The Arrival Of Thoughts Scots Poems Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Necrophiliac
Samuel Pepys gaed tae Westminster Abbey
Far his conduct fin there wis gey shoddy
As he stopped bi a Queen
He did something obscene
Fur it's orra tae kiss a deid body!


Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Drapt his poems aneth the grun
Beeriet wi his deid wife Lizzie
Poems in wae, tae jettison

Twa year eftir, murnin feenished
Back he cam an howked her up
(Poets think their wirds maist precious
Luve is bit a cover-up)


Spitalfields Wumman
She deed in her early twenties,
Beeriet in a ritual wey.
Her heid lay on a bowster o bay leaves,
Her corp, anyntit wi iles
Frae aroon the Arab warld an the Mediterranean,

She wis rowed in silk
Interwuvven wi fine gowd threid.

Thochties o a Tyrian poorpleblanket
Lay ower her kist.

This wis a quine born in Imperial Rome
As her teeth hae testifeed.
Five fit three, smaa boukit
Her makk wis gracefu's a dauncer

Beeriet ootbye the yetts
O the toun o Londinium
In a leid kist, patterned wi scallop shells an rope
Inbye a muckle stane sarcophagus
Braw ferlies o jet an glaiss encirclin her

A glaiss flask lay nearhaun her fur haudin wine
Wis she a devotee o the cult o Bacchus?
Did she daunce in the Dionysian Mysteries?

Noo she lies deep in a concrete bunker
Wi cardboard kisties, haudin banes
O mony fowk frae Lunnon's past
The thrum o traffic wheechin alang ootbye


The Weety Ballad
The rain cams teemin doon on the kirkyaird stanes
The bride is drookit steppin ontae the girse
The windae peens in the widdaes hoose are greetin
Like the murners huddlit aroon the wytin hearse
Raindraps stot aff the pumps o a Heilan dauncer
The pleats o his kilt like drainpipes dreep wi burns
In the beer tent a tenner taen frae a pooch is sypin
The brig ower the Dee luiks doon far the watter turns
Twa quines wring the weet frae their sypin hair
The rain stots aff a reef wi the soun o a drum
A skweelbairn unbuttons his blazer wi sliddery fingers
The sheughs rin derk wi yird in a city slum

Mons Meg in Embro fires in the day's doonpish
Yowes in a New Deer park coorie in like clouds
Cars skyte ower floodit roads wi a skreich o brakes
Fowk like fish near sweem in the watter's shrouds


Fit's in a Name?
Fit name did yer fowk gie ye?
Are ye a Jamie, a Mhairi, a Ewan?
Dis it suit ye, this name?
Fit's yer byname?
Teenie? Jug lugs? Fower een?
Fit's the REAL name o starnies,
The names the galaxies gie them?
Gin ye could wyle yer ain nemme
Fit wid it be?
Elf-lowper? Licht-walker? Ee-keek?
Nigerian names are winnerfu
Precious, Praise God, God's Gift
Tuesday, Simmer, Divine



Some fowk dinna gie their bairns a nemme
Jist twa initials: CJ, JD, AM.
Ither Scottish bairnies are caad Chardonnay
Seth, or eftir the latest pop/ soap idol

Spikkin o nemmes, maist merriet weemen
Takk their merriet surname.

I hae a screivin nemme,
A drawin/peintin nemme
Ma faither's surname
I wid hae likit a Buddhist nemme
Bit wisnae a signed up memmer o an order

Fin I lay in ma birth cot
Yalla wi jaundice like a pee-the-bed
Jet blaik hair
A skirl like a banshee
Ma nemme wisWee Scunner
An the supposition that I wis a coalman's dother

Fin I'm deid, an step ooto ma mortal claes
Will I keep the nemme on the tomb-stane?
Or will I waucht aboot on the win
Jist anither ain o the nemmeless sowels
The muckle heeze o ghaisties o the centuries?



Conundrums
Foo can men nae growe wings an flee like birdies?
Foo can we nae growe gills an sweem the seas?
Foo can men rule the wins, control the sunlicht?
Foo can we bring the sorrafu, hairt's ease?

Foo can we seed the deserts o Australia?
Foo can we bigg a tunnel tae Africa?
Foo can we thin the traffic o global rush oors?
Foo can we stop the icebergs melt an faa?

Foo can we de-pollute canals an herbours?
Foo is a lump o quartz chaiper than gowd?
Foo is a puddock lower than a princelin?
Foo can we makk bairn's swaddlin frae a shroud?



Dwinin
A lifetime's passed like hairstit corn in the park,
Faist as the lily faas frae flooer tae dwinin
Faist as the fire-flauchts daunce in the oorie dark.

Ma life's bin hauf in flesh, or in ma harns
The staircase swypin upwird as I am crinin
Intae the ghaistly sheen o the skinklin starns

Naethin bides foraye, nae man nur breet
Nae even the muckle oceans are abydan
Butterflees are braw, bit their flicht is fleet
Anely the yetts o the grave are fixed an certain
Intae the mools we mell, ayont divinin
The drappit yird on the kist, a closin curtain

The singin bird, the beggar an the queen
Yield tae the wirm that ben their banes gaes twinin
Slawest tae turn tae stoor, the insensate steen
Intae the mools we mell, ayont divinin



CaufTimes
Rewind sax plus decades
I wis on ploddin terms wi ma uncle's coos
His parks wir a sunny playgrun o corn tepees

I hid nae need o waas fin inbye wis oot
Paiddlin in a puil, I stude on brukken glaiss
A gowfer cairried me skirlin tae ma faither
Neist day I wis back wi the taddies an the bummers

I played wi a widden sword,
Showded on branches ower a sheenin river
I squirrelled this awa in cheerie myndin

An auld cailleach, her grey hair baccy-stained
Guffin o paraffin, gaed me a fizzin shandy
Her hose wrunkled roon her cweets
Her shanks, kirn-crackit

I stappit thon days inno a fat harns-purse
I chyned the picturs like a Chinee sang bird



Eftir the Funeral
It wis far ower late eftir the funeral
Wrangs wir nailed tae the waa
O ma shortcamins tae ma eldest bairn

At the hinnereyn
Aa his days wir the same,
Nae wirk, nae hope, nae future
Nae laidder tae sclimm his wey ooto a deid eyn

His mowdie holes wir muckle touerin Bens
There wis nae maet in the fridge
Bills wir scrunched up, unpeyed
An flang intae a newk, a growin heeze
Aathin o eese hid bin pawned, or selt, or swappit
His greatest fear cam true,
Deein alane, tae rot in his wee eyrie

Luve cam ower late, or sae I thocht
Till I saw his fiers merch in, tae merk his passin
The biggest funeral I'd seen in years
Fur a life hauf lived,
Fur ma bonnie, tragic laddie


A Doric owersett of Wee Viennese Waltz by Federico García Lorca
In Vienna there's ten wee quines,
a shouder fur death tae greet on,
an a widlan o dried cushie doos.
There's a nippick o the morn
in the museum o cranreuch cauld.
There's a thoosan-windaed daunce haa.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Takk thon steek-mooed waltz.

Wee waltz, wee waltz, wee waltz,
o itsel o daith, an o brandy
that steeps its tail in the sea.

I lue ye, I lue ye, I lue ye,
wi the airmcheer an the buik o daith,
doon the dowie haa wey,
in the iris's derkened laft,

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Takk thon brukken-wymed waltz.
In Vienna there are fower keekin glaisses
far yer moo an the echoes play.
There's a daith fur a pianie
that peints wee loons blae.
There are doon an oots on the reef.
There are fresh wreaths o greets.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Takk this waltz that dees in ma airms.

Because I lue ye, I lue ye, ma dearie,
in the laft far the bairnies play,
dwauminauncient lichts o Hungary
throwe the soun, the saft efterneen,
seein yowes an irises o snaa
throwe the derk seelence o yer broo

Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this " I'll aywis lue ye" waltz

In Vienna I'll daunce wi ye
in a rig oot wi
a river's heid.
See foo the hyacinths line ma braes!
I'll leave ma moo atween yer shanks,
ma sowel in a photie an lilies,
an in the derk wake o yer fitsteps,
ma luve, ma luve, I'll hae tae leave
fiddle an grave, the waltzin ribbons


The Faithless Wifeby Federico García Lorca
Sae I tuik her tae the river
thinkin she wis a maiden,
bit she already hid a man.
It wis on St. James nicht
an near as gin I wis obleeged tae.
The lamps gaed oot
an the girselowpers lichtit up.
In the farrest street neuks
I touched her sleepin breists
an they unsteekit tae me o a suddenty
like prods o hyacinth.
The sterch o her petticoat
soundit in ma lugs
like a daud o silk
riven bi ten knives.
Wioot siller licht on their leaves
the trees hid grown heicher
an a horizon o tykes
bowfed verra hyne frae the river.
By the blaeberries,
the seggs an the hawthorn
aneth her rowth o hair
I vrocht a howpie in the yird
I tuik aff ma tie,
she as weel tuik aff her dress.
I, ma belt wi the gun,
She, her fower bodices.
Nae nard nur mither-o'-pearl
hae skin sae fine,
nur daes glaiss wi siller
sheen wi sic brawness.
Her hochs sliddered awa frae me
like bumbazed fish
hauf fu o a lowe,
hauf fu o cauld.
Thon nicht I ran
on the best o roads
mountit on a nacre meer
wioot bridle stirrups.

As a chiel, I winna spikk
the wirds she telt tae me.
The licht o unnerstaunin
his made me mair cannie.
Straikit wi san an kisses
I tuik her awa frae the river.
The swords o the lilies
focht wi the air.

I actit like fit I am,
like a richt cyard.
I gaed her a muckle shewin creel,
o strae-coloured satin,
bit I didnae faa in luve
fur tho she'd a man
she telt me she wis a maiden
fin I tuik her tae the river.


The Toun That Disnae Sleep by Federico García Lorca
In the lift there's naebody asleep. Naebody, naebody.
Naebody's asleep.
The craiturs o the meen sniff an creep aboot their shielins.
The leevin iguanas'll cam an bite the chiels fa dinna dream,
an the chiel fa breenges oot wi his speerit brukken will meet on the
street neuk
the unbelievable alligator quaet aneth the douce girn o the
starnies.

Naebody's asleep on the Eirde. Naebody, naebody.
Naebody'sasleep.
In a kirkyaird hyne aff there's a corpse
fa's maened fur three years
because o a dry kintraside on his knee;
an thon loon they beeriet this mornin grat sae muckle
it wis necessar tae cry oot the tykes tae keep him quaet.

Life isnae a dream. Cannie! Cannie! Cannie!
We faa doon the stairs in order tae ett the sappy yird
or we sclim tae the knife edge o the snaa wi the voyces o the deid
dahlias.
Bit forgettin disnae live, dreams dinna live;
flesh lives. Kisses knot oor moos
in a heeze o new veins,
an faiver his skaith skaiths will feel thon skaith foraye
an faiver is feart o daith'll cairry it on his shouders.

Ae day
the shelts'll bide in the saloons
an the roozed emmocks
will haive thirsels on the yalla lift that makks a bield in the
een o coos.

Anither day
we'll watch the dried butterflees rise frae the deid
an still waukin ben a kintra o gray sponges an seelent boats
we'll watch oor ring skinkle an roses breenge frae oor tongue.
Cannie! Be cannie! Be cannie!
The chiels fa still hae merks o the cleuk an the thunnerplump,
an thon loon fa greets because he's niver heard o the invention
o the brig,
or thon deid chiel fa ains noo anely his heid an a shee,
we maun cairry them tae the waa far the iguanas an the snakes
are wytin,
far the bear's teeth are wytin,
far the mummifeed haun o the loon is wytin,
an the hair o the camel stans on eyn wi a forcie blae chitter.

Naebody'ssleepin in the lift. Naebody, naebody.
Naebody'ssleepin.
Gin some body diz steek his een,
a wheep, loons, a wheep!
Lat there be a lanscape o open een
an wersh hurts in a lowe.
Naebody's sleepin in this warld. Naebody, naebody.
I hae said it afore.
Naebody'ssleepin.
Bit gin some body growes ower muckle fogg on his broo ben the
nicht,
open the stage trap yetts sae he can see in the meenlicht
the lyin goblets, an the pyson, an the skull o the theatres.