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125d

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

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

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

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

Curaidhean
Somhairle MacGill-Eain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALT

Heroes
Translator: Sorley MacLean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALT

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125d

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

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

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

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

During a Music Festival
Robert Garioch

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

Suddenlike I am back in Libya;
yon’s the escarpment, and a bleizan plane,
the wee white speck that feeds the luift wi reik,
dirkins a horror-pictur on my brain.

And aye the reik bleeds frae the warld’s rim
as it has duin frae Babylon and Troy,
London, Bonn, Edinbro, time eftir time.
And great Beethoven sang a Hymn to Joy.

ALT

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125d

It is VE Night, Tobermory.
Cottages blaze and shimmer in the mirror of the bay.
Light is necklaced everywhere…

—Hugh McMillan, “Old Photograph”
published in AFTER THE STORM (Smith/Doorstop Books, 2005)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/old-photograph/

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

Old Photograph
Hugh McMillan

It is VE Night, Tobermory.
Cottages blaze and shimmer in the mirror of the bay.
Light is necklaced everywhere,
on the cross-trees of destroyers,
on the hulls of every cockleshell and scalloper afloat,
even on the gutted snout of a U-Boat,
but there are shadows, to imagine
the black and frozen water
and the land, lonely of men,
from Sunart to Mers-El-Kebir.

Daisy chained by sailors, three WAAFs
pose for a photograph.
Her friends are grinning, wide-eyed,
but my mother’s smile is dying
and she’s turned away
to the sound of the waves,
as if she could sense my father,
whose war would never cease,
limping inexorably back to her
across the oil scarred sea.

ALT

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103d

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.

ALT

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71d

Gur duilich leam mar tha mi
’S mo chridhe ’n sàs aig bròn
Bhon an uair a dh’fhàg mi
Beanntan ard a’ cheò
Gleanntannan a’ mhànrain
Nan loch, nam bàgh ‘s nan sròm
’S an eala bhàn tha tàmh orra
Gach là air ’m bheil mi ’n tòir…

—Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna, “An Eala Ban”

The First Battle of the Somme began #OTD, 1 July, 1916. Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna / Donald MacDonald composed “An Eala Bhan” (“The White Swan”) during the battle.

#Scottish #literature #Gaidhlig #Gaelic #poem #warpoetry #Somme #WW1

An Eala Ban
Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna

Gur duilich leam mar tha mi
’S mo chridhe ’n sàs aig bròn
Bhon an uair a dh’fhàg mi
Beanntan ard a’ cheò
Gleanntannan a’ mhànrain
Nan loch, nam bàgh ’s nan sròm
’S an eala bhàn tha tàmh orra
Gach là air ’m bheil mi ’n tòir.

A Mhagaidh na bi tùrsach
A rùin, ged gheibhinn bàs –
Cò am fear am measg an t-sluaigh
A mhaireas buan gu bràth?
Chan eil sinn uile ach air chuairt
Mar dhìthein buaile fàs
Bheir siantannan na bliadhna sìos
’S nach tog a’ ghrian an àird.

Tha ’n talamh lèir mun cuairt dhìom
’Na mheallan suas ’s na neòil;
Aig na ’shells a’ bualadh –
Cha lèir dhomh bhuam le ceò:
Gun chlaisneachd aig mo chluasan
Le fuaim a’ ghunna mhòir;
Ach ged tha ’n uair seo cruaidh orm
Tha mo smuaintean air NicLeòid.

Mas e ’s gu bheil e ’n dàn dhomh
on bhlàr gun till mi beò
Is gu faic mi ’n t-àite
san deach ar n-àrach òg
Bidh sinne ’s crathadh làmh againn
is bilean blàth toirt phòg
’S mo ghealltanas bidh pàighte dhut
le fainne chur mud mheòir.

Oidhche mhath leat fhèin, a rùin
Nad leabaidh chùbhraidh bhlàth;
Cadal sàmhach air a chùl
’s do dhùsgadh sunndach slàn
Tha mise ’n seo san truinnsidh fhuair
’s nam chluasan fuaim a’ bhàis
Gun dùil ri faighinn às le buaidh –
Tha ’n cuan cho buan ri shnàmh.

ALT

The White Swan
Donald MacDonald

Sad I consider my condition
With my heart engaged with sorrow
From the very time that I left
The high bens of the mist
The little glens of dalliance
Of the lochs, the bays and the forelands
And the white swan dwelling there
Whom I daily pursue.

Maggie, don’t be sad
Love, if I should die –
Who among men
Endures eternally?
We are all only on a journey
Like flowers in the deserted cattle fold
That the year’s elements will bring down
And that the sun cannot raise.

All the ground around me
Is like hail in the heavens;
With the shells exploding –
I am blinded by smoke:
My ears are deafened
By the roar of the cannon;
But though this time is hard on me,
My thoughts are on the girl MacLeod.

If it is fated to me
That from the battle I should return safe,
And see the place
Where we were nurtured young
We’ll shake hands
And warm lips shall kiss
And my promise be fulfilled to you
With a ring put round your finger.

Goodnight to you, love
In your warm, sweet-smelling bed;
May you have peaceful sleep and
May you waken healthy and in good spirits
I am here in the cold trench
With the clamour of death in my ears
With no hope of returning victorious –
The ocean is too wide to swim.

ALT

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96d

“The Sodgers”, by Alexander Scott (1920–1989)

Alexander Scott landed in Normandy in 1944 with the Gordon Highlanders, & saw action in the Ardennes & crossing the Rhine. He later became Head of Scottish Literature at the University of Glasgow, was president of ASL from 1976–79, & was a founding editor of our annual anthology NEW WRITING SCOTLAND

Today, 6 June, is the anniversary of D-Day

#Scottish #literature #DDay #poem #poetry #20thcentury #warpoem #warpoetry #WW2 #Scots #Scotslanguage

The Sodgers
by Alexander Scott

Nae wi the gallus captains
That niver jinkit war
But socht for glory's wildfire lowe
As wise men aince for anither star—

And nae wi the ramstam colonels
That leuch at the din o the drum
And skirled for the bleeze o battle's Inferno
As saunts micht skirl for Kingdom Come—

But aye wi the sweirt sodgers
That niver wished tae dee
And anelie marched the forrart road
Sen onie back they cudna see—

Near blind wi the reek o wappins
And the reek o leean words,
But niver near sae blind wi bluid
As faa in luve wi guns and swords.

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