Eggplant.place

2d

Every bullet has its billet;
Many bullets more than one:
God! Perhaps I killed a mother
When I killed a mother’s son.

—Joseph Lee, “The Bullet”

Poet & journalist Joseph Lee – Dundee’s “fighter writer” – joined the Black Watch in 1914, & survived WW1

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #RemembranceSunday #warpoem #warpoetry #WW1

2d

He lacks the ordnance of words.
A self-portrait shows
stitches where his mouth should be;
eyes like empty casings.
He left a part of himself in the desert,
this ultra-Marine…

—Sandra Ireland, “Ultramarine”
published in New Writing Scotland 36 (2018)

#Scottish #literature #RemembranceSunday #poem #poetry

Sandra Ireland
Ultramarine

Trauma can affect the non-verbal
part of the brain. Art can free feelings of loss
and grief and pain from the subconscious,
aiding vocalisation.

He lacks the ordnance of words.
A self-portrait shows
stitches where his mouth should be;
eyes like empty casings.
He left a part of himself
in the desert,
this ultra-Marine,
the part which glows
Tyrian Purple.

Now he is bone black inside;
loaded with dark pigment;
aggregates
to be ground down and
made smooth with linseed words.
Time heals.
Give yourself time.

Time is just a jumbled mix
on his palette;
there was a lot of ochre out there,
and green earth and
sometimes, now he’s home,
he feels the trickle
of warm vermilion
seeping into
his boots.

ALT

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2d

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

—“A Winter Letter” (To my sister in London, from Asmara), by George Sutherland Fraser (1915–1980) – born #OTD, 8 Nov

Published in From the Line: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945

https://uk.bookshop.org/a/2111/9781906841164

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #poem #poetry #warpoem #warpoetry #WW2 #SecondWorldWar

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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2d

To Marykirk ye’ll set ye forth.
An’ whustle as ye step alang,
An’ aye the Grampians i’ the North
Are glow’rin’ on ye as ye gang.
By Martin’s Den, through beech an’ birk,
A breith comes soughin’, sweet an’ strang,
Alang the road to Marykirk…

—Violet Jacob, “The Road to Marykirk”

Violet Jacob’s only child, Harry, died aged just 20 at the Battle of the Somme, on 16 July 1916.

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #womenwriters #warpoem #warpoetry #WW1 #RemembranceSunday

Violet Jacob
The Road to Marykirk

To Marykirk ye'll set ye forth,
An' whustle as ye step alang,
An' aye the Grampians i' the North
Are glow'rin' on ye as ye gang.
By Martin's Den, through beech an' birk,
A breith comes soughin', sweet an' strang,
Alang the road to Marykirk.

Frae mony a field ye'll hear the cry
O' teuchits, skirlin' on the wing,
Noo East, noo West, amang the kye,
And smell o' whins the wind'll bring;
Aye, lad, it blaws a thocht to mock
The licht o' day on ilka thing—
For you, that went yon road last spring,
Are lying deid in Flanders, Jock.

ALT

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2d

The Ambush of Time
https://archive.org/details/the-ambush-of-time-by-richard-j-tilley

Three Banished Trees
https://archive.org/details/three-banished-trees-by-richard-j-tilley

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the-ambush-of-time-by-richard-j-tilley

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15h

Digging Up Tired Roots
https://archive.org/details/digging-up-tired-roots-by-richard-j-tilley

Holding For Sailorsmiths’s Songs
https://archive.org/details/holding-for-sailor-smithss-songs-by-richard-j-tilley

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digging-up-tired-roots-by-richard-j-tilley

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34d

Feel da mareel.
Noo da licht leaves wis aa alone, wi
da mirkin creepin early,
da last o’ da Simmer gone ta rust…

—Nat Hall, “Hairst”
from nobody remembers the birdman: New Writing Scotland 40 (ASL, 2022)

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

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

Nat Hall
HAIRST

Feel da mareel.
Noo da licht leaves wis aa alone, wi
da mirkin creepin early,
da last o’ da Simmer gone ta rust.
Atween da nicht an da moarnin,
A meadow pipit i’ da girse
hentin da morsels laek a thief afore
da next gale, hellery –
an i’ da eens o’ October, whaar
da cloods hang ta TV masts,
da dark blue licht o’ da
moarnin is
yet ta leave wis fur da sun.
Wir hairst reminds wis o gansies,
Da need ta wipe oot da windaes –
hear da sistimus i da stanes,
da innerdaeks o wir ain world,
bricht callishang,
spaekalation ahint da glass
juist afore eight, as
staris gadder apö da wires ...
Telegraph codes in
languages
da Hairst records an understands.

Shetlan Glossary
da Hairst: Autumn
da mareel: phosphorescence in the sea (algal bloom)
da Simmer: Summer
da girse: the grass
hentin: getting
da hellery: storm, adverse weather
da eens: the eyes
gansies: jumpers
da sistimus: wren
da innerdaeks: the stonewalled area of a house
bricht callishang: very boisterous vocalisations, noises
spaekalation: rumours
ahint: behind
staris: starlings
apö: on

ALT

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34d

Hermes was a bad god, a shifty fellow,
a liar, a thief, a teller of the future
(with dice, of course), a musician,
herald and messenger of the gods…

—Norman MacCaig, “Hermes-Mercury”
published in THE POEMS OF NORMAN MACCAIG (Birlinn, 2009)

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

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #NormanMacCaig #Hermes #Mercury #Wednesday #Roman #Classical

Norman MacCaig
Hermes-Mercury

Hermes was a bad god, a shifty fellow,
a liar, a thief, a teller of the future
(with dice, of course), a musician,
herald and messenger of the gods.

No wonder mercury was called after Mercury.
No wonder the Romans gave him that name:
the Trader, the Business Man.

How he must have laughed when the Romans
raised a statue to him
– god of commerce, god of profit and loss –
in the Street called Sober Street
where no shops were allowed, no pubs.

No wonder he was the conveyor of dreams.
Garden of Bliss, Vision of Hell – what did he care?
Yet I admire him. He was a survivor.

What a god, to survive among
those other gods and goddesses, those arrogant,
selfish, high-living turncoats and lechers –
too stupid to notice they were only
the blind dupes of Fate.

. . . Fate must have loved him, the black sheep,
the con man, the wide boy of Olympus.

ALT

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1d

By the Journey of Sands
https://archive.org/details/by-the-journey-of-sands-richard-j-tilley

The Diaspora of Moonlight Interposed
https://archive.org/details/the-diaspora-of-moonlight-interposed-by-richard-j-tilley

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by-the-journey-of-sands-richard-j-tilley

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1d

Upon the Written Hours
https://archive.org/details/upon-the-written-hours-richard-jtilley/Upon%20The%20Writte%20Hours%20by%20Richard%20J%20Tilley/

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1d

Carnival Rations
https://archive.org/details/carnival-rations-and-other-poems-by-richard-j-tilley_202506

Complete Collection From "Trilogy" Visitation
https://archive.org/details/complete-collection-from-trilogy-visitation/

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carnival-rations-and-other-poems-by-richard-j-tilley_202506

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33d

Today, October 8, is (naturally) Octopus Day … Hugh MacDiarmid embraced the octopus as a many-branched model of the cosmos in his epic 𝘈 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦 (1926)

Extract from Hugh MacDiarmid: Selected Poetry (Carcanet, 2004)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781857547566

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #modernism #modernist #Scots #Scotslanguage #MacDiarmid #HughMacDiarmid #OctopusDay

A mony-brainchin' candelabra fills
The lift and's lowin' wi' the stars;
The Octopus Creation is wallopin'
In coontless faddoms o' a nameless sea.
I am the candelabra, and burn
My endless candles to an Unkent God.
I am the mind and meanin' o' the octopus
That thraws its empty airms through a' th' Inane.

ALT

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1d

Some discussion on Complete Collection of “Trilogy” Visitation

https://www.tilley.blog/some-discussion-on-complete-collection-of-trilogy-visitation/

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33d

Lorrayne
before you hit me with that object
shaped like a toblerone
let me explain…

—Hugh McMillan, “The X Files: Bonnybridge, October ’95”
published in 𝘈𝘱𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘦’𝘴 𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘬 (Peterloo, 1996)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/x-files-bonnybridge-october-95/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #XFiles #TheTruthIsOutThere

The X Files: Bonnybridge, October ’95
Hugh McMillan

Lorrayne
before you hit me with that object
shaped like a toblerone
let me explain.
We only went for a half pint and a whisky
then set off home but somehow
lost two hours on a thirty minute journey.
My mind’s a blank
but Brian clearly saw
Aliens with black eyes and no lips
leading us onto a kind of craft.
I tried to lash out, explain that I was late,
but they used some kind of numbing ray on me:
it put me in this state.
Lorrayne, don’t you see what it explains?
All the times I crawled home with odd abrasions.
Put that down Lorrayne,
don’t you see I have to go again,
for the sake of future generations?

ALT

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1d

“The multi-lingual, multi-cultural fabric of this nation is something we need to actively celebrate and explore”

Scotland’s Makar Peter Mackay explores the legacy of Scotland as a multilingual country ahead of his event at Push the Boat Out – Edinburgh’s poetry festival

https://www.theskinny.co.uk/books/features/peter-mackay-makar-interview

#Scottish #literature #poetry #language #languages #translation #multilingualism #Scots #Scotslanguage #Gaidhlig #Gaelic

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33d

(The Hollow Storm) A Societal Pathway to Non-Violent Anti-Capitalism?!?!
https://www.tilley.blog/the-hollow-storm-a-societal-pathway-to-non-violent-anti-capitalism/

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https://www.subspacewagon.io
https://tilley.solar
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11h

Hemorrhaging and Goats in Auspicious Fields of Unremarkable Passing Daylight
https://archive.org/details/hemorrhaging-and-goats-in-auspicious-fields-of-unremarkable-passing-daylight-by-richard-j-tilley

Toward Post-Violence Societies: An Outline of Interdisciplinary Violence Studies and Violence Research
https://archive.org/details/toward-post-violence-societies-by-richard-j-tilley/

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hemorrhaging-and-goats-in-auspicious-fields-of-unremarkable-passing-daylight-by-richard-j-tilley

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11h

Alastair Reid (1926-2014): The Legacy
19 November, University of St Andrews

Alastair Reid (1926–2014) was one of the major Scottish poets of the 20th century. He also became one of the leading translators, into English, of Latin American poets, notably Jorge Luis Borges & Pablo Neruda.

This event will include readings of Reid’s poetry, & a discussion of his legacy as a poet, scholar and translator.

https://poeticinnovation.wp.st-andrews.ac.uk

#Scottish #literature #poetry #translation #Borges #Neruda #StAndrews

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116d

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

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

Edited 116d ago

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6h

The Long Stall of the Ladder's Percussion
https://archive.org/details/the-long-stall-of-the-ladders-percussion-by-richard-j-tilley

Poems Postponed
https://archive.org/details/book-5-poems-postponed-by-richard-j-tilley

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the-long-stall-of-the-ladders-percussion-by-richard-j-tilley

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32d

LARB Radio Hour welcomes #FadyJoudah, author of #ExhibitG: #Poems, #Essays, and #Photographs of #Gaza.

'How to document a genocide in English, the language of the oppressor? How to resist what Joudah calls the “museumification” of the Palestinian people? And how can we challenge ourselves to confront immense suffering for what it is?'

https://lareviewofbooks.org/av/fady-joudah-exhibit-g-podcast-interview/

#Palestine #GazaGenocide #oPt #poetry #books @bookstodon

Fady Joudah's 'Exhibit G'

Fady Joudah discusses his new book, his work as a writer and a doctor, how he wants the book to be read, and the persistence of Palestinian poetry

LARB Radio Hour - Oct 9

background image: photo of Fady Joudah

ALT

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31d

Captain of oats, braw brose, fine gruel,
you are thi Scotsman’s constant fuel
fae New Year’s Dey till end o Yule
(we don’t do Simmer)…

—WN Herbert, “TO PORRIDGE”

Happy #WorldPorridgeDay to all who celebrate! 🥣

https://poetryinternationalweb.org/pi/site/poem/item/22732/auto/0/TO-PORRIDGE

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #porridge #WorldPorridgeDay

WN Herbert
TO PORRIDGE
'Auld claes and parritch...'

Captain of oats, braw brose, fine gruel,
you are thi Scotsman’s constant fuel
fae New Year’s Dey till end o Yule
(we don’t do Simmer):
oan ilka morn ye bring renewal,
thi stomach’s zimmer.

Ye greet us lyk a fu-fissed mune
and guarantee tae fill wir spune
wi fushion – see, ye’re cratert roond
wi seas o bubbles –
tranquillity is aa yir tune,
and ease fae troubles.

Grey revolutionary fur guts,
jump-starter fur thi slo-mo slutz
that sends us loupin fae wir cots
intae wir sarks
(a dram in you gets slob and klutz
back tae thir wark).

When snaa faas owre thi Border’s pale
and Southron bairns can plunk aff skail
then even English journos hail
wir Northern mannah –
are sudden experts oan oatmeal
tapped wi a sultana.

ALT

Ye’re like a clood-occludit sun
that casts grey licht oan ivrywun;
thi siller ash on grieshoch; grun
ablow thi slush
that derns oat-germs that sune will wun
thru Winter’s crush.

Tho Doctir Johnson caaed ye food
fur foals – mair fulmar him – ye’ve plooed
thru Scotia’s lard-imprisoned bluid
and freed oor veins:
dae mealie puddins dae us good?
Great Oat, explain!

Hoo dae we luve ye? Some wi cream,
wi hinny, spice or jeely reamed,
while Calvin’s crew hae sauty dreams
o fare of auld,
powred in a draaer fur bothy teams
tae slice oot cauld.

‘Auld claes an parritch’ gaes thi creh
wance we hae drunk thi Daft Deys dreh
and neath a sober, saft grey skeh
we view thi year –
we’re nae whit bettir, but we’ll treh
wi sic guid gear!

Editor's Note: Fushion—wholesomeness, strength; slutz—a leap in skating; sark—shirt; grieshoch—red-hot embers; dern–hide.

ALT

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31d

I want answers, but there are only the wild geese
Calling, high in the almost-dark, bearing south,
And me, stopped short, clutching a bag of groceries
On the doorstep of my not-quite home…

—Susan Mansfield, “Bearing South”
from THE ROOFTOP BUSKER (ASL, 2015)

Today, 10 October, is World Migratory Bird Day

https://www.rspb.org.uk/whats-happening/news/reasons-to-celebrate-world-migratory-bird-day

#Scottish #literature #poetry #poem #wildgeese #WorldMigratoryBirdDay

Susan Mansfield
BEARING SOUTH

I want answers, but there are only the wild geese
Calling, high in the almost-dark, bearing south,
And me, stopped short, clutching a bag of groceries
On the doorstep of my not-quite home.
I feel the calm of their inner compass
And wonder if this is what we mean by certainty,
A deft arrowhead of wingbeats
In tune with the turning wind, the changing light,
A geography in their feathery breasts
Older than the names of continents.
A journey without thought of parting or arrival,
Only the press of forward motion,
The urgency and risk of it all,
A brief touch-down in stubble fields, then on,
The pulse of fellow flyers in the slipstream
And the clear voices calling in the dark:
I am here, I am alive,
I am here, I am alive.

ALT

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30d

A Home in Space: Edwin Morgan’s Concrete, Visual & Sound Poetry

Recorded on 6 October at the National Galleries, Edinburgh

Former Scottish Makar Edwin Morgan (1920–2010) is remembered as a lyric poet of extraordinary breadth & verve. Poet & critic Greg Thomas discusses Morgan’s experiments in dadaist visual & sonic poetics, his concrete ‘poem-objects’ & surrealist collages

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBpFurM925k

#Scottish #literature #poetry #EdwinMorgan #concretepoetry #visualpoetry #soundpoetry

watch?v=KBpFurM925k

Edited 30d ago