Scots Poems From Thursdays

Februar, The Garioch The lift is blae, the trees staun bare Their nails o buds are pyntit sherp The sheuchs are stappt wi weety leaves Yowes chaw the girse in gaitherin derk The mist lies wechty on the howes Grey hooses hunker cauldly doon There's dubs an glaur in kirned parks Far tractors flatten corn rigs' croon Deep in the win a chitterin bawd Lays back its lugs fin storms lower It's gloamin time, the deein sun Sees car lichts leam wi yalla glower The lift is teem. The birds are tint Frae eildritch rowans in the lan Nae cheerie cheep tae sweet the wids Aa's dour an dreich. Like ghaists trees staun Sydney Goodsir Smith (26 October 1915 - 15 January 1975 Whit o the Warks o Sydney Goodsir Smith A Lallans, poet, artist, dramatist? A michty screiver o the Scots Renaissance A pouerfu playwricht an a novelist Born in New Zealand, as a halfin lad Moved ower tae Embro wi his faimily At Oxford, studied History…wine, in France An practised Art in blithesome Italy His wirds ye'll find in mony skeely buiks Skail Wind, The Wallace, Under the Eildon Tree Carotid Cornucopius, Lines Review Kynd Kittock's land aired on the BBC The Grace of God and the Meth-Drinker's much lued The Wanderer, The Deevil's Waltz read weel So Late into the Night and Figs and Thistles An wirds on Robert Ferguson, puir cheil His drawins edited bi Chapman Press Orpheus an Eurydice, his poems, colleckit An mony screivins upon Scottish lear An ither buiks, wi doucest wirks, selecktit Ye'll fin his wirds set doon in Makar's Coort His banes lie quaet in cauldrife Dean kirkyaird Kent as ‘the kilted kiwi' or ‘The Auk' Kenspeckle body an a michty bard Scots Owersett o Twa Poems bi James Wright (1927-1980) 1) This bonnie wee life faas taes Touched the fite san frae san tae side Foo doucely naebody kens Creepit frae his alaneness, an dees Frae deep watters lang miles awa He wannert, luikin fur his name An aa he fand wis ye an me A faist life an a caunle lowe The day, ye arenae here I'm dowpit here in the ragin bell The toun o the deid, alane Haudin a wee teem shell I raxx oot an flick oot the licht Derkly, I touch his dweeble scars Sae hyne awa, sae perjink Starnies in a muckle heeze o starnies 2) Haein Tint Ma Sons, I face The Wrack O The Meen: Yule,1960 Efter derk Nearhaun the Sooth Dakota border, The meen is oot huntin, aawywe Deliverin fire, An waukin doon haufweys O a diamond. Ahin a tree, It lichts on the wrack O a fite toon Cranreuch, cranreuch. Far are they gaen Fa bedd there? Happit awa aneth wings An derk faces. I am sick O it, an I gae on Bidin, alane, alane, By the brunt silos, by the hidden graves O Chippewas an Norwegians. This cauld winter Meen cowps the inhuman fire O jewels Intae ma haums. Deid riches, deid hauns, the meen Derkens, An I am tint in the bonnie fite wrack O America. Naethin Bit Daith frae a poem bi Pablo Neruda There are kirkyairds that are lanely, mools fu o banes that dinna makk a soun, the hairt meevin throw a tunnel, in it derkness, derkness, derkness, like a shipwrack we dee gaun intae oorsels, as though we wir droonin inbye oor hairts, as though we lived faain oot o the skin inno the sowel. An there are corpses, feet vrocht o cauld an clorty clay, daith is inbye the banes, like a barkin far there are nae tykes, comin oot frae bells somewye, frae graves somewye, growin in the weet air like greetin rain. Whyles I see alane kists unner sail, embarkin with the pale deid, wi weemen that hae deid hair, wi bakers fa are as fite as angels, an thochtfu young quines merried tae notary publics, kists sailin up the vertical river o the deid, the river o derk purple, meevin upstream wi sails fulled oot bi the soun o daith, fulled bi the soun o daith which is seelence. Daith arrives amang aa thon soun like a shee wi nae fit in it, like a jaiket wi nae cheil in it, cams an chaps, usin a ring wi no stane in it, wi nae finger in it, cams an skreichs wi nae mou, wi nae tongue, wi nae thrapple. Hoosaeiver its steps can be heard an its claes makk a hushed soun, like a tree. I'm nae sure, I unnerstaun anely a bittie, I can hardly see, bit it seems tae me that its singin has the colour o weet violets, o violets that are at hame in the yird, because the physog o daith is green, an the luik daith gies is green, wi the penetratin weetness o a violet leaf an the dowie colour of wersh winter. Bit daith likewise gaes throw the warld rigged oot as a breem, lickin the fleer, luikin fur deid bodies, daith is inbye the breem, the breem is the tongue o daith luikin fur corpses, it is the needle o daith luikin fur threid. Daith is inbye the fauldin cradles: it spens its life sleepin on the slaw mattrasses, in the blaik blankets, an whyles breathes oot: it blaws oot a mournful soun that swalls the sheets, an the beds gae sailin towards a port far daith is wytin, rigged oot like an admiral. Idioticals Wioot wids, watter, flooers, natural ferlies Touns an aa inbye them Are idioticals…hotterels o soun an stramash The Japanee caa it Wid-dookin, Shinrin-Yoku Wauken ben wids, yer sheen Kickin the tatterwallops o leaves Bricht harrigals o Autumn Lippenin tae the leerickie-laricrichie Sweeshle o larick, rowan, birk The skreich o a collieshangie o craws Or keekin up at the shelts'-tails in the lift O a saumon gloamin The branches hung wi the perlin o dyewy moosewabs Evenin in Yule, in the queeriesome colours o cauld It's gledsome tae watch the burns Breenge heigh-ma-nannie doon the bens Scoorin panjotterls o leaves frae the puils sides Feelin the shmoodrichs o sna Faa saft on yer jeeled chikks Beowulf's Kistin: Owersett in Scots Syne the fowk o Geats vrocht fur him Stinch on the yird a kistin-bier, an hung it wi helmets an harness o war an breistplates bricht, as the boon he socht; an they laid amids it the michty chieftain, heroes murnin their weel-lued maister. Syne on the knowe thon muckle lowe waukened the warriors. Wid-rikk raise blaik ower bleeze, an blent wis the roar o flame wi greetin (the win wis still) , till the lowe had brukken the frame o banes, hett at the hairt. In dowie mood they maened their wae ower their maister's daith. Keenin her sorra, the auld widda her hair bun up for Beowulf's daith sang in her dule, an said fu aft she dreided the dowie days tae cam, daiths eenow, an the weird o battle, an shame. - The rikk wis swallaed by the lift The fowk o the Weders vrocht there on the heidlan a barra braid an heich, by sea-farers far descried: in ten days' time their darg had raised it, the battle-brave's lowe. Roun brands o the pyre they biggit a waa, the worthiest iver that wit could tryst frae their wycest chiels. They pit in the barra thon precious body, the rouns an the rings they had reft erewhile, hardy heroes, frae hoard in cave, - trustin the grun wi treisur o thanes, gowd in the yird, far iver it lies eeseless tae men as it wis afore. Syne aboot thon barra the battle-keen rade, athelin-born, a ban o twal, lament tae makk, tae murn their king, chant their dirge, an gie their chieftain honour. They reesed oot his earlship, his acts o pouer wirthily witnessed: an weel it is that chiels micht praise their maister-frien wi hairty love, fin syne he gaes frae life in the corp, forlorn awa. Aiberdeen's Braa! Tune: Bonnie Dundee Gweed fowk o the city the council agree Ye should redd up yer paths tae the umpteenth degree On a Setterday night fin yer oot on the spree Dinna fecht dinna cowk on the street dinna pee Chorus: For Aiberdeen's bonnie an Aiberdeen's braa Its fine granite hooses its seagulls anna Wi oor Tolbooth oor Toon Hoose oor gran Music Haa We're the Cock o the North sae let's up an let's craa! We're bilingual, Doric an English we spikk An we're cleanin oor toun, noo the lums dinna rikk If ye wint tae see history ye'd better come quick We're aa for the Future, malls rise brick bi brick Chorus Wi hae parks an museums an theatres as weel We win prizes for flooers in basket & creel The Dee & the Don ye can fish line an reel Wi hae twa universities, fegs, we're nae feel Chorus If it's dark up abeen luik for the Northern Lichts Or watch dolphins in herbour, a richt bonnie sicht Or tae Filthy McNasty's eat weel on cauld nichts At the Castlegate, rest, set the warld tae richts Chorus Oor kintra aroon is beloved o the Queen There's castles an mountains an golf courses green If yer swytin in Palma ye'll wish ye hae gaen Tae the fine bracin breezes o great Aiberdeen The Haar o the Sea The haar o the sea is the braith o the sea An the braith o the sea is cauld The haar o the sea, an the wersh sea bree Grey, grey, aa the sans enfauld January 2017 A cauld month, eftir a coorse year And thocht's a flee rubbin its hauns At the verra mou o Hades The meen floats in forgotten fitprents Mist creeps frae the deid ee socket o a craa Yird guffs o foosht, o damp, o dowieness O wirmy maggots, fite as leprosy Echt months tae the day I phoned ma son Far he lay in his chaumer three days deid The wikks are cauldrife noo I gyang throw ma wee daunce o leevin Like a stane, skimmed on a loch An yearn fur the hinmaist splash, Bringin reunion wi't, or annihilation Lament for a First-Born, Tint. Fin he wis young I tuik his haun An led him far the dog-rose grew He wis ma warld, an I wis his And whaups abune the heather flew I sat wi him, my kistit son Seelent, rowed in his windin sheet Grief roared inbye, a drumly linn Far sorra, guilt, an langin meet Craa will forsakk the bosky win The sea, shrug aff the leaden tide The bonnie Dee will turn tae bluid Afore ma son wauks by ma side Twa Brithers Ae brither bedd bi the Great lakes aneth rich maple trees Couthie, an leal an lovin, in the lan o the wolf an Crees Tither bedd in Sao Paulo, he claiked in Portugues His life wis hard an hurtit, ticht's the anaconda's squeeze An anew is blythe an couthie, born wrang side o the bed Tither wis born in wadlock, baith bi ae faither bred Music it wis their heirskip, twa sides o the same sword For ane lued kintra guitar, tither, the clavichord Nane iver met the tither, twa brithers neth the mools Seeds blawn across the oceans. Twa brithers, different rules Scots Owersetts by Sheena Blackhall of Poems by Jewish Poets Dahlia Ravikovitch (1936 - 2005) Mechanical Dallie An thon nicht I wis a mechanical dallie an I turned richt an left, tae aa the airts an I drapt on ma physog an brakk tae smush, an they vrocht tae pit me thegither wi skeely hauns An syne I gaed back tae bein a proper dallie an aa ma mainners wis cannie an compleeant. Bit by thon time I wis anither kind o dallie like a hurtit twig hingin bi a threid. An syne I gaed tae daunce at a ball, bit they left me wi a boorach o kittlins an tykes even tho aa ma steps wis meisured an patternt. An I hid gowd hair an I hid blue een an I hid a frock the colour o the flooers in the gairden an I hid a strae hat tappit wi a gean. The Windae Dahlia Ravikovitch Sae fit did I manage tae dae? Me—fur years I did naethin. Jist lookit oot the windae. Raindraps sypit inno the lawn, year in, year oot…. Yule an simmer cercled amang blades o girse. I sleepit as muckle as possible. Thon windae wis as big as it nott tae be. Fitiver wis nott I saw in thon windae. Testimony by: Dan Pagis (1930-1986) Na na: they definitely wis human beins: uniforms, buits. Foo tae explain? They wis vrocht in the image. I wis a shadda. A different Makker vrocht me. An he in his mercy left naethin o me that wid dee. An I flew tae him, raise wechtless, blue, forgiein - I wid even say: apologizin - rikk tae aa pouerfu rikk wioot makk or likeness. Instructions fur Crossin the Border: by Dan Pagis Makkie-on cheil, gyang. Here's yer passport. Ye arenae allooed tae myne. Ye hae tae match the pictur: yer een are already blue. Dinna escape wi the spirks inbye the lum: yer a cheil, yer dowpit doon in the train. Sit comfie. Yev got a braa jaiket noo, a sained corp, a new name ready in yer thrapple. Gyang. Ye mauna forget. Ma Faither: Dan Pagis The myndin o ma faither is rowed up in fite paper, like sannies taen fur a day at wirk. Jist as a magician takks touers an mappies oot o his hat, he drew luv frae his wee corp, an the burns o his hauns reamed ower wi gweed wirks. God takks peety on littlins: Yehuda Amichai God takks peety on littlins He peeties schule bairns - less. Bit adults he disna peety ava He affcasts them, An whyles they hae tae creep on aa fowers In the birsslin san Tae reach the dressin station, Rinnin wi bluid. Bit mebbe He'll hae peety on they fa lue truly An takk tent o them An gie them a bield Like a tree ower the dosser on the public bench. Mebbe we'll even spen on them Oor hinmaist coins o kindness Inherited frae mither, Sae that their ain blytheness will proteck us Noo an on ither days. Blue Bird: by Agi Mishol. (Romania,1946) On the kitchie coonter the goat-eed powser cairries a blue-feathered birdie already deid the beak still in a partan grip on a pomegranate twig ilkie ain o us hauds somethin in oor moos. Ma Dug Libby: by Agi Mishol. The auld dug his already forgotten fa she is. Canna hear, canna see, anely her snoot chitters at the dowp o a guff. She stauns in the mids o naewye like a stane, a tree a palin − canna hear, canna see her shanks already booin bit forgettin tae hunker doon. "Cercling, " quo the vet - Cerclin aimless, gypit, like humans he explains. The switch o her life is aneth ma finger bit I canna be sure whether it's she fa suffers or masel. Sae I jist straik her heid an gyang tae veesit the wumman fas life switch is aneth the finger o some ither body. Three Scots Owersets o poems bi Osip Mandelstam . Dinna Tell onybody Dinna tell onybody- Forget aa ye saw The birdie, the auld wife, the jyle, An ony ither ferlie Or as the day draws nearhaun An ye pairt yer lips The laigh chitter o pine preens Will owercam ye An ye will myne the wasp at the simmer-hoose A bairn's ink-clartit pencil-kist Or the blueberries in the wids That ye niver pued. Alexander Herzowitz Aince langsyne there wis A Jewish musician caad Alexander Herzowitz. He dichtit his Schubert As gin it war a skinklin jewel Frae morn till nicht He played withoot devaul Ae aybydan sonata That he'd larned bi hairt Isn't it derk ootby, Alexander Herzowitz? Gie it up[, Alexsander Scherzowitz Fit's the eese? Let the Italian quine Flee eftir Schubert On the nerra sled Ben the crunchin sna We're nae feart tae dee Wi the doo music An syne tae hing like a blaik Jaiket on the hyeuk Alexander Herzowitz, It's aa bin played afore. Gie it up, Alexander Scherzowitz Fit's the eese? Wee Starnie Ochone, foo I wish I cud flee alang a starnie's licht Unkent tae onybody Far I widnae be leevin at aa An ye, ye maun shine in a cercle There is nae ither blytheness An larn frae a star The meanin o licht It is anely a beam It is anely licht Because it has the pouer o a fusper An the warmth o mummlit wirds An I wint tae say tae ye That I am fusperin That I owergie ye, ma bairn Tae the starnie-licht wi this fusper Inglenooks, thin forest of souls in extremis Openness is key, unlockin the soaring clouds