Scots Poems From Doppelganger

Medusa Ma frien Medusa Canna dae a thing wi her hair. Spikk aboot bed-heid! At least she niver gets nits Aabody freezes fin we Wauk intae a pairty Her, wi her heidfu o snakes Aa hissin Medusa's mair deid-locks than dreidlocks I say tae her, ‘Medusa Fin ye come oot wi me Could ye please weir a hat? Comforters Fin aa the quines in ma class got Got Valentines, I niver got ane I gaed tae the Holburn Café insteid, Bocht a knickerbocker glory. It cam in a lang glaiss like the neck o a swan Stappit wi ice cream Fruits, a daud o meringue An a wee umbrella an a cherry on the tap Better than ony daft Valentine Fin I wisnae chusen fur the daunce team, I chored a tin o condensed milk frae ma's pantry Ett it aa in a wonner, beeriet the tin in the gairden an wis seek Eftir oor tyke dug it up. ‘A cliver tyke that tae open tins, ' ma said Giein me the evils Fin I scored 10% at maths An aabody lauched an caad me a muckle gype I bocht a chippie pyoke an slaithered it wi cheese At least I could coont the siller needit tae buy it Obituary for a country bus Far dae the deid bits gae? The brukken glaiss- Dis it gaud memories o Crashes, storms, romances, The condensation on a stormy nicht Wartime assignations? The waukwye, dis it myne The dunt o tackety sheen The skreich o stilettos The clunk o climmers' buits? The seats, dae they mynd The spreid o a ferm wife's bihoochie Like butter on a hett scone The dried -pee breeks o a loon on the wye tae skweel? Frae sodjers, Canadian loggers Frae hens in cages Frae coffins in the boot Frae skiiers, towrists, an bikers RIP auld bus. May yer chassis be recycled. The Yuletide Wreath Did ye unsteek the kirkyaird yett last year Tae lay the Yuletide wreath on vanished kin? An did ye dauchle fur a whylie there The holly on the wreath sherp on yer skin? A peety that the deid aneth the mools Bide seelent-Nae ae wird o comfort's spakk Ye stude alane wi myndins, blythe or wae Pykin the scurl o murnin an hertbrakk Nippicks o snaa come flichterin frae the lift The grun wis iron hard. Nae birdies flee The derk fell early- time tae turn awa As ye gaed hamewird, did ghaists follae ye? The Great Tarland Mail Bag Robbery of 1866 Ae wintry Thursday mornin, upon the turnpike road A mile an a hauf frae Tarlan, there wis a robbery Nearhaun the ferm o Strathmore, a place weel tae be seen James McConnach, wis confrontit bi some coorse sculduggery McConnach wis post rinner twinty five year wioot faut Till echt hunner an seventy echt pun it wis rypit frae the mail On his daily wye frae Tarlan, echt am as ordinar Tae reach the Abyne station far the siller gaed bi rail At Strathmore he met a couthie chiel he didna ken ava They fell tae newsin blythly till the stranger flang him doon An rived the mail pyoke frae him, an tae Tarlan toun ran aff McConnach gaed tae Strathmore, wi the fermer tae commune John Craib syne telt his servants tae sikk oot the rypit pyoke Nae syne o siller registered bi Mr Ross the banker Neist Mr Grant contackit coonty police as faist's he could As did befit his duty as the Tarlan toun postmaister They arrestit James McConnach, an the polis cheil as weel Geordie Milne, fa wis awa frae hame fin summoned tae the case Bit his alibi wis suspeck as he cudnae pruve at aa Far he'd bin fin missin fae his post at ony ither place Noo James wis liberatit, an Milne wis held fur trial A young chiel twinty sax or seven an affa weel respeckit At the Circuit Coort, he stude aa day, till echt o clock at nicht Nae Pruven wis the verdict, nae at aa fit wis expeckit Lord Ardmillan wis the circuit judge, an didna tell the jury That Geordie's alibi didnae haud watter…jist a lee The judge noo, wis he bribit? Wis he dottlit? Wis he raivellt? Fitiver…on Nae proven bein fand, set Geordie free In Memoriam, Andrew Philip Watt In Fadlydyke, an honest man Wis dominie an fermer He wis heid o the Philip clan A kindly host, nane better This New Deer Watt, a patriarch Guid shepherd o his flock Across the braid Atlantic He kept coont o his bluid stock Thon sheep that wannert far an wide His Scots diaspora He kent their roadies hyne aff in The States an Canada A tattie roguer in his youth At barley growth, a maestro He kept his yowes weel fed an hoosed At lammin, a supremo The loom o life is puirer far As Philip's threid unraivels Murned bi his bairns, granbairns an friens Aff on his hinmaist traivels An he'll be missed across the globe Far he touched mony a hairt Fin Daith as is his cruel wye Gars man frae life tae pairt A Tale for Bairns: Dougie the Yuletide Deer The widlans were steerin, for Yuletide wis near The maist speecial date in the hale o the year Oh Dougie, the birdies speired up in the glen Fit will you be daein tae celebrate then? He hung doon his heid as he answered them aa I'm nae daein onythin, naethin ava Next day, a young family wauked ben frae the snaw An cut doon a fir tree tae decorate braw And ithers cam gaitherin berries wi holly Tae hing on their doors, makk their hames tae luik bonnie As Dougie luiked on, wae that he hid nae pairt In aa this excitement, foo heavy his hairt! As up frae the clachan raise smells o fine fare An roastin o bubblyjocks, dumplins….fit rare An lauchin o littlins, aa lickin the speen O mincemeat fur pies, sic a blythe cheerie scene! The Sunday Schule bairns frae the ferm drave the breets Fur the Kirk's ain nativity, rosy chikkt geets A yowe an a cuddy, a dug an a coo Bit naebody socht Dougie- ‘We're nae wintin you.' Puir Dougie crept aff in the cauld an the snaa Nae ae place in Yuletide fur him, nane ava Bit syne, fa wis this ski-in faist tae his hame Wi a beard lang an fite, an a suit reid as flame? It wis Santy! Puir Rudolph wis doon wi the flu He coudnae dae naethin bit hoast an achoo Wid Dougie staun in, fur the puirly reindeer? His puffed oot his breist an cried ‘Santy, I'm here! ' He hidnae a reid snoot, bit ontae his heid Santy plunkit a torch, faith twis aa that he'd need An thon is foo Dougie saved Yuletide for aa Deliverin gifties tae bairns big an smaa! As Dougie flew by, like a fowerleggit bat The deer wi the torch an the warm beanie hat Twa Doric Limericks In the North East o Scotland oor leid Is Doric, the spikk o oor breed We say fit fan an far In the street, bus an bar The wirds frae the hairt an the heid There wis an auld wifie caad Jean Bedd in Seaton in Auld Aiberdeen Fin St Machar's bells rang Wi a terrible clang She nearly lowped ooto her sheen. Views frae a Scottish Castle It wis a scene frae the deidlangsyne Thon tint waa-ed gairden, Its green wauks happit Frae clachan an kirk. An, ayont it, the castle, Secret, ae windae lichtit I winner fa aince luiked oot? Wid they draw the shutters Wid they steek the yetts Tae haud me oot? In the gloamin, oot in the cauld Fa disnae lang fur the safety O basic wints: heat An a bield, an a place tae lay yer heid? The Limmer Fin I wis a young bit limmer A fiddler I thocht tae wed Or a piper tae keep me dauncin Aff tae the waddin bed His een wid be green as elf locks His hair wid be blaik's the puil At the fit o the linn's doon-drappin Intae its watter creel His broo wid be fair as Morven Fin the sun reests on its tap An I'd purr like a pettit kittlin Fin ma heid lay in his lap We'd sit bi the hairth thegither Twa hairt beats jyned as ane An the glens wid ring wi oor lauchter Throw sunsheen sna an rain Oor bairns wid be blythe an bonnie Aa this I dreamt an mair Fin I wis a young bit limmer Wi ae fit on life's lang stair The Eildritch Neuk The eildritch neuk wis hidden bi sauch an birk Keepin itsel at the hairt o the glen like treisur Mair haly tae me than ony temple or kirk A natural watter slide…a lang steen chute Happit bi moss, green, sliddery an sloken Gently drappin watter intae a crystal puil Naethin inbye this bield wis hurt or brukken Its reef wis dapples o sun an flichterin leaves Amber an skinklin like a fairy's wings Wir its peaty waves, lichtit bi diamond glents Myndin on it, my very breist-bane sings Gaia's letter to humankind Dear Fowk, Dinna cam tittin at ma peenie strings wi yer ‘sorry ma, I didnae mean ony herm.' Ye kent fit ye wir daein wis wrang. Bit thon's ye aa ower. Me! Me! Me! Niver a thocht fur yer brithers an sisters, the breets, the trees, the lan, the sea, the air. Ye wir the brainy ane an aa. I sent ye plenty o warnins….tsunamis, hurricanes, floods, covid, wildfires. I even stertit meltin the poles. Weel, ye made the soss, ye can redd it up yersel. Or it's curtains fur aabody. Noo get ooto ma face or ah'll Armageddon the lot o ye.' Yer scunnert ma, Gaia Scots Owersett of To Know the Dark by Wendell Berry Tae gae intae the derk wi a licht is tae ken the licht. Tae ken the derk, gae derk. Gae wioot sicht an fin that the derk, itsel, briers an sings, an is traivelled bi derk feet an derk wings. Scots Owersett o There is a Field bi Rumi Oot ayont thochts o wrangdaein an richtdaein there is a park We'll tryst thonner. Fin the soul lies doon in thon girse the warld is ower fu tae spikk aboot. Scots Owersett o The Guest House bi Rumi This bein human is a guest hoose. Ilkie mornin a new incomer A blytheness, a dowieness, a meanness, a wee awareness cams as an unexpeckit veesitor. Walcom an entertain them aa! Even gin they're a boorich o sorras Fa forcie-like swype yer hoose teem o its gear, still, treat ilkie guest honourably. He micht be clearin ye oot fur some new delicht. The derk thocht, the affront, the coorseness, meet them at the yett lauchin, an sikk them in. Be gratefu fur faiver cams because aa hae bin sent as a guide frae ayont. Scots Owersett of Ah, not to be cut bi Rainer Maria Rilke Ah, nae tae be cut aff Nae throwe the slichtest partition shut oot frae the law o the starnies. The inner—fit is it? if nae intensifeed lift, flang throwe wi birds an deep wi the wins o hamecamin. Scots owersett of Cattie's Dream by Pablo Neruda Foo snodly a cattie sleeps, Sleeps wi its paas an its posture, Sleeps wi its coorse cleuks, An wi its unfeelin bluid, Sleeps wi aa the rings— A heeze o brunt cercles— That hae vrocht the fey geology O its san-coloured tail. I wid like tae sleep like a cattie, Wi aa the fur o time, Wi a tongue roch as flint, Wi the dry sex o a lowe; An efter spikkin tae naebody, Raxxin ower the warld, Ower reefs an lanscapes With a passionate langin Tae hunt the rattens in ma dwaums. I hae seen foo the cattie asleep Wid rowe, foo the nicht Flowed throw it like derk watter; An whyles, it wis gaun tae faa Or mebbe dive intae The bare teem snaadrifts. Whyles it grew sae muckle in sleep Like a tiger's great-granfaither, An wid lowp in the derkness ower Reeftaps, clouds an volcanoes. Sleep, sleep cattie o the nicht, Wi Episcopal ceremony An yer stane-carved mowser Takk tent o aa oor dwaums; Control the obscurity O oor sleepin virr Wi yer relentless hairt An the muckle ruff o yer tail.