Scots Poems From Kye Gaun Hame

The Gecko Inbye a Buddhist Temple by the Kwai Wi fitewashed waas. A Budddha. Simple shrine Cweel, shady, yalla flooers in a pot Twa incense sticks, I watched their rikk entwine A gecko in the seelence catched ma ee It didnae girn aboot the incense scent Thon Asian gecko, seemed tae unnerstaun That ritual, tae some, wi mantra blent Makks it seem sweter. As I sat alane I thocht that in the West, jist ae complaint Means ither fowk maun boo doon an kowtow I thocht thon gecko maun hae bin a saint On Keepin a Stag Fin I wis wee I ained an inveesible pet A Royal stag, wi boskers o antlers He follaed me hame frae the Heilans Intae the stoory toun. I wid watch him in oor spunk box o a gairden Pawin the grun afore the peony roses Vauntie. A bobbydazzler o a breet A stammygaster Like me he missed the freedom o the Bens The gairden grippit him in Inbye he grat, because he couldnae rin Ae day he vanished, maun hae lowped the yett Takkin ma young hairt wi him back tae the heilan air The muir, its burns, the ferns Tae bide aneth the sun, the mune, the starns Ghaists I wauk ben streets an luik ahin the waas. I think upon the ghaists o fit's dinged doon The orchards, ferms, the pleisunt wids an braes The ghaists doon trodden bi the growin toun Far aince ma great gransire kept dairy kye On parks o girse an clover, roamin free Noo stauns a schule, a librar boorded up A shut-doon kirk, puirtith fur aa tae see I steek ma een, an thon tint kintra rises It haunts the cassies, shops, graffiti-scoored Ghaists canna rowe back time, tae sweter days Aa harbours cheenge an Time canna be moored The Aiblich Bampot, bauchle, bawheid, boozer A carnaptious, glekit minger He's a feartie, gomeril, gowk Numpty, nyaff, a plookie scunner A radge, a sumph, a shilpit tumshie Dis his mither ken he's oot? A face like a skittery hippen Wi a tongue wid clip a cloot Ma Faither as a Coal Scuttle Ma faither wis the fuel that hett the hoose Solid an siccar, faimily wis his aa Fin he wis hame, the warld wis couthie, crouse Nae maitter if ootbye wersh wins should blaw He gied his life tae keepin aabody safe Thon sookit aa the smeddum frae his sides The hungered flames ett up his inbye virr The fuel that wis ma faither cheenged tae aisse Language Event: Doric Owersetts of Questions & Answers, (independent of meaning) between Suzanne Muzard & Andre Breton (Surrealists) Fit's a kiss? An incoherence. Aathin faas doon Fit's daylicht? A nyaakit wumman dookin at nichtfaa Fit's rapture? It's a drap o ile in a burn Fit are een? The nicht watchie in a perfume factory… Fit's a bed? A fan faist opened. The soun o a birdie's wing Extract from A Pindaricque, On the Grunting of a Hog: Samuel Wesley Owersett in Scots Rev. Samuel Wesley, Sr. (1662-1735) , British, ordained minister of the Church of England, rector of the Church of St. Andrew, Epworth in Lincolnshire, father of John and Charles Wesley — founders of Methodism — and the author of a variety of religious treatises, as well as poetry. Musical grumphie come! Nae bluidy butchers here, Ye neednae fear Musical grumphie come! An frae yer bonnie snoot We'll lippen wi oor lugs Like yers cocked up devout; Tae taste yer douce-like voyce, that here an there, Wi wanton birls, stouns roon the cerclin air, Musical grumphie! sing some anthem oot! As swete as ony chitterin monks langsyne Wi us did roar; fin they alas, That the hard'hairted abbot sic a soun should keep, An swick them o their first, their swetest sleep; Fin they were joggit up tae midnicht Mass: Foo shoudnae ither grumphies organs play, As weel as they? Dear grumphie! king o meat! Sae near tae Lord Mankind, The nicest taste that ony o's can find! Nae mair may I yer glorious gammons ett! Nae mair, Snap up frae the free fairmers Christmas store, Black puddens which wi creash made moos rin ower: Gin I, tho I should ne're sae lang afore the sentence bide An in ma great lugs scale, tho ne're sae canny weigh, Gin I can fin a difference in the notes, Riftit frae the lauded thrapples O rotten play hoose sangsters-aa-divine, Gin ony difference I can fin atween their notes, an yours A soun they keep wi tune, an ooto tune, An roon, an flat, Heich, laigh, an this, an thon, That Algebra, or ye, or I micht understan as sune. Like the kerfuffled lutes innumerable strings, Ane o them sings; Yer easier music's ten times mair divine; Mair like the ae stringed, deep, majestic trump-marine: I prig ye strikk up, cheer this dowie hairt o mine! Nae the swete harp that's claimed bi Jews, Nur thon which tae the far mair auncient Welsh belangs, Nur thon which the wud Irish use, Frichtenin even their ain wolves wi loud Hubbubbaboos… Nae aa this instrumental daur, Wi yer saft, ravishin, vocal music ever compare. Doric Owersett of What is Life? By John Clare An fit is Life? An oor-glaiss rinnin doon, A mist that dwines afore the mornin sun, An eident, steerin, aft-repeatit dwaum. Foo lang? A wee devaul, a meenit's thocht. An Blytheness? Jist a bubble on the burn, That in the act o grippin crines tae nocht. An fit is Hope? The huffin gale o morn, That o its cherms rives dyew frae aff the girse, An reives each flooer o its gem -an dees; A moosewab happin disappoyntment's thorn, That stouns mair sair inbye the thin disguise. An fit is Daith? Is still the cause nae fand? Thon derk an oorie nemme o ugsome soun? A lang an drawn oot sleep the trauchelt seek. An Peace? Far can its blytheness be aa roon? Naewye at ava, bar heiven an the mools. Syne fit is Life? Fin strippit o disguise, A thing tae be much socht it canna be; Since ilkie thing that meets oor glekit een Gies pruif eneuch tae shaw its vanity. It's jist a trial that aa maun undergo, Tae larn unthankfu mortals foo tae prize That blytheness vauntie Man will niver ken, Until he's caaed tae claim it up in heiven Doric Owersett o Vacation by William Stafford (1914-1993) Ae pictur as I boo tae poor her coffee: - Three Indians in the plottin drooth Coorie at the mools howked in the graivel, Raxx intae the win as oor train wheechs by. Somebody is gaen There is stoor on aathin in Nevada. I poor the cream. Doric Owersett of Far Away by Ruben Dario: a Nicaraguan poet who initiated the Spanish-language literary movement known as modernism that flourished at the end of the 19th century. Kye that I saw in ma bairnhood, as ye rikked in the burnin gowd o the Nicaraguan sun, there on the growthy fern, fu o tropical music Doo o the wids that sang wi the soun o the win, o aixes, o birds an wud bulls: I salute ye baith, because ye are baith ma life. Ye, wechty coo, mynd me o the douce daybrakk that caad the kye in tae be milked, fin ma life wis aa fite an rose; an ye, curmurrin doo o the Ben signifee aa that ma ain springtime, noo sae hyne awa, ained o the Divine Springtime. Doric Owersett o Nuns Gae Waukin; bi Aldo Palazzeschi (Florentine poet and novelist who made distinctively whimsical and ironic contributions to crepuscolarismo (The Twilight School) and Futurism) The wee kirks wauken in the hauf licht Slawly, the nuns cam oot an wauk ower the brig Fite nuns, blaik nuns, greetin Ane anither, booin doon Ane afore the ither, veesitin Ane anither's kirks, prayin Waukin back ower the brigs Aince mair, the greetin, ane tae the tither Booin, blaik an fite nuns Slidderin by each ither in the gloam In the hauf licht, in the gloamin F.T.Marinetti: A Lanscape Heard, Radio Sintesi (Italian Futurist) The fussle o a blackie jealous o the spirkin o a lowe eyns up bi droonin at the sklaik o watter 10 secunts o lappin 1secunt o spirkin 8 secunts o lappin 1 secunt o spirkin 5 secunts o lappin 1 secunt o spirkin 19 secunts o lappin 1 secunt o spirkin 25 secunts o lappin 1 secunt o spirkin 35 secunts o lappin 6 secunts o the fussle o a blackie Doric Owersett o Nicht Café by Gottfried Benn (German Expressionist) 824: The Luve an Life o Weemen. The cello sups a faist dram. The flute rifts ben three beats: his tasty evenin snack The drum reads on tae the eyn o the thriller. Green teeth, plooks on his face, wyves tae pink ee. Ile in his hair spikks tae open moo wi swallt tonsils, faith hope an charity roon his thrapple. Young goiter is swete on saddle-neb. He stauns her three hauf pints. Sycosis buys carnations tae pacifee double chin. B flat minor: sonata op.35. A pair o een skreich oot Dinna haive the bluid o Chopin roon the cafe fur these fowk tae plyter aboot in! Hey, Gigi! Devaul! The yett dwines: a wumman Desert dried oot. Canaanite broon. Pure. Full o caves. A scent cams wi her. Scarce a scent. It's anely a swete raxxin forrit o the air agin ma harns. A creashie scunner hyters efter her. Doric Owersett of Extracts from Night Suite for Pianos & Poet's Voice by Federico Garcia Lorca Prelude The bull Slawly Steeks his een Hett in the stable Prelude tae the nicht In a Neuk o the Lift The auld Starnie Steeks her trauchelt een The young starnie Wints tae peint the nicht Blae In the fir trees on the ben: Fireflees Doric Owersett o Secret by Pierre Reverdy, Surrealist The teem bell The deid birds In the hoose far aabody is faain asleep Nine o'clock The earth hauds itsel still Ye wid say somebody maened The trees luik like they wir smilin Watter trimmles at the tap o ilkie leaf A cloud gaes ben the nicht Afore the yett a chiel is singin The windae opens sounlessly Lucy She sprauchles on the duvet An cocks a lippenin lug An scrats her chin wi flechin paws Like an auld strippit rug Aa nicht ye hear her skreichin Tae fleg incomers aff An catches moosies in the derk Scaled bluid, their epitaph Bi day her prey's the birdies Five robins she has killt Her ordnar diet's spurgies She snaps them up. Nae guilt She's couthie an hame-drauchtit At three am she's in The cat flap clicks, she's paddin Upstairs tae makk a din Her cleuks teir at each bedroom Bit whyles, she brings a moose Sae aa oor doors are steekit She draps an lats them lowse A cat's a perfeck pettie Ye neednae takk it wauks It keechs far naebody sees it It miews like a chatterbox Crossin the Styx: Fit's inbye Queen Victoria's Kist Victoria cam tae cross the Styx Wi a cast o Prince Albert's haun An ane o her husband's dressin gouns An their marital rings gowd bands A cape vrocht bi deid Princess Alice A photo an hair o John Broon Victoria's lace fite waddin veil Her jewels, wi gems set roon She wis beeriet wi rings on ilk finger, Bracelets alang her wrists, Her thrapple wis layered with necklaces. Scots heather aside her neives The Sun King The Sun King stepped up tae the throne at fower Takkin the sun as his symbol He lued ballet dauncin an billiards as weel Fowk staunin afore him wid trimmle Twis said that the cheil in the iron mask Wis his brither, jyled in the Bastille Fur gin yer a king, it's an onchancy role Sa yer kin should be grippt in wi steel Doric Owersett o Green Groweth the Holly by King Henry VIIIth Green growes the holly, Sae daes the ivy. Tho winter blasts blaw ne'er sae heich Green growes the holly. As the holly growes green An niver cheenges hue, Sae I am, iver hae bin, Untae ma leddy true. As the holly growes green Wi ivy aa alane Fin flooers canna be seen Aa greenwid leaves be gane, Noo untae ma leddy Promise tae her I makk, Frae aa ither anely Tae her I me betakk. Fareweel, ma ain leddy, Fareweel, ma speecial ane Fa has ma ain hairt truly Be sure, ye iver shall. Facks aboot Henry VIIIth Henry the 8th had mony wives Tae sax wives he wis waddit Ae deed an ane survived Twa divorced an twa beheidit (traditional) Henry VIIIth wis a collector Horses, wives, braw palaces Siventy ships, five sets o bagpipes Tae heist his royal status Hunners o haunguns Henry kept A virginal, a rowth o flutes Recorders, tapestries, claith o gowd An weel he played the lute Syphilis, diabetes, Insomnia, migraines Spyled the joust an reined him in Bi rotten ulcers, slain An aa the murderet monks he'd killt Cried up frae oot the mools Fit wirth's a King's repute an nemme That's biggt on nocht bit jewels? Dirty Bertie, the Caresser 5 meals per day, (aa 10 course meals) Cigars an luves a-plenty Affairs wi Lady Churchill, Alice Keppel, Lille Langtry The Uncle o aa Europe Anti-racist, a peacemakker Fur aa his fauts, fowk lued him weel O pleisurs a partakker Kye Gaun Hame: inspired by The Return of the Herd by Pieter Brueghel the Elder The cheengin sizzens rule the lives o kye Dreich days o Autumn drive them inbye byres Ooto the jeelin weet, blin drift an cauld The herdsmen caa the fattened breets afore them Doon frae the simmer grazin on the bens Alang the dubby wyes they skyte an slidder Derk clouds blaw seenister ootower the lift The chitterin trees are nyaakit, leaves hae drapped Simmer days on dyewy girse hae dwined Fermers' Daunce: Inspired by Peasant Dance by Pieter Breughel the Elder Swete green leys, trees, hyne aff bens Bagpipe music kittles up the cweets The dauncers, clappin, dauncin A cheil brings wine in a jog Twa fowk kinoodle in a neuk Another pair are argyin ower a dram An aa the the whyle the music rules the reest Hurdies shakk, shanks lowp, The dauncers kick aff trauchles o the day Honest swyte an blytheness mell thegither The tunes ring oot like birdsang in the air The Hairst: Inspired by Harvesters by Pieter Brueghel the Elder Ferm wirkers lue the lan that they are thirled tae Ane depens on tither fur the hairst Pairt o the park is scythed. The sun beats doon Ben the corn a path wynds tae the clachan Hyne awa a road twines tae the toun Aside the toun, the herbour, leads tae The muckle whale road o the sea Twa birdies dive an flichter efter flees The day is plottin hett. It's wirkers' piece time They sprauchle oot aneth a muckle pear tree Their simple denner's breid, cheese, milk an fruit Ane o the hairsters snoozles in the shade Newsin thegither, couthie like, ferfochan A puckle weemen boo tae bunnle stooks