Steens (27 Scots Poems)

1.Steens A steen on an Anstruther beach Wizzened bi tides an winters Alpha an Omega o its ain weird Fuspers till itsel, a steekit shell Aince, I cairriet a steen up a heich Ben Conquerin it, as I thocht, Roosted crampons litterin its braes Eenoo I hear it lauchin in its corries I’d fooner gin I tried tae sclimm its foun Some-like thon beardie chiels at the wersh Pole Heistin a flag for Britain, afore their daiths. Druid steens abeen ma gransire’s ferm Steepit in starns an meenshine Staun as a portal, drooked in eirdly dwaum-licht 2.Tree Plantin, for Manjusvara A flute wis played aside the wids Far prayer flags flichtered in the breeze The reedy sabs upon the air, Melled wi the birdsang in the trees A howp o yird wis howkit oot Mools-like, aside a clorty hole An there a sapling wis set doon New life, the sizzens cloor tae thole An we stude roon kirkyairdie-like Myndin on ain fa lued this airt An voiced oor myndins tae the glen There, in the mids o its green hairt A puckle stood, a whylie quaet, An dowiie- like they drapt a tear Bit ye war wi us in thon wye Ye hid o bringin sense an cheer I think ye lued the flute play best Thon day we laid the past tae rest 3. Flegs A regatta o dyeuks, the rowan aneth the meen Ken nae fear o the derk Nor dae the deid fa lie in the mools in their timmer sark Nor dis the fite-faced hoolet wingin doon frae his hoose Wi a wheech an a stooshie o wings Dingin the pech frae a moose 4.The Welcomin Local Ye can spot the toorists hereabouts nae bother Chips ‘n ice cream, thon is aa they ett Aiberdeen ye come frae? Cauldest hole on earth Ye hae ma sympathy Callander’s braw, ye think? It wis, tll the social spyled it Ferryin oot the hameless Tae stap the B ‘n Bs Still ye canna blame the hoteliers They’ve tae makk their siller somewye Jist you watch yer purse That’s aa I’m sayin. 5.Bus Tour, Inverness- John o Groats At the station, a teethless schizophrenic Gies a langamachie tae the unlistenin lug o mornin A rant tae an inveesible congregation A weel-read chiel, his een Follae the prent on the newspaper His lips aywis moothin a kirn o styte Trudy frae Texas has trailed her loon alang ‘What else is there to do for godsake Herbie! ’ The rain trinkles sidiewyse doon the panes The driver’s hair’s peroxide à la Calgacus Fingers bestudded wi rings, oorie an Gothic Post Celtic punk The guide, Catriona, is nat’ral straaberry fair New oot o a gym slip. Ae skweejee tooth, Nae makk up, hair dreepin doon ower her left ee We leave the Heilan capital, passin Thon weel kent Scottish eateries, The Indian Ocean Restaurant An the Route 66 American diner Tae cross the Kessock Brig on the Moray Firth Biggt tae withstaun an earthquake Vrocht as it wis, on the Great Glen’s muckle faut line Bottlenose dolphins dinna jink in public Glowm in happit fathoms, sleekit-like The Black Isle breenges on us, a bleeze o hinneysuckle Reid kites, re-introduced, we’re telt, frae Scandinavia Furl by banks o breem, gowden an blythe Catriona gars us takk tent tae a sanbank Aneth the Cromarty Brig, far seals lie sprauchled Like creashie Brits beached oot in Benidorm Ower the intercom, the driver’s Glesga burr Spirks inno life. Here’s Balnagowan Hoose The Scottish seat o Mohamed Al Fayed His tutor telt him Egyptians discovered Scotland Fusky’s mair tae the current driver’s likin Tain, he says, distils Glenmorangie malt King James IV cam here tae auld St Duthac Kirk As penance for his pairt in his faither’s murder Noo we enter the Clearance Lan o Sutherland, Here, sheep tuik precedence abune the crofters Fifteen thoosan forced tae leave their hames Mist haps the shame o thon coorse dispossession At Helmsdale, a statue o The Emigrants Honours the fowk fa fled a Duke’s brutality, For the wersh realities o a life in exile Howkin hames in Canadian winter snaas Their torn reets bleedin memories an banns Helmsdale, airt o the gowd rush, far, we learn, A chiel panned jist eneuch for a waddin ring Wee clachans aince war a bield for the herrin gutters Back in the glut o heavy wechted nets The day, the dowie corn is drooked wi rain, Boos, tashed an sypit, nearhaun weet eneuch For a shoal o Neil Gunn’s bonnie siller darlins An hinmaist, Johnny Groats. The Lanely Planet Caad it ‘a seedy tourist trap’, this winner o The Carbuncle Award for the dreichest neuk in Scotland. Jan de Groote, a Dutchman, sterted the ferry Wi the blissin o James IV. Fowerteen ninety sax an still it’s here Somethin maun be richt or twid be gaen. 5.Kennin The mist that bides in the corrie’s briest Kens nocht o the wyes o men The skreichin moose in the midgied girse Kens less o the tod’s deep den Secrets keepit an secrets happt Whyles better tae be unseen The moose wid niver steer frae her nest Gin she luiked wi the hoolet’s een. 6.The Following Poems are Scots Owersets of Japanese Tankas Kiyowara no Fukayabu 10th century poet In the simmer nicht, While the gloamin still seems here, Luik! the dawn’s arrived. In fit neuk o the clouds Has the traivellin meen sattled? Fujiwara no Okikaze 10th century, poet and politician Far then are they noo, In ma auld age sae far ben I can haud as friens? E’en Takasago's pines Arena friens of yestreen. Tenchi Tenno (628-681) , Emperor Roch the segg-mat reef Happin the hairst-sheilin O the Autumn rice-park; - An ma sleeves are growin weet Wi the watter dreepin throwe Kakinomoto no Hitomaro 660-739, Ochone! the fit-draan trail O the Ben-pheasant's tail Booin like doon-curved branch! - Throwe this lang, lang-trauchelt nicht Maun I bide beddit alane? Sarumaru Dayu, poet active 708-715 In the Ben’s deep founs, Stravaigin throwe crammosie leaves, Skreichs the wannerin stag. Fin I hear the lanely roar, Dreich, - foo dowie, is autumn 7. Advice the Warld gied me The fir tree telt me tae sink deep anchored reets The rose buss telt me tae hap ma flowers wi thorns The watter telt me tae saften ma rims an edges An whyles, tae lie like a puil Watchin the lift wi an ee as clear as glaiss The vole, deid on the road Like a cowped black velvet purse Telt me I’ll lie as still as her Fin the Sizzen cheenges The cloud that cairries the rain, Telt me that I’m nae mair nor less Than a skirp, a spirk, a dot In the blawn win. 8.Harebells Nae harebell can balance the buiks Nae ane can shee a shelt Bit atween the dowie firs The time atween mornin an nicht They shakk their trimmlin heids Sae braw sae blue Cowpin their thummles o scent In the widlan air Meanwhile, the heron stauns like a caunle Watchin fur flames o fish 9.Midnicht Thochts Aa nicht whyle I sleepit Ma harns hae bin oot on the prowl Like huntin cats Bringin hame triesurs o bluid 10. Opium Quine: Owerset o Die Opiumraucherin (1926) Bertolt Brecht She’s rattlin wud tae chase the dragon’s rikk Her days are nichts, her gloamins, a black-oot The hookah’s an exhaust pipe in her moo She wadna ken gin fate sud stub her oot Her heid’s near baldie. She is gaun tae wrack She canna see herself as ithers micht A moose-wabbed blob-heid in the keekin glaiss She thinks she isna seen, a total sicht Her ain doonfaa, it disnae gar her stop Naeb’dy will miss this smack heid fin she’s gaen Her helpin haun’s the heroin she takks The wyte is hers, aa hers, an hers alane 11.The Taed: Eftir Tristan Corbière (Le Crapaud,1873) Yers is a fooshtie nicht sang Tae the meen’s siller cauldron (howked oot frae uneirdly yird) Hunkered, on-gaun parp parp Risin derk frae the tarn Far dae ye bide in the day? Sheuch lintie, doon-cast bird Like a bard stukk fur a wird Grindin his teeth, I delicht In yer pyocherin clear- In o the thrapple. ‘I’m here Aneth a stane. Sae, gweednicht! ’ 12. The Pipe: Eftir Charles Baudelaire I’m the pipe o the ootlinned poet The cruddiness o ma dowp, is a thochtie Like the first wife o a Hottentot. Nae doot it shows he’s unca fond o me I’m the licht o his life fin dule laps roon him Puffin rikk like the lum o a crofter Fas meat’s on the byle Hame, eftir a day’s wirk on the yird I’m a cweel puff, fas furlin rikk Birls a cirrus o ether tae coddle him Fin he’s bythesome he blaws a ring Ma moo o fire is blockit frae his thochts Sae he can bask in the caimbed guffs comin Bibblin oot the stem, sae we’re at ane. 13. Lessons See thon wee fishie there Faither tells dother Pyntin oot troot In the skinklin watter Twa eenies keek As the fins gyang skytin Ferlie o winner’s The reward for wytin 14.The Poser On fower inch reid stiletto heels A fantoosh coiffured wumman Hyters ooto a Trossach humphy pathie Dug lead in ae haun Pyoke o keech in the ither. 15. Setterday in Callander Sunlicht dapples the dyke A bletherin bairn babbles alang like a burn Blin-fair, blink bonnie an blythe A heron steeps its taes in the river’s mids Its lang raxxed craig glower-owerin in the seggs Gowans an buttercups skinkle on ferny braes The wagtail flicks his wee dowp up ‘n doon Like a smoker tappin the ash frae his burnin fag 16.Nemo me Impune Lacessit Thrissles in coorse or fair weather Are thrang wi thorns an spit The hurcheons o the plants, Like schiltrons o Bruce’s airmy They brakk through cracks in stane Fin the sun teets throwe the wid They kittle up, like seannachies eftir a ceilidh Takkin a mornin dram Braid shoodered, sonsie, fearie Yer sheughside thrissle’ll teir yer queats An shanks fur the pure hell o’t Nae a single pacifist amang them 17. The Cannie Slugs The slug powked oot her hornies Saw a wirm atween the girse She bedd ahin a thissle For fear twis somethin wirse Takk tent should be her motto Brocht up cannie, unca guid She mind’t me on ma mither Saw the trees bit nae the wid 18. Nigredo/Albedo Ma kinsman, a meenister, saw signs an veesions His fermer forbears risen frae the yird Troopin in, undeid in his kirk frae their laigh pew Ma mither’s ghaistly faither Stude at her bedhead ae hale nicht afore an operation There in the derk like a caunle licht o wunner Aince, bi the river bank, fin sun an leaves Melled in a shimmer o sunspirks I jyned the cosmic daunce, deid tae the bouns o eirdly Flesh an bluid. An oh, thon taste o the Aa in Ane wis guid! 19. Schemies Some fowk bide in schemes Wi £10 short fur the leckie Wi dug keech ower their trainers Wi thon etten an spewed luik Wi a sister on speed an smack fa’s up the duff Wi twa bairns fostered oot Wi lassies wi barbit weer tattooed on breast Wi peroxide grannies spray-tanned tango orange Wi windaes boordit up An ithers dinnae 20. Vanished A swift flew into the space between two clouds Then vanished like the mandolin I lost Like my friend who’d eaten the Blarney Stone And washed it down with a flagon of Glenmorangie Like the flute-man walking his tune across the horizon Like the heartbeat of a home where love has died 21. Blue Boat A blue boat sits on the loch A painted island The only traffic’s a crow Crossing a cloud Two wrens shuffle A pack of rustling leaves 22. In the Temple of the Air Six books unopened on a coffee table Two sliced ripe lemons glistening on a plate A soup of insects hatching in a pond A vixen sniffing round a compost heap A cuckoo hijacking a thrush’s nest A gate that opens on a winding path 23. Hercule Poirot: A fictional Belgian detective created bi Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot, like HP sauce Brocht a savour tae aa he did His daith wis merked in the New York Times Queer, for a body fa niver lived Five fit fower wi a heid like an egg A mowser shaped like a blaik bow tie Struttin in patent leather sheen Pince-nez perched on his een tae spy Ony wee facks, an he’ll sniff them oot Like a truffle hog, ill deeds he smells He tracks crime doon bi Psychology Vive Poirot an his wee grey cells! 24. Nicht, Ballater Wheesht. The corn is swyin aroon Tulloch In the bottle green parks, in the nae-yet ripe time Fowk sleep like cowpit dominoes in the clachan Minnie the fruit seller, fa guffs o paraffin an carbolic Snores in her flannelette goun, her mou ticht As a walnut shell, her auld chest whizzlin Simmer thunner rummles atween the Bens On Nell’s tea caddy the meen lichts on a jumbo Gowd an blaik. The flooers hae steekt their petals Like virgins hochs. Wheesht. Third day’s broth ferments in Annie’s pan Donald the roader keckles in his sleep. Ma Gordon’s washin skelps aneth the starns Like bats on their reest. The Dee Skinkles ower pebbles roon as Sabbath peppermints Thirty-steen Jeannie glowers at the tickin clock on The mantle, like a trauchelt coo dowped in the hett ley Wheesht. The aiks on Craigendarroch are newsin O tods an ernes. The hoolet, wi its muckle een Sits on the hinges o a branch. The midnicht puils Are hotchin wi fern-tickelt troot. In sty up Gairnside Squallichin grumphies sook their midnicht feed In moosewabs an shaddas. The nicht air’s warm On the greenin gravesteens, ower by the brig far Chuckens sleep on their eggs, a lid o feathers The frienly knowes, gweed neebors, niver Wrang-fit each ither. Wheesht. In meenlicht gairdens, veggies swall Like yeast. In Rosie’s wyme anither sodjer’s bairn Begins tae growe. Larick an birk showd saftly, Green an dwaumin 25.The Little Maid o Norway The little Maid o Norway Her faither’s favourite flooer Wis delicate’s the violet That dwinnles in an oor Her faither wis King Eric A Norseman, kind and gweed Her mither, deed in childbirth Wis Scots, o Royal bluid Her gransire Alexander’d Sent nobles ower the tide Tae ferry his ain dother Tae be the Norseman’s bride Bit on the hamewird journey Frae Eric an his wife The ship sank sailin hamewird Each Scots Lord tint his life Drooned nearhaun Aberlour In fifty fathoms deep The Scots lords met their Maker An wi the fishes sleep Ootower the cliffs at Kinghorn King Alexander fell Cowped bi his rearin stallion Doon tae his sair daith-knell The little Maid o Norway Noo, becam Scotlan’s queen The English Lord, King Edward Pit forrit, syne, a scheme His son an heir Prince Edward Wad wed her speedily Bit laith wis gweed King Edward His dother tae owergie Twa Scots lords war despatchèd Sir David Wemyss wis ane The tither wis Sir Michael Scott Wizard o micht an fame The little Maid o Norway Wis cairriet tae the stran At eicht year auld, lamentin Lost faither’s luv, an lan A stormy ocean crossin Wi hairt-brakk’s ill tae bear An as the boat reached Orkney The Maid wis stricken sair The Bishop Narve o Bergen Spak prayers ower her heid Sir Michael Scott the wizard’s Black Airts brocht nae remeid The little Maid o Norway She deid within the day Quittin this warld o Sorras Wi Heiven’s host tae play 26. The Auld Man o Hoy The Auld Man o Hoy Fowk climm tae the tap Syne turn roon aboot An climm aa the wye back 27.The Swilkie Whirl Puil Aff the pynt o Stroma, in the Pentlan Firth Furls the muckle Swilkie, faist, for aa it’s wirth The Icelan fowk’ll tell ye, it hauds a muckle quern Stown frae the great King Frodi, that caused the thief tae murn Stown bi the sea-king Mysing..his boat sank wi the wecht It’s neth the watter grindin sea-satt for aa it’s wirth Thon’s foo the sea is satty, it’s auld King Frodi’s quern A-grindin satt foriver, far tides thegither kirn