spence
published in CLEAR LIGHT, @canongatebooks 2012

A haiku for World Rain Day 🌧️

https://canongate.co.uk/books/94-clear-light/

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

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43d

The 32 Most Iconic Poems in the English Language

Plus Some Bonus Poems, Because We Love You

by Emily Temple (from the archives)

https://lithub.com/the-32-most-iconic-poems-in-the-english-language/?utm_source=Klaviyo&utm_medium=campaign&utm_id=01KYE53AMRNPPP1WN6T47JFQ87&_kx=3MZUehzXM-41qlWAMPUiuNZadX2p0SByuNf_t0eMLB0.U5D8ER

Books in Poetry at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/bookshelf/637

#books #literature #poetry

Title: Poetry of the Supernatural

Author: Various

A black-and-white pen-and-ink illustration, showing two robed, ghostly or tree-spirit-like figures standing among gnarled trees in a dark forest.

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27d

Nae wind comes owre sae free
Upon the yirden rose
As hill-blawn winds that gae
Whaur the white bloom grows…

—William Soutar, “Summer Song”
published in WILLIAM SOUTAR: Collected Works (Tippermuir, 2024)

https://tippermuirbooks.co.uk/product/william-soutar-collected-works-vols-1-2/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #Scots #Scotslanguage #WilliamSoutar

Summer Song
by William Soutar

Nae wind comes owre sae free
Upon the yirden rose
As hill-blawn winds that gae
Whaur the white bloom grows.

There is nae biggit bower
Sae gledsome for the sicht
As the sma', wilder'd fleur
Flanterin' wi' licht.

And herts will tine their fear
Whan love sae freely blaws,
Open to joy and care
As the sma', white rose.

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48d

It is here! My poem "To the boy I met in Czechia"

https://archiveofourown.org/works/88983296

The full poem is also in a reply below ⬇️. The AO3 post also has a pronunciations guide, definitions of uncommon words, and guiding questions for you to ponder on.

I've attached some pictures here to act as a mood board.

Please do let me know if you enjoyed it and perhaps what it made you feel!

#poetry #boyslove

A photo of Karlovy Vary, a spa town in Czechia

ALT

A photo of Moser glassworks in Karlovy Vary, Czechia

ALT

A photo of the Prague Astronomical Clock (Prague Orloj, Pražský orloj)

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25d

I send to you, commissioners,
A paper that may please ye, sirs
(For troth they say it might be worse‍‍
An’ I believe’t)…

—Robert Louis Stevenson, “To the Commissioners of Northern Lights”, which Stevenson sent to them along with his design for “a new form of intermittent light”

This weekend is International Lighthouse & Lightship Weekend

1/5

https://illw.net

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #ScotsLanguage #RobertLouisStevenson #19thcentury #Victorian #lighthouse #engineering

To the Commissioners of Northern Lights
Robert Louis Stevenson

I send to you, commissioners,
A paper that may please ye, sirs
(For troth they say it might be worse‍‍
An’ I believe’t)
And on your business lay my curse‍‍
Before I leav’t.

I thocht I’d serve wi’ you, sirs, yince,
But I’ve thocht better of it since;
The matter I will nowise mince,‍‍
But tell ye true:
I’ll service wi’ some ither prince,‍‍
An’ no wi’ you.

I’ve no been very deep, ye’ll think,
Cam’ delicately to the brink
An’ when the water gart me shrink‍‍
Straucht took the rue,
An’ didna stoop my fill to drink—‍‍
I own it true.

I kent on cape and isle, a light
Burnt fair an’ clearly ilka night;
But at the service I took fright,‍‍
As sune’s I saw,
An’ being still a neophite‍‍
Gaed straucht awa’.

Anither course I now begin,
The weeg I’Il cairry for my Sin,
The court my voice shall echo in,‍‍
An’—wha can tell?—
Some ither day I may be yin‍‍
O’ you mysel’.

ALT

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27d

Dream of me riding the horse you galloped as a girl –
the one that rode onto the ferry

just as the floor was rising up, in the days when
horses rode the wild sea…

—Jackie Kay, “Dream Pier”
published in DARLING (Bloodaxe, 2007)

https://www.bloodaxebooks.com/ecs/product/darling-877

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Jackie Kay
Dream Pier

Dream of me riding the horse you galloped as a girl –
the one that rode onto the ferry

just as the floor was rising up, in the days when
horses rode the wild sea.

Dream of us swimming in the crazy sea,
our wet hair dark as seals

just as they rise up from the salt water
sleek, slippery clever.

Dream of you, dream of me, and the old country,
strolling in the heather.

Dream of the years falling off, and the rainy weather.
Then dream of us as girls,

Bold girls who become black horses, black horses who bolt
the stable one dark night.

ALT

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42d

“You will have heard that I am going to commence Poet in print; and to-morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred pages. It is just the last foolish action I intend to do—and then turn a wise man as fast as possible.”

The “Kilmarnock Edition” of Robert Burns’s Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect was published #OTD, 31 July, 1786.

https://digital.nls.uk/poems-chiefly-in-the-scottish-dialect/archive/74464614#?c=0&m=0&s=0&cv=0&xywh=-9336%2C-785%2C21170%2C15693

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

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117d

To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o’er the faem;
The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,
’Tis thou maun bring her hame…

The ballad “Sir Patrick Spens” is probably based on the 1290 mission to Norway to fetch the 7-year-old princess Margaret, heir to the Scottish crown, following the death of Alexander III

🇳🇴🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

#Scottish #literature #ballad #poem #Norway #Nasjonaldagen #poetry

A stained-glass window by Charles Cameron Baillie, c.1930, from Abbot House, Dunfermline. It depicts a three-masted sailing ship in full sail on a stormy green-blue sea with white wave-caps. There are red flags flying from the ship's masts. Some of the sails have yellow stripes on them; one might have a sunburst design, but it's tucked in behind other sails and is hard to see. One sail at the front is a black-and-white chequerboard, and at the prow of the ship, on the bowsprit, is a sail displaying the blue-and-white Scottish saltire, a white X on a blue background.

Underneath, on a scroll, are the words

To Noroway, To Noroway
To Norway Ower the Faem

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27d

The Tragedy of Loving Sylvia Plath

Sarai Walker on Obsession, Ownership, and Plath Worship

https://lithub.com/the-tragedy-of-loving-sylvia-plath/

#books #literature #poetry

This black-and-white photo of Sylvia Plath shows her from the chest up. She faces left and looks away from the camera. Her short dark hair has bangs, and she wears a shirt or jacket with wide lapels.

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41d

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

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

Today, 1 August, is Lammas Day

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

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

SONG
Tune-Corn Rigs are bonie

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

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

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

ALT

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

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

ALT

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41d

Men slapped the ponies from pit bank to field,
slammed the gate shut and left them to their fortnight
but it rained solid so their poor backs turned black-sodden as old carpet.

Told not to, the boy went out with brown apples and endearments,
dug his nails into their manes, gave each one a Sunday name…

—Pippa Little, “Lammas Goldfish”
published in NAMING THE SNAKES: New Writing Scotland 44 (ASL, 2026)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/newwriting/nws44/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Lammas

Pippa Little
Lammas Goldfish

for Ray

Men slapped the ponies from pit bank to field,
slammed the gate shut and left them to their fortnight
but it rained solid so their poor backs turned black-sodden as old carpet.

Told not to, the boy went out with brown apples and endearments,
dug his nails into their manes, gave each one a Sunday name. Then
saw it first, flickering, inner-lit through the gloom of their trough,

strange discarded thing from a drunken homecoming
the night of the Lammas fair, won for a kiss perhaps,
beautiful, the word hurt in his mouth.

And kept watch day after day as it swelled in its pink-gold
pomp, memorised every curved samurai scale,
its secret flowering. Until one morning early

he came to the field to find it gone,
the water numb and calm and grey
and every beast led back inside the earth.

ALT

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26d

He will outlast us, churning out his books,
advocate and historian, his prose
earning him Abbotsford with its borrowed gates,
its cheap mementos from the land he made…

—Iain Crichton Smith, “At the Scott Exhibition, Edinburgh Festival”
published in DEER ON THE HIGH HILLS (Carcanet, 2021)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #WalterScott #IainCrichtonSmith #writers #writing

AT THE SCOTT EXHIBITION, EDINBURGH FESTIVAL
Iain Crichton Smith

He will outlast us, churning out his books,
advocate and historian, his prose
earning him Abbotsford with its borrowed gates,
its cheap mementos from the land he made.
Walking the room together in this merciless
galaxy of manuscripts and notes
I am exhausted by such energy.
I hold your hand for guidance. Over your brow
the green light falls from tall and narrow windows.
His style is ignorant of this tenderness,
the vulnerable angle of your body
below the Raeburn with its steady gaze.

It was all in his life, not in his books
‘Oh I am dying, take me home to Scotland
where I can breathe though that breath were my last.’
He limped through an Edinburgh being made anew.
He worked his way through debts, past a dead wife.
My dear, we love each other in our weakness
as he with white grave face diminishing through
stroke after stroke down to the unpaid room.
We know what we are but know not what we will be.
I tremble in this factory of books.
What love he must have lost to write so much.

ALT

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40d

We all carry
Darkness,
But it is
Strewn
With stars.

#poetry

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28d

How Emperor Augustus Silenced Rome’s Most Famous Poet

At the height of his popularity in Rome, Augustus exiled the poet Ovid to the Black Sea. There, the whimsical author produced a striking series of poems.

https://www.thecollector.com/ovid-roman-poet-exile/

Ovid at PG:

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/2868

#books #literature #poetry

In this painting by Anton von Werner, Ovid sits on a stone throne set in a shallow, arched niche. He wears a classical toga over his left shoulder and torso, leaving his right shoulder uncovered. He gazes a little to his left.

He holds a small rectangular writing tablet in his lap with his left hand. His right hand holds a stylus near his chin. He wears a simple wreath or band on his head, open-toed sandals, and sits with his right leg crossed over his left.

ALT

Edited 28d ago

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40d

Last night, when the moon
slipped into my attic-room
disguised as an oblong of light,
I sensed she’d come to commiserate.

It was August. She travelled
with a small valise
of darkness, and the first few stars
returning to the northern sky…

—Kathleen Jamie, “Moon”
published in SELECTED POEMS, (Picador, 2018)

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/kathleen-jamie/selected-poems/9781509882953

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

Moon
by Kathleen Jamie

Last night, when the moon
slipped into my attic-room
disguised as an oblong of light,
I sensed she’d come to commiserate.

It was August. She travelled
with a small valise
of darkness, and the first few stars
returning to the northern sky,

and my room, it seemed,
had missed her. She pretended
an interest in the bookcase
while other objects

stirred, as in a rock pool,
with unexpected life:
strings of beads in their green bowl gleamed,
the paper-crowded desk;

the books, too, appeared inclined
to open and confess.
Being sure the moon
harboured some intention,

I waited; watched for an age
her cool gaze shift
first toward a flower sketch
pinned on the far wall

then glide down to recline
along the pinewood floor,
before I’d had enough. Moon,
I said, we’re both scarred now.

Are they quite beyond you,
the simple words of love? Say them.
You are not my mother;
with my mother, I waited unto death.

ALT

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39d

Like an unnourished rose I see you now, and yours the
Pallor of that city of soot and pigeons…

—George Sutherland Fraser, “A Winter Letter (To my sister in London, from Asmara)”
published in From the Line: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945 (ASL, 2014)

Today, 2 August, is Sisters Day

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #sisters #SistersDay #WarPoem #WarPoetry #WW2

George Sutherland Fraser
A Winter Letter
(To my sister in London, from Asmara)

Like an unnourished rose I see you now, and yours the
Pallor of that city of soot and pigeons
Where the leaf is pale, that seems to curl its tendrils
Always around the painted green of iron,
I imagine you pale among the pigeon droppings,
And with your eyelids shadowed like the violets
They sell in bunches from their pavement baskets,
And I imagine you not with your old buxomness
But slim like the young ladies in the advertisements,
With your hair preened in a mode of cockney smartness
And your hands in the pockets of a heavy coat . . .
Do you think wistfully as I do, my darling,
These mornings when your heart is not in that city,
Reluctant stroller to the Board of Trade,
Of our glittering and resourceful north, with its
Terminus smell in the morning of cured herrings
And its crackling autumn suburbs of burned leaves?
Though I write in winter, and now except for the hollies
The trees in our old garden are all bare:
Now as they walk these streets of flashing mica,

ALT

They puff white steam from their nostrils, men and horses,
And their iron heels strike out sparks from the frosty road!
Now the white mist seeps round the red brick baths by the sea-front
And the children are girning at play with blue fingers
For a sea-coal fire and the starch of a Scotch high-tea,
Now with nipped red cheeks, the girls walk the streets rapidly,
And the shop-window's holly and tinsel can hardly delay.
I think of the swirl of the taffeta schoolgirls at Christmas,
Remembering Bunny whose skin was like cream upon milk,
Remembering Joy with her honey-dark skin and dark glances,
Remembering Rosemary's chatter and eloquent eyes,
Ahimé! and sigh because war with its swoop and its terror
That pounces on Europe and lifts up a life like a leaf,
Though its snell wind whirl you into a niche where you’re cosy
Yet its years eat up youth and the hope of fulfilment of youth.

And last night I dreamt I returned and therefore I write,
Last night my train had drawn up at a black London station,
And there you were waiting to welcome me, strange but the same,
And I shook your gloved hands, kissed your light-powdered cheek, and was waiting
To see your new flat, and your books, and your hats, and your friends,
When I suddenly woke with a lost lonesome head on my pillow,
And black Africa turning beneath me towards her own dawn,
And my heart was so sore that this dream should be snapped at the prologue
That I send you my soreness, dear heart, for the sake of this dream.

ALT

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39d

Early autumn the school trunk would re-appear
as if to say summer was over, time for my sister to disappear…

—Diana Hendry, “Parting (i.m. Julie Betty Rowan)”
published in Second Wind (Saltire Society, 2015)

A poem for Sisters Day

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/parting-0/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #sisters #SistersDay

Parting
Diana Hendry

i.m. Julie Betty Rowan

Early autumn the school trunk would re-appear
as if to say summer was over, time for my sister to disappear.

She was the homely one my mother loved too much.
A North Wales boarding school, my father’s mute reproach.

Me – an avid reader of all Blyton’s stories of St Clare’s –
they kept at home, unaware I longed to go and envied her.

The trunk seemed huge, as deep as sorrow and in it
every vest and sock was named – only love went missing.

I remember most the heavy winter coat she had to wear –
grey as the railway station full of girls, grief in the parting air.

* * * * *

And now she’s gone, the sister I didn’t see
for more than twenty years. O there were letters

now and then and phone calls, but mostly
between us nothing but distance and neglect.

So now I find a deadness in my heart
and numbness where the pain should be.

To friends I say ‘we grew apart,
‘had nothing in common’, though what can compare

with those early years of childhood shared?

ALT

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24d

R.K. Hegelman on Fernando Pessoa, “an extreme and singular figure in a modern poetic tradition that views poems not just as texts, but as gnostic vehicles of self-annihilation and worldly renovation.”

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/1816395/i-multiplied-myself-to-feel-myself?utm_source=Klaviyo&utm_medium=campaign&utm_id=01M07W8MNQ2W0QED5E79D708K8&_kx=3MZUehzXM-41qlWAMPUiuNZadX2p0SByuNf_t0eMLB0.U5D8ER

Books by Fernando Pessoa at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/9005

#books #literature #poetry

Photograph of Fernando Pessoa.

Pessoa is shown wearing round wire-framed glasses, a mustache, a fedora hat, and a suit with a tie.

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24d

What do we sense on the moor but ghost folk,
ghost deer, even ghost wolf. The path itself is a
phantom, almost erased in ling and yellow tormentil:
flowers of this summer and this summer only…

—Kathleen Jamie, “Moor”
from CAIRN (Sort of Books, 2024)

https://sortof.co.uk/kathleen-jamie-cairn

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #naturewriting #naturepoetry

Moor
Kathleen Jamie

What do we sense on the moor but ghost folk,
ghost deer, even ghost wolf. The path itself is a
phantom, almost erased in ling and yellow tormentil:
flowers of this summer and this summer only,
even as they flourish they’re passing into memory,
already bequeathing themselves –

The moor in summer dreams itself out of all
previous summers. Bog-cotton, the green fritillary,
the fly-catching sundew … likewise the larksong,
all iterated as though for the first time.

It is their first time! And every time before.

We bring the past out of the land and bear the land
into the future, but at heart of all is the land, contested,
exploited and beloved. (The turbines, plantations, the
missile-test sites.) We pass and fade on the face of the
earth, sun-nets drifting over distant hillsides, the cloud
shadows. We become the half-sensed ghosts.

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23d

“For me the political & the personal are not separate, & so I write that way because it’s how I honestly experience the world. Combining the two is a refusal to flatten either.”

—Hannah Lavery talks to SNACK Magazine about her latest poetry collection, EVERYTHING EVERYDAY: A Year of Empty Promises

https://snackmag.co.uk/interview-hannah-lavery-explores-grief-hope-and-everything-everyday-at-the-edinburgh-international-book-festival

#Scottish #literature #poetry

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