The Storm Nursery (27 Scots Poems)

1.Things I didna Bring tae a Simmer’ Day I didna bring the queen o Sheba’s girdle I didna bring Harpo’s Marx’s funny hat I didna bring the mummy o a bog-chiel I didna bring a wee tinnie o waes I didna bring a maypole ringed wi skulls I didna bring a Zulu’s sprootin neb- hair I didna bring a reid pot quaetly plottin I didna bring an orchard breirin hairts I didna bring a thong studdit wi comets I didna bring a merle wi alopecia I didna bring a greetin droonin whale I didna bring Yuletide in a pink tea cosy I didna bring ten widwasps an a clarsach. 2, Tint Ferlies Alang the wye I tint ma faither’s watch Alang the wye I tint a dother’s hairt Alang the wye I tint the Crack o Dawn That rises in the glen far langins stert Alang the wye I tint a glimmrin loch A mavis wheeplin in an eildritch den Alang the wye I tint the thochtless joy That gangrel tods, smaa birds an fishies ken 3.The Pen The pen can cut ben laneliness The dirgefu rigs o nicht The pen can bigg a crucible Tae haud the hairt’s delicht A listenin lug, an open mind Aa these the pen can be A balm, a bield, a coonseller Fur aa infirmity 4.Murdered Quine Her breists are nyakkit tae the win On a rose buss back o slum, a birdie Is clearin its mornin thrapple East o the railwye line The lipsticked glaiss in her flat Is twa days stale Her blin een offer their juice Tae a droothy craa Her luck run oot fin a punter Lowsed her black shift Wi a sherp blade An a lang intakk o hate Sune her edges will blur Her ootraxed shanks will wummle inno the girse Her wyme will reinvent itsel as fogg Her rigbane be fite chukkies in the rain 5.The Abandoned Monster I’m an abandoned monster, naebody wints tae ken A silicon snoot an a heid o tin, I’m heavily intae Zen I’m an abandoned monster. Tho I stamp, leak ile an skirl Or clank ma teeth, the quines in Leith, they dinna lowp nor skirl I’m an abandoned monster, recycled frae a skip I canna rin nur flee nor sweem...bit watch yer dowp. I nip. 6.Heinemann Maths Takk twa wee swifties Divide bi seeven gloamins Add ae glede. Foo mony feathers Flichter doon tae Loch Voile? 7.The Sumph In Scotlan, heid bangers an numpties May darken yer day wi a grumph Bit save us frae gypes o first order Thon maist Scottish o gomerils, the sumph At wirk, ye’ll be deaved wi heid-bummers Fa’ll load ye wi pyoke-fus o bumph Bit the stang o the trump is the scunner The warst o them aa, that’s the sumph Fate biggs up yer cairds tae the ceilin Syne caas them aa doon wi a whumph An ye girn an deave aa till their murnin Gweed-sakes...ye’ve turned inno a sumph! 8.Variation on a Wird Suck. Suck suck. Suck suck. Suck suck. Thon’s whit I think o ye, ye suckers Suckin succubus. Sucker Suck suck.. Suck suck.. Suck suck. Suck. There. Is thon succinct eneuch for ye? Conseeder. Am I a poem? 9.Ghaists on a Swing Gowd’s the breem unner the unripe gean The hingin luggit harebell’s tashed an wae Her leaves are turnin doon, her oor is dane Daith an life in the mids o a simmer’s day Rasps are hard green beads bi the mappie’s hole In the dyke wi the mossy face an the ferny shawl A teem swing hings frae a bough far the linties flit As the ghaists o ma bairns’ bairnhood come tae sit I watch ilk ane as niver I watched afore Bit the past’s ower late tae mend, a snibbit door Breem, harebells, linties, swing, bairns an masel A hunner years frae noo, will be the stoor itsel 10.The Reengin Speerit Ma speeit has nae hoose nor hame, nae place o habitation It lues the lilt o loch an tarn the treisurs o oor nation Ochon ochre the Bens are sweet in fair or stormy weather It’s tae the glens I set ma fit, Balquidder’s pearls o heather Ma speerit has nae hoose nor hame nor place o habitation It’s sib tae fur an wing an fin a nippick o creation Three Scots Owersetts o Poems frae the Inglis 11.Saint Francis an the Grumphie (Saint Francis and the Sow: Galway Kinnell) The bud Stauns fur aathin, Even thon ferlies that dinna flooer, For aathin flooers frae inbye, o self-blissin Tho whyles it’s necessar Tae larn the thing again its bonnieness Tae pit a haun on the broo O the flooer An retell’t in wirds an touch It is bonnie Till it flooers again frae inbye o self blissin As Saint Francis Pit his haun on the wrunkled broo O the soo, an telt her in wirds an touch Blissins o yird on the soo, an the soo Stertit myndin aa doon her creashie streetch Frae the dubby snoot aa the wye Throw the maet an saps tae the speeirtual curl o the tail Frae the hard jobbiness stobbin oot frae the rigbane Doon throw the muckle brukken hairt Tae the braw blue milky dwaumieness spirkin an judderin Frae the fowerteen teats inno the fowerteen moos sookin an Blawin aneth them The lang, perfeck bonnieness o the soo 12.Her Kind (Her Kind: Anne Sexton) I hae gane oot, a possessed witch Hauntin the blaik air, braver at nicht Dreamin coorseness, I hae dane ma turn Ower the ordnar hooses, licht bi licht Lanely ferlie, twal-fingeret, ooto mind A wumman like thon isna a richt wumman I hae bin her kind. I hae fand the hett caves in the wids Stapt them wi skillets, carvins, trays, Presses, silks, umpteen goods Cooked the suppers for wirms an feys Girnin, rearrangin the ooto line A wumman like thon’s mis-unnerstude I hae bin her kind I hae hurled in yer cairt, driver Wyved ma nyaakit airms at clachans, hudderie Larnin the last bricht wyes, survivor Far yer lowes yet bite ma hurdies An ma ribs crack far yer wheels wynd A wumman like thon isna affrontit tae dee I hae bin her kind 13.The Beeriet Burn (The Buried Stream: James K. Baxter) The nicht oor cat, Tahi, fa lately tint Ae eebroo, skirls in the buss wi anither cat Oor glaiss Tibetan ghaist-trap has catched nae ghaist Yet, bit tinkles hung in the alcove abeen that We varnished an gart grow. Daftly, I hae read Sartre on imagination- unca dry, unca French An auld tyke wi souns in his heid Fa dreams the hunt is stertit, yet fears the stench O action- he larns us that human chyce Is gey rare true, or kind. My bairns are asleep Somethin dirls in the kitchie. I hear the vyce O the beeriet burn that treetles deep, deep Ben caves I canna enter, fas watery rope Rugs ma divinin rod wi the habit some caa hope. 14. I hinna supped the wine that Auncients made Owerset o ‘I had not tried the Wine the Ancients Made.’ By Osip Emilevich Mandelstam I hinna supped the wine that ancients made, An hidna heard the tune Ossian did keen; Sae foo, on Eirde, dae I hauf see the glen, An, in the lift - the bluid-reid Scottish meen? An the ower-caa o corbie an clarsach I faintly hear, ben seelence, fu o fricht, An, spreid bi wins, the yuletide worsit plaids O knights are glimmrin in the reid moonlicht! I hae received the blissin tae inherit Anither singer’s iver reengin thocht; For kin’s an neebor’s speeritual merits We’re free tae like or tae regaird as nocht Nae jist ae lanely treisur, I jealouse, Gyangs doon tae granbairns an the wider clan, Again a bard will auncient sangs compose, An, as his ain, he’ll spread them ower the lan 15. The Fiddler’s Son: For Roderick Anderson, born April 2010 Oh April’s bonnie bit cauld, The Spring has fairly begun An Morven hill has mist on tap, An sae Cromar is in for a drap An the fiddler’s gotten a son The hares hae taen tae their heels, The poacher’s oot wi his gun An aa he wints is ane for the pot, Tae pye the price o a poochfu o shot An the fiddler’s gotten a son The buds they brier on the tree, The daffies brakk throw the grun The parks aa hae a skiffin o green, The lammies lowp frae morn till een An the fiddler’s gotten a son The birdies nest in the wids, Their mates they’ve coortit an won Bit still they hae their eggies tae hatch, Wi twigs tae gaither an snailies tae catch An the fiddler’s gotten a son The swalla’s hame frae afar, Nae mair oor shores she’ll shun The bluebells nod ower burnies an braes, The aipple blossom sweetens the days An the fiddler’s gotten a son 16. American in Embro For Dana Linnet It’s in the Sunday Times, it’s official, historic The American consul in Scotlan is learnin Doric Already, she spikks Italian, Estonian, Swedish German, Norwegian, Danish, French and Spanish Bit noo, she’s taen tae hairt the lingua franca The ochs an achs an ayes o Caledonia George Washington on her waa luiks doon on her dug Her Westie, Jake, dowped doon on the consul’s rug Sivven hunner American firms in Scotlan pye the wage O ten per cent o Scots o wirkin age Sae aren’t ye gled an American’s grown euphoric Aboot gowf, an Westies, the Scottish fowk, an Doric! 17.Merch on a Sunny Day The traffic stops tae the dunt o the piper’s drum A quine wi her jaa gaun sidewise chawin gum Watches. Her tattooed beau at the bagpipes skirl Rattles his i-pod, drooned oot bi the dirl Bit yet they staun wi the lave on Union Street Fan the sodjers merch, an commerce an courage meet Fin a war brakks oot, fitiver the richts an wrangs o’t There’s aywis a body somewye kens the stang o’t Sae be’t frae a cripple’s wheelchair or the mools The anes fa canna merch are the city’s jewels 18. The Turra Coo: Tune: The Ball o Kirriemuir In the Boggieshalloch studio, a bovine star wis born It is bronze frae hoof tae udders, sae it’s easy on the corn Chorus: In the byre, on the plinth, in the jungle or the zoo There’s nae a finer beastie than the famous Turra Coo Awa in ancient Egypt, the Pharaohs biggt a Sphinx Wi limesteen an a chisel an a hairdo fu o kinks etc The Bible tells the story o a gowden bull caad Baal He wis meltit doon fur bracelets afore he wis ten days aul etc Gin the Turra coo should staun in an election as MP She micht win a place in parliament an niver tell a lee etc Oh ye’ll fin her on the internet frae Tarves tae Peru Or on Facebuik swappin stories wi a yeti or gnu etc Her fame has spread like wildfire aroon ilkie park an barn Fur she niver takks mastitis nor draps a pick o sharn etc 19.Fiddler’s Welcome Fiddle tune: I’ll ay caa in by Yon Toon Yer welcome aa tae oor toon Frae roon the North Atlantic oh If fiddlin is yer fancy An sets yer fit a-tappin oh There’s Delta Blues, there’s cloggin steps Flat fittin, jig an hornpipe oh Strathspeys an reels an learnèd schpeils Will set yer hairt a racin-oh Far roots an routes cross ower It’s guid tae tryst wi friens again Wi a favourite dram foregaither Wi a Scot or Appalachian If capercaillie’s yer delicht Or gin it’s Norwey cuddy oh We’ve ceilidhs, ploys baith day an nicht Will gar ye aa feel frisky oh 20. Three Minstrels There were three minstrels in the North fa chased the star o fame They aa set aff tae tour the touns an bring the siller hame They hired a cuddy strang an dour. Its hooves war strippit blue Wi orange spots alang his flanks, an mane o mirled hue Tae bring the siller hame, the first, cross legged, declaimed a sonnet He strummed a mandolin and wore a yalla luggit bonnet The secunt minstrel wore a hat Napoleon micht hae donned He played a flute an traivelled licht the quicker tae abscond Should some puir glekit groupie o himsel grow ower fond The third sat on the cuddy’s dowp. A coolie’s hat o strae Gaed him an oriental luik o Bangkok or Cathay. A braw rosette abeen his briest, green bows upon his sheen An skyrie braws an fey gee-gaws made him as gay’s a Queen. A muckle larry flegged the shelt, wi tootin horn an stoor An aff alang the motorwye at saxty mile an oor The cuddy raced. The minstrels three fell aff intae a sheuch A ratten, keekin frae a drain cried ‘Showbiz can be teuch.’ Neist day they aa agreed tae pairt, cryin ‘eneuch’s eneuch.’ 21.The Simla Teapot The auld wife, hirplin an hippit, Will hyter up tae the table Hyocherin an pyocherin A rochlin hoast in her kist Man flees tae the meen Clones yowes, breeds rams in tubes Dichts oot hale touns wi ae bomb Bit canna recycle auld age Its sairs, its craikin jynts Its rinnin doon Tae the mools o crockanation Like a connached clock Maybe she’ll reincarnate As an English rose Aa that’s left o her youth’s Her Indian teapot A giftie frae her da Hyne back, in British Simla 22. Doggie Heaven There wis a wee dug frae Dundee Had tae fecht fur a tree-tunk, tae pee It sat doon on an adder Which pysoned its bladder Noo its pishes are quite Heivenly 23.Celtic Connections A wife frae the Welsh Eisteddfod Wis invited tae sing at the Mod She left oot her washin. A fisher said ‘Smashin I’ll takk doon her drawers tae catch cod! 24.The Broonie frae Banff A Broonie frae Banff tuik the jitters Fin glowered at bi touristy critters If they cam frae Auld Rayne, he wad seldom complain Bit fowk frae the Broch gaed him skitters 25.Auld Glower-owerum Auld Glower-owerum sits in a neuk His thochts are clarty as sharn His neb’s preened teetle the windae pane For sklaik is his hale consarn His lug is keepit hard tae the grun There’s nae ill-tricks gyang by him Pit houghmagandie ooto yer heid Ony pairs close by he’ll spy them His jaiket’s chittered, his collar’s blaik His breeks are stiff wi yird His sheen are bauchled, his shanks are bood Like a brig, or an ill-rowed gird Auld Glower-owerum’s foonert an auld As the Hills o Birse itsel Ye speir gin his life’s bin gweed or ill There’s his ane name-plate in Hell The quines he bladdit an left tae greet He niver gaed love nor fee He wis quick tae birz an quicker tae leave Fur spunk’s gey chaip tae gie A swick an a randy aa his days The Deil takks care o his ain Auld Glower-owerum’s laith tae dee Tho he hisna a sowel tae sain! 26.Midgies I wannert oot, I wannert in...a midgie bit me on the chin I wannert up, I wannert doon...a midgie bit me on the croon I clartit potions tae bumbaze the midgies...sae they bit ma taes They gar ye daunce the midgie polka...unless ye wauk oot in a burqa 27.A Ferm has a Bow an Arra as its Merk Owersett in Scots o a poem bi Olav H. Hauge I hae daith in ma pynt Ahin gutsy barbs Sings the arra I sen the arra Frae the string Chitters the bow Fa pus the bow If nae masel, The strang airm? Fa fand the bird, Aimed the arra? Speirs the ee I raxx the airms I guide the ee Quo the will Takk aim, lat lowse! It’s ma pyson that kills Fuspers hunter’s virr Thon bird’s mine I see it aften Remynds the dwaum An the bird vanishes On blate wings In the derk wid