Scots Poems From The Hanged Cheil

The Hanged Cheil We'd barely bin a month in oor new hame Lang eneuch tae ken the neebor's son Tae see, an winner foo he wauked alane He sat himsel tap o the girsy hill Dreich chiel, he seemed tae be the fae o fun Makkin o dowieness his greatest skill Ae day a skirl raise throwe the hoosin scheme A mither's skirl, fa's fand her nest undone Her laddie deid, a sicht best left unseen We larnt he'd bin engaged, the waddin booked The flat new mortgaged, the lease had begun She'd cheenged her mind, an aa their ties unhooked He'd climmed intae the laft, knottit a noose Wi towe an lat it throw the trap door run Tied it aroon his thrapple, this recluse Lowped doon tae teem air, swingin ower the drap Leavin this warld, oor neebor's auldest son A jilted luver, the noose stopped his sap They say she heard the creak, luiked up tae see The sicht nae mither wid forget, forgie The quine fa tipped her laddie ower the edge Fa bruk his hairt an their betrothal pledge The Scythe Spikks Oot The silk haired girse Sweys swippert as ballet dauncers Faist as simmer lichtnin I swype them doon Like madame la guillotine Wheech, I slice clean as a fussle I bring rest tae the corn Cut aff in its gowden glamourie In the hauns o ma maister, Daith Hale generations vanish Aneth ma blade Deeside as Cuisine Aiberdeen scurrie breists in brine Finzean fudge Abyne troot wi byled Birse piz Ballater salmon on a bed o blaeberries Balmoral butteries wi royal jeely Inver poached grouse in cranberry sauce Braemar wud Ben thyme salad At the Hinmaist Trump Will breets rise ooto the stoor, as weel as fowk? Will herds o kye an bison, nowt an yowes Rise bullerin an snortin, grumphin an baain Ooto the yirdy mools, frae killin hoose an howes? Will the wids be riven asunder Tae lat lowse millenia o tod an hoolet Brock an deer an bear, in the steer o rikk an thunner? Will the lift be blaik wi birdies Shag an wirms, whaup an yalla yeitie? Will moosies poor in trillians ooto the grun Wi kittlins, chukkens, futterats, an scurrie? Will the air be chokit wi midgies Glegs, gollachs, the urban an the rural Bees, wasps an sic like winged smush Risin like Lazarus, pairt o a miracle? Hale galaxies wid be nott Tae hoose the sodjers frae countless wars Ilkie battle iver focht As mony as heivens stars Dinosaurs, wooly mammoths, saber toothed tigers Fit a stramash, fit a stooshie, fit a melee! Teemin ooto the seas an continents Muckle whales, an dodoes o rareity! Faither Faither smelt o leather, heather, peat Mornins he wid dunk his heid in the sink Soapin his lugs, his bald pate, neck an oxters A razor scraped aff stibble blaik as ink Airmed wi a screwdriver, he mendit fuses Whyles he tuik his shotgun frae its case Cleaned an iled the barrels shone like jewels As gweed's a keekin glaiss its metal face He drave us tae the Bens roon Ballater Oor picnics taen in hyne aff secret glens Tae reenge the muirs an watch the ernes furl Heich in the lift, that the lane sclimmer kens He teemed the moose traps, kept the watter rinnin Stude on a shoogly laidder, papered waas Squashed wyvers fin I skirled tae see them creep I wis his princess, he'd aye fecht my cause He niver feenished larnin, readin buiks An wound the clocks tae keep things punctual His nails wir clean, held perfect fite hauf meens Turned blaik as pairt o Daith's coorse ritual I Gie Thanks Fur the lowe that lowps reid-hett in the hairth Fur the burn that breenges bonnily unner the brig Fur the threips o birdies that greet the brakk o day Fur the bawd that bides on the emerant green lea-rig Fur the cat that purrs an dwaums in a sunny neuk Fur the dyew that draps frae the trimmlin rose's lip Fur the teenie emerteen on a swatch o girse Fur the derksome loch far the drouthy reid deer sip Fur the poppy brichtenin the simmer sheugh Fur the meen that sails ben the silken oors o nicht Fur the snail that slidders alang an auncient waa Fur the hairst moose chitterin, cooryin ooto sicht Fur the lammie's baa an the dubby yowe's roch bleat Fur the oceans teemin wi tribes o glimmerin fish Fur the puddock hirplin ower the peat bog's bree Fur the sheltie shiftin flees wi a horsey swish Fur the fite faced hoolet huntin the starnie howe Fur the snaa that fitens the breist o Lochnagar Fur the wattergaw, the mist an the hurlygush Fur the gowden barley brierin roon Cromar Fur the salmon slidderin doon a Heilan linn Fur the erne that furls roon the touerin ben Fur aa things Natur has vrocht an freely gien Tae sweeten life in the warld o mortal men Fin the Muse cams tae Veesit Fin the Muse cams tae veesit Fling doon the tattie parer Kick the cattie ooto the cheer Steek the buik an clear the brod Lock oot ony incamers The Muse winnae allow fur ony stramash Bit His ane He's nae smaa ding A pouerfu incamer He disnae wyte fur invites Takk my advice Sheet the person frae Porlock! Wyin the Hairt Tae Auncient Egyptians the hairt Wis the body's michtiest organ The ticket tae the Efterlife The passport intae Heiven The "wyin o the hairt" wis the tellin ritual First aff sowels o the deid traivelled thegither Tae the Haa o Maat, led bi the god Anubis Tae wye each hairt agin the wecht o a feather. Gin yer hairt wis wechty wi guilt Ye wir deleted foriver, tae Naethin-ness The god Thoth screived the verdict in his buik Yer hairt wis etten bi Ammit, a "gobbler" goddess. Sae fur ilkie ill ye dae, makk siccar that ye Dae twa gweed deeds, think on Eternity Cosmic Consciousness I tell Mormon cold callers I'm nae here Big questions hurt ma harns an sae I lat Fey repons gar them shift, makk sure they steer I see the speeritual in starnie-licht The win that shakks the corn, in things new born. The hoolet's wing beats in the pulse o nicht. An whyles I disappear intae the day Mell wi the wids, becam the Aa-in-ane A drap o watter in the lochan's spray. Fur aathin's linked, the stane, the flooer, the tree The tinklin bell, the thunner soun we hear Impermanence in perpetuity Daith is a cheenge that's ordnar, nae tae fear Ballater Brig The brig o Ballater kens mony Sizzens Its colours reenge frae peat, tae skinklin snaa It aye stauns stinch ben blin drift an mishanter It bides the same, throw history's cheengin times Its colours reenge frae peat, tae skinklin snaa Luvers tryst bi meenlicht on its arch It bides the same, throw history's cheengin times Green Coyles o Muick are in its wattery sichts Luvers tryst bi meenlicht on its arch Derk Lochnagar luiks ower it frae the clouds Green Coyles o Muick are in its wattery sichts Aneth, bairns paiddle far the salmon lowp Derk Lochnagar luiks ower it frae the clouds The brig o Ballater kens mony Sizzens Aneth, bairns paiddle far the salmon lowp It aye stauns stinch ben blin drift an mishanter Doric Owersett o Ooka Makoto / 大岡信- III Flame's Song Fin Man cams teetle me he skreichs in fleg bit I dinna ken whether I'm hett or cauld because I dinna bide in the same airt fur even a meenit an the me o a meenit ago is nae mair I aywis depairt bi burnin I staun agin derkness yet it is tae derkness that I maun gae back Mankind is feart o me because I'm aathegither selfless: fur rizzons unkent tae me I eidently bring masel tae trees, paper, an human flesh tae touch, straik an owercam them aa an I will dee wi their aisse the skreichs o fowk touchin me shaw tae me foo the frienly feelins I haud fur them mystifee them Doric Owersett o The Greatest Love bi Anna Swirszcynska She is saxty. She is livin the greatest luve o her life. She wauks airm-in-airm with her dearie her hair blaws in the win. Her dearie tells her 'Ye hae hair like pearls.' Her bairns tell her: 'Auld gype.' Doric Owersett o "Five minutes after the air raid" by Miroslav Holub In Pilsen, twinty-sax Station Road, she sclimmed tae the third fleer up stairs that wir aa that wis left o the hale hoose, she opened her yett full on tae the lift, stude glowerin ower the edge. Fur this wis the airt the warld eyndit. Syne she luikit up cannily lest somebody chore Sirius or Aldebaran frae her kitchie, gaed back doonstairs an sattled hersel tae wyte fur the hoose tae rise again an fur her man tae rise frae the aisse an fur her bairn's hauns an feet tae be stuck back intae place. In the mornin they fand her still as stane spurgies pykin her hauns. Doric Owersett o I lost my identity card bi Yehuda Amichai I tint ma identity caird. I hae tae screive oot ma curriculum vitae aa ower again fur mony offices, ae copy tae God an ane tae the deil. I mind the photie taen thirty-three years back at a win-scoored neuk in the Negev. Ma een wir prophets syne, bit ma body hid nae idea fit wis happenin tae it or far it belanged. Ye aften say, Thon is the airt, This happened richt here, bit it's nae the airt, ye jist think sae an live in error, an error fas eternity is greater than the eternity o truith. As the years gae by, ma life keeps fullin up wi nemmes like abandoned graveyairds or like a daft history class or a telephone buik in a fremmit toun. An daith is fin somebody keeps cryin fur ye an cryin fur ye an ye nae langer turn roon tae see fa it is