15 Scots Poems From An Inside Job

1.In Praise o Sir Patrick Geddes Born Ballater,1854 - died, France 1932 Ballater born, in Autumn's frost, fin sheughs are bricht wi hips an haws Young Patrick Geddes lued the lan...'By leaves we live, ' his motto was A sodjer's loon, hame-schuled an bricht, his lear ne'er driven bi the tawse A polymath, peace warrior, 'By leaves he lived', a wirthy cause His symbol wis three cushie doos..sympathy, synergy, synthesis A paradox, unorthodox, 'By leaves we live, ' his motto was Nae the three Rs bit the 3 Hs...hairt, haun an heid should be the laws quo he, tae educate young harns, the leaves that win o learnin blaws A Francophile, toon plannin star, he strode intae the lion's jaws, In Palestine, planned Tel Aviv, biggt weel an wycely, buffed its claws A Maharajah fur a day, in India he gart fowk pause Scoored orra neuks o stank, disease an in their stead, raised healthy haas Amang the shakkers o his warld, thon Fowk fa form thocht an laws He stauns aside the foremaist rank, 'By leaves wi live' his motto was. 2.Aiberdeen Seagulls skreichin in yer lug like banshees Granite spirks like fire in Union Street The claik o Eastern Europe's on the cassies This ile port far mony kintras meet Rowies, stovies, Cullen skink an haddies? Chirizo, pizzas, burgers, sushi, coke! The buskers frae Romania are fiddlin Siller ooto the antrin tourist's pyoke Twa universities are thrang wi students Frae China, India, Nigeria Arabs an Poles keep auld religions eident Oor Scots fowk worship clubbin an fitbaa Oor grannies are tattooed like auncient sailors Spray tanned an weirin Primark teenage claes The Nor sea is the thing that niver cheenges As gray an gurly as in Norseman days 3. An Inside Job (2) The airt far poems cam frae Is far dark watters meet Far swans in pearled feathers Slide lichtly, mute an sweet The airt far poems cam frae's A bibblin Heilan burn June sunsheen gars it skinkle Like gowd frae butter churn The airt far poems cam frae Hauds coggies in the stoor Far aa the dregs o hertbrakk Dreep sypins, wersh an soor The airt far poems cam frae's Far aa the tears that drap On ilkie kist's doon-pittin Mell, wi the yird on tap The airt far poems cam frae Is like the traivellin tide Wi treisurs, joys an nichtmares Warld-gaithered in its side 4.Craas Seen frae a Bus Craas perched on wires hing doon their dowps O feathers, sae they winna cowp For gin their tails stood straicht as leeks They micht faa ower an brakk their beaks 5.Ye Cannie Miss Him: Glasgow Glaswegians wear no masks. They take no prisoners. A bearded busker smells like a badger's burrow A junkie with staggers is spirited off by the polis Sauchiehall Street. The unaccustomed heat Incites a baring of flesh to equal Ibitha ‘Whaur's Donald Dewar's statue? ' repeats a turbaned Sikh In the insignia of a Glasgow traffic warden ‘He's twa streets doon. A wee green man, so he is, Wi a pointy nose. Ye cannie miss him.' 6.The Craw: A Scots Owersett o a Poem bi John Clare Foo peace-fu like it seems for lanely chiels Tae see the craw flee in the Heivens gran Abune the wids an parks, ower cantie lea Thon spikks o clachans or a hoose nearhaun Ahin the neeborin wids, fin Merch wins heich Teir aff the branches o a muckle aik I lue tae see thon lum-swypers flee by An hear them ower the wizzent widlan craik Syne jink agley frae hidden widsman's straik Fa warssles daily in the tress doonby I lue the seety craw, wad niver spyle, Its Merch day, blythely skreichin its joy oot I lue tae see it sailin back an fore Far parks an wids an waters spreid aboot 7. Three Scots Owersetts frae Banes o Cuttlefish bi Eugenio Montale, frae Inglis Translations bi Antonio Mazza A Nearhaun Glisk o Glamourie Day waukens again. I shaw it as a dawn O threidbare siller on the was The steekit windaes strippit glimmer The darg o the sun resterts An the ootspreid voices dinna bring the ordnar stooshies Fit wye? I think on an eildritch day, I reward masel. The pouer that aince gied me virr Will ream ower ghaistly an oorie frae the gran langsyne Noo, I'll raxx oot. I'll leave ahin heich hooses, nyaakit streets I'll face a kintra o unmarked snaa saft as lanscapes in a tapestry A latchy sunbeam'll skyte frae the snaflake lift Stappit wi unseen licht Wids an knows will spikk tae me reesin oot cheerfu comebacks Gledsome, I'll read the blaik signs o branches ower fiteness Like a necessary alphabet Aa ma yestreens will appear afore me at aince Nae soun will ding doon this lane blytheness Some Merch cock will takk the air Or drap doon tae sattle on a palin. The Skaith o Leevin Aftimes the skaith o leevin I hae kent It wis the chokit burn that gluggers It wis the up-furl o the druchtit leaf at noon It wis the sheltie cowpit aff its feet Nae blythness hae I kent Forbye the ferlie that shaws God disna gie a hee-haw It wis the statue doverin at noon An the cloud, an the merle heich-liftit Blytheness Won Blytheness won a body wauks Wi ye on a knife's edge At the een, yer a blae licht that glimmers At the fit, thrawn ice that cracks Sae he fa lues ye maist, he sudna touch ye Gin ye fa in wi wowels reamin wi wae An brichten them Yer mornin's sweet an steerin like nests in eaves Bit naethin quietens the greetin o the wee loon Fa's baa rins aff amang the hooses 8.I am I am the birdie cheepin ower the lea The lea itsel an ilkie blade o girse The siller that belongs tae aa, or nane That takks a different form in ilkie purse I am the traivellin ee, the mansion gran I am the tiger an the tiger's prey I am the wave, the seagull an the san I am the rotten an its nest o strae I am the brierin rowan on the ben I am the dwinin leaf upon the aik I am the thocht that glents in ither's een I am the blitheness in the spurgie's claik I am the shadda neth the thorny tree I am the cock that cries atap the spire I am the dreep faas frae gurly lift I am the spirk that crackles in the fire I am the marra in the sodjer's been I am the unborn bairnie in the wame I am the rose, the thorn an the stem I am the reef that haps the hermit's hame For I am Aa an naethin, ane in Aa The pluff o stoor fin that greets each spurgie's faa 9.Scots Owersets of Two Tamil Mediaeval poems found in English, from William Dalrymple's ‘In Search of the Sacred in Modern India' Her Airms Her airms are as bonnie As a gently meevin bamboo Her een are fu o peace She is hyne awa Her airt's nae easy tae win tae Ma hairt is wud wi langin A plooman wi a lane coo On a lan aa weet An ripe fur the seedin Ma Luv Ma luv Fa's bangles glent an ching As she chases partens O a suddenty stauns blate Heid booed Hair happen her face Bit anely till the wae o gloamin's by Fan she'll gie me the Fu pleisur o her breists 10.The Devadasi: A 16th Century Poem from the temple of Tirupathi, translated by A.K. Ramanujan (1929-1993) , here owersett in Scots I'm nae like the lave Ye can enter ma hoose Anely if ye've siller Tae step ower the yett O ma hoose It'll cost ye a hunner rupees in gowd For twa hunner ye can see ma sleepin chaumer Ma bed o silk An climm inno it Anely if ye've siller Tae sit bi ma side An tae pit yer haun Bauldly inno ma sari That'll cost ye ten thoosan Siventythoosan'll win ye feel O ma fu roon breists Anely if ye've siller Mair siller'll bring yer mou close tae mine Tae touch ma lips an kiss, tae hug me ticht Tae touch ma muff an get tae birze wi me Lippen weel Ye maun bathe me In a shouer o gowd Anely if ye've siller 11.October October. Noo the parks are plooed The mowdie's humfy-backit trail Lies ower the girse in yirdy clorts A bawd rins hirplin ben the kail Wee cheepin birdies in the beech Chirp oot, weel happit bi the leaves That hinna drapt, for Winter's bite Has yet tae bare the muckle trees The bens ahin the loch o Skene That rise sae blae intae the lift Still laird it ower the parks an ferms That hinna yet bin gart tae shift Bi the ootraxxin toun that spreids Its graspin clook ower kintraside Here aa is quaet, nigh gloamin time Fin latchy cushies hamewird glide 12.The Shaddas Atween the Trees Fit bides in the shaddas atween the trees Far naebody sikks tae gyang, Barrin the midgies dauncin there In the hauf licht, wee an thrang? There's fuspers o paws in the oorie wids Hett fittin it ower the girse An tapsalteerie leaves cowp ower As if fleein a warlock's curse The shaddas atween the trees are derk An seenister, fey an sleekit Fin the lift in the scratty airms o aik Wi midnicht starns is theekit I lue the shaddas atween the trees Far nocht bit the wud things dwell For there creeps the fiery, secret tod As lane as I creep masel 13.Forhooied Dowie, dowie ben the brae Dowie doon the road Steps the bairned lassie Wi her wechty load Kissed an cuddlit easy Luv wis faist tae flit She maun bide her lane noo Wi nocht tae dae bit knit Nocht tae dae bit sit at hame Luv seeds growe far they faa Saxteen years o mitherin The slowest crap ava 14.The Castlemilk Lads Chae Gordon ran wi a Glesga gang, The Cumbie, Did time fur fechtin. Niver used a blade Chapped on the heid wi an aix, whaun still a halflin Nae winner his hair sticks up like a hurcheon's prods See thon wee scar abune Chae Gordon's ee? He haived a bottle o cider intae a midden It stottit richt back oot an struck him hard Growin up in the Gorbals gied him scars Raised in a boddom flat on Inverkip Street Doon bi the Clyde, whaur Johnny Begg wis brewed Barrels, stank o fuskey, big dray shelts A neon licht that blinkit aa nicht lang ‘Takk a peg o John Beg'….queer lullaby. Chae's faither wis a busker, cam hame blootered, Whyles they selt auld claes in Paddy's mairket The coat in the photy's speecial, though Brand new! His sister Catherine, she wis killt bi a larry Three year auld, nae road sense. Niver luikin…. Chae blanked it. Didna wint thon in his heid. Ae meenit here, . the neist, a smudge on tar Peter leans his chin on Charlie's shooder Granparents raised him whaun his mither deed TB…it cairriet aff a wheen o ithers His faither wis a scaffie, sortit toys Frae trock he fand in backets for the tip Rab Carnochan, third o three laddies Da wis a plumber, ma worked wi the Co-op. Raiked aroon wi the lave, stole neeps frae gairdens Click! The shutter faas. The trio's catched 15. Miracle on Princes Street I wis dowpit doon in an Embro café, As ye dae, aroon three in the eftirneen, Fin wheech cam a tram, like an electric eel A miracle o modern engineerin A bumbazement. A stammygasster. A whigmaleerie Nae a trick o the licht It wis a clear day, ye ken. A wumman nearhaun near chokit on her scone This tram wis the first o its breed tae skyte ablow the Castle Eftir a brakk o fiftyseeven years Ooto ma left ee I luikit at a Windae Display In a gran shop fur Embro's genteel market Twa mannekins stude wi their claes aroon their queats As nyakkit as fin plastic first produced them Their glaiss een glowered at the tram as it sliddered alang On its vergin shottie o traivellin An I's warrant ane o them winkit at the driver!