A Matter Of Lunacy(Scots)

Foosht Ye think yer priceless wirds'll be aybydan? Dinna expose yer wirk tae watter or damp Dinna pit pressure on yer buikie's bindin Or it's tatties ower the side, like screiver's cramp Ye think yer priceless wirds'll be aybydan? Keep them ooto strang or ultraviolet lichts Dinna store yer buiks in derk, cramped airts Luik oot fur booklice, mould an fungi, mice at nichts I'll gie yer daithless wirds ten years at maist Aa thon hairt's deep ootpoorins aff yer chest An aa yer lifetimes darg, turned intae aisse Yer nemme a fitnote in the ongaun press Painting of The Tennis Party: Sir John Lavery Ye can smell the heat Cam rikkin aff the girse The swyte sypin aff the oxters O the competitors Fa'll win an fa'll be beat? The tennis players are weirin expensive gear Spectators watch frae the comfort o shaded trees In the still air clouds o midgies heeze Phut gaes the saft smack o the baa Aff the strings o the bat The players ower the net Tense, hochs grippit ticht A ripple o applause Greets a rinnin volley A sportswoman's hair hings Damp an lowse an floppy Portrait of a Hero: John Innes of Newburgh by James McBey He sits as still's a stane Like a daud o Nor East granite Inscrutable's a Sphinx He is weirin a blue fisherman's ganzie A wine reid neckerchief Derk bunnet, derk grey troosers He is brunt bi the win an weather Ruddy chikks, a neat trimmed mowser In his saxties, grey haired, An elder o the kirk Coxswain o the Newburgh lifeboat Fisher o men. Fit thochts Lie back o thon sky blue een? Sic fearsome tides he's seen! The deck o a lifeboat droonin Ower an ower As the sea like auld Poseiden Shaws its pouer Clachnaben, Glen Dye Wanderin willies brichten the sheughs Derk pink wyvin touers on trimmlin stems Gowd barley sheens an reeshles in the parks Aneth the Quasimodo o the Bens Clachnaben is caaed the deevil's bite Auld Clootie chawed a daud o knowe frae it It wis sae soor he spat the moothfu oot An that's the tor, a granite wart o grit. Fower times a year Blaik Sabbats were convened Colin Massie wis the warlock o Glen Dye Fa rode tae gaitherins on a muckle boar Tae Craiglash or Lumphanan, pouerfu, sly Thon days lang gaen, the glen o fowks near teem Noo butterflees an hairst mice full the scene The Murder o Murdoch Grant, pedlar,1830, Assynt In the spring o echteen thirty years, A pedlar chiel caad Murdoch Grant, Gaen traivellin throwe the heilan glens A place far he wis weel acquaint Twis there he met wi Hugh McLeod At lane Drumbeg, a dominie Fa socht tae tryst wi him the morn Tae see fit bargains he could gie The pedlar vanished. Fower wikks passed Loch Torr na h Eigen held the corpse And Hugh McLeod, announced t he daith Maun be an accident, of course The pedlar's goods were stolen awa His wardly gear, sae much he'd earn Kenneth the Dreamer's veesion saw The victim's gear aneth a cairn His dream wis true. The chiel'd bin robbed Fause Hugh McLeod hid left his schule Spennin ower free, tho unemployed His hame wis searched, that reiver cruel He hid refused tae touch the corpse Thon's superstitious styte he fumed Murdoch wis howked up frae his grave His battered body wis exhumed His skull shawed merks o haimmer cloors McLeod wis tried fur homicide An later hung near Inverness Cut doon tae be anatomized Afore he deed, he dreamed the ghaist O his auld faither pyntit, sly, An open coffin an a grave Tellin him there he sune wid lie An fin he wauked tae meet his eyn In Gaelic he sang haly psalms Until the hangman wi his noose Stoppit his singin, yark, mid cry Doric Owersett of a poem by Gensei 17th century Japanese Buddhist monk-poet: Poem Without A Category Trailin ma stick I gae doon tae the gairden edge, caa tae a monk tae gae oot the pine yett. A cup o tea wi ma mither, luikin at each ither, enjoyin oor tea thegether. In the deep lanes, fyew fowk in sicht; the tyke barks fin onyone cams or gaes. Autumn floods hae washed awa the planks o the brig; shouderin oor sandals, we wyde the nerra burn. Bi the roadside, a wee pavilion far there eesed tae be a wee knowe: it sains oor hermit mood; kintra poems bigg ae sheet on anither. I dabble in the burn, delichtit bi the shallowness o the watter, keek at the flags, admirin foo firm the stanes are. The pynt in life is tae ken fit's eneuch- foo envy thn itherwarld immortals? Wi the blytheness held in ae inch-squar hairt ye can full the hale space atween heaven an the yird. Doric Owersett o Quick and Bitter by Yehuda Amichai The eyn wis faist an wersh. Slaw an swete wis the time atween us, slaw an sweet wir the nichts fin ma hauns didnae touch ane anither in despair in the luve o yer body that cam atween them. An fin I entered intae ye it seemed syne that great blytheness could be meisured wi precision o sherp pain. Faist an wersh. Slaw an swete wir the nichts. Noo is wersh an grindin as san— 'Lat's be sensible' an similiar banns. An as we traivel farrer frae luve we multiplee the wirds, wirds an sentences sae lang an orderly. Hid we bedd thegether we could hae becam a seelence. Doric Owersett of the Apache Wedding Blessing Noo ye will feel nae rain, fur each o ye will be a bield fur the ither. Noo ye will feel nae cauld, fur each o ye will be warmth tae the ither. Noo there will be nae laneliness, fur each o ye will be frien tae the ither. Noo ye are twa bodies, Bit there is anely ae life afore ye. May beauty encercle ye baith in the traivels aheid an throwe aa the years. May blytheness be yer frien tae the airt far the watter meets the sun. An may yer days be gweed an lang upon the yird. Doric owersett of Gifts by Oodgeroo of the tribe Noonuccal (Australian Aborigines) I will bring ye luve, said the young luver, Pendants I will bring o the fite bane, An skyrie parrot feathers tae deck yer hair. Bit she anely shuik her heid. I'll pit a bairn in yer airms, he said, Will be a braw heidman, great rain-makker. I'll makk remembered sangs aboot ye That aa the clans in aa the traivellin camps Will sing foraye. Bit she wisnae impressed. I'll bring ye the still meenlicht on the loch, An rype fur ye the singin o aa the birdies; I'll bring doon the stars the lift tae ye, An pit the bricht wattergaw intae yer haun. No, she said, bring me tree-grubs. Doric Owersett of a poem by Anna Akhmatova He lued three things in life: Evensang, fite peacocks An auld maps o America. He hatit it fin bairnies grat, An I wis his wife. Doric Owersettin of The Sun is Setting/ The Moon Poem by John Clare The sun is settin. The dyews are weetin The girse in the lea an doonbye the green lane The clouds sail mair low an traivel on slaw Tae the tap o the knowe an ootower the main Leavin the hedges an busses full sune Tae the sleep o the nicht an the licht o the meen Alane in the gloaming far beauty is traivellin Alang the green lane bi the licht o the meen Wi bonny breist risin swete dreams she is wyvin In hopes that her luver may tryst wi her sune Boughs steer as a bird hashes intae its nest An the thochts o her luver lowp up in her breist. She passes the wud brier far booin the mild lug Tans broon fur the hairst that's aa mistit wi dyew The birds in the busses, leverocks in the seggs An the heich swatch o teazles an thrissles reid- blue. The sunset is haived tae the edge o the warld Like a millstane reid hett oot o nicht tae return Noo it waxes aa dim an its uppermaist rim Is aa that is seen o thon cercle o fire. The lassie wauks lanely wi her luve an that anely Delichtit wi meenlicht an shaddas o eve Nicht an day aa are brierin in natur an wumman Fur baith are truth's pleisurs wi naethin tae murn. Doric Owersett of The Vixen by John Clare Amang the heicher wid wi ivy hung, The auld tod plays an daunces roon her young. She sniffs an barks gin ony passes by An sweys her tail an turns set up tae flee. The horseman hashes by, she lowps tae see, An turns again, frae danger niver free. Gin ony stauns she rins amang the poles An barks an snaps an flegs them in the holes. The shepherd sees them an the loon gaes by An takks a stick an powks the hole tae try. They get aa still an lie in safety sure, An oot again fin aathin is secure, An stert an snap at blackies stottin by Tae fecht an catch the great fite butterflee.