The Skreich: (20 Scots Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.Daith o a Matriarch

She lay in her kist like a towrist packed fur leavin
Her single ticket stamped tae the warld o air
Her knobbly neives luiked tint wioot their worsit,
Her threids o silk, her eident crochet-heuk
Nae wyver iver vrocht sic bonnie moose-wabs

She wis the dragon-slayer o ma cauf-days
Although I niver saw her weir glad-rags
Anely blaik widda-weeds, wi a gowden smile
She popped her wirds like sweeties in ma moo
Tae melt, an meeve ma fledglin tongue tae Scots
Bound fur the howe-dumb-deid o the glaury mools
Braif sowl, wi naethin tae fear frae the Scales o Justice,
Held bi the fearsome God o her stinch forebears

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2.The Last Will an Testament o the Turra Coo

Guid mornin tae ye Turra Coo,
yer luikin unca queer...
'I've haen a cheque screived on ma hide
This mony a weary year.

But noo I am the sickest coo
That iver strode a park
And I wad makk ma testament,
Afore I greet the derk.

Gae takk these bonnie horns o mine,
That gart ma heid luik hard
And gie them tae a Burns Club
Fur toastin o the bard

Gae takk this bonnie hide o mine,
An turn it intae sheen
And gie it tae a comely quine
Tae daunce in Aiberdeen

Gae takk this stoot richt leg o mine,
Tae celebrate Aal Eel
It will makk mince tae feed a prince
An stap fowks' stammachs weel

An takk this ither leg o mine,
An tie the Saltire on it
For I'm a patriotic coo
An wirthy o a sonnet

Gae takk thon bonnie tail o mine,
That hings abeen ma dowp
And gie it tae the Turra lads
Tae gar the midgies lowp.'

Now in there cam a Turra lad
Wi sighs an shakk o heid
0 fit care we for ither kye?
Noo oor auld coo is deid

Bit sune there'll be a statue braw
As bricht as mornin dew
For myndin o the michty deeds
0 Turra's famous coo


3.William Blake as a Kelpie

Blake wis a fey craitur,
strang, wud, forcey,
A dominie's widden-dream.
Snub-snoot, wi a braid, heich broo,
Newsin wi cherubim an silkies

Flichts of flim-flammerie gart him gallop aff
On uplans o delicht...Hosanna traivels
Short-ersed an gleg,
A candidate fur bedlam or Utopia

Fit a kelpie! A whirlpuil drave his hooves
His een reamin wi veesions
Muckle nostrils gaapin wi flame an grue
Pouerfu flanks lowpin the fences o the ordnar
Nae wheep or bridle iver held him hummle.


4.Santa Fun Run: Pittodrie, Yule 2009

Santas ettin bananas.
Santas on mobile phones
Santas cairrying rucksacks.
Ring-tones, ring-tones, ring-tones

Santas joggin and jiggin, wi beards an ponytails
Santas in kilts an trainers, rigged oot for Pittodrie gales
Santas bosyin babies..Santas wi greyhound dugs
Santas like letter boxes..Santas like lowping frogs

Doon by the sea beach breezes,
chiels hairy shanks turn blae
Santas in Charity Fun Run,
rin far the sna-waves spray!


5.The Roaring Game: In Memorium, Angus Calder

oh here's the curlin stane
oh it's a bobbydazzler
as they say in the rauchle tongue
sun sheenin ower the ice
a richt wee beauty

fine stane this poetry in motion ken
Bloomsbury club level nae danger

a bit o a wobbler on the rink
gatherin a lot o interest though
there's even a penguin watchin
even the souls o the deid are takkin seats

orra toun keelies are sayin
it winna keep the pace
awa an raffle yersel sez I
thon stane plays a gey deep game

it's breengin on regairdless tremendous,
the sun ahin the castle
skytin on forrit tae the target

wyte though wyte though
luikin a bit shoogly
luikin a bit heelstergowdie
bit here's twa sweepers wi breems

cannie cannie cannie
ay that's it back on the straicht road again

oh nah nae anither wobbler
bit here's the sweepers oot again
giein it laldy
smeethin its wye
giein it laldy

clunk an it's ower
the ice is peely wally noo
ye'd think it wis greetin
or droonin in'ts ain snot

weel grief's like that
a mixter maxter o grief an relief


6.Twa Traditional Doric Graces

Grace be here an grace be there
An grace be ower the table
Let ilkie een takk up a speen
An sup as faist's they're able

Here's health an happiness aa yer days
Plenty o siller an plenty o claes
A sugar bowl an a horn speen
An anither tattie fm that een's deen.


7.A Jaunt roon Scotlan

We're settin aff upon a tour
frae John o Groats tae Papa Stour
(Ye'll catch nae leprosy or scoor
frae Heckelbirnie
Here, anely midgies hae the pouer
tae soor yer journey)

Let's takk a turn roon Galashiels,
or Weymss, far contermascious deils
Micht lowp like puddocks wi greased heels
tae bagpipes skirl
We Scots lue jigs an echtsome reels
wi hooch an birl

Let's ett a bannock in Dunoon..
Or tea an scone in auncient Scone
Or dunt a gowf baa aa roon Troon..
Ye catch ma drift?
Wi menus prentit bi Ma Broon,
fa'd seek tae shift?

Mebbe we'll paiddle in Loch Shin..
Or tramp the heather roon Killin
Sup Irn Bru ooto the tin
at Monifieth
Or think upon oor lives o sin,
in kirk in Leith

Gweed friens, let's eyn at Tillicoultry,
even tho weather's weet an splootry
Tae veesit Tighnabruaich's footery...
The lave we'll view
Bi warld-wab in a sit-ooterie...
draw up a pew!


8.The Protestant

Granfaither tuik the Bible bi the throat
He wis precentor ilkie Sabbath mornin,
Throosh halflins fa he catched
the Lord's wird scomin,

Tellin them love wis in his liftit haun
That sufferin kept their sinfu sowels afloat,
They maun be scourged tae reach the Promised land.

Hell's lowes he didna doot, war bigged tae burn
The ne'er dae weels awa like ugsome rikk;
Alang wi heathens, fowk o orra spikk
This faithless generation he wad ban
As frae his path their feckless feet they turn
Tae wyes he'd neither chuse nor unnerstaun.

Doon in the yird his clorty jaw-bane sighs
For psalm an paraphrase, a Haly soun;
Anely the chunnerin wirm chaws at his foun
On Judgement Day, tho, Protestants alane
He kens, will be upgaithered tae the skies
The lave, bide in the mools, like some cowped stane.


9.Ooto the Elements

Heelstergowdie, happit wi haar
Slidders the sea wi its rowth o dulse
Dowie an dreich in gurly nichts
The sooch an thrum o the ocean's pulse

The yird is yoamin wi flooer an tree
Seeds grow thrang in Creation's stoor
The yark o the scythe makks room for mair
The wersh, the spicy, the sweet, the soor

See the birds in the cloudy lift
Tossed an touselt bi lichtsome air
Wallopin branch an boaties' sail
Furlin the rikk an the lassie's hair


10.Mary King's Close

Aince Embro toun wis derk an cauld
Stappit wi twinin, nerrra lanes
A seventeenth century orra neuk
Far Daith keeked oot frae windae panes

The Plague sae thrived in ae sma Close
The city leaders steeked it up
Bricked in alive, hale families deed
A willie-waucht frae Murder's cup

A year gaed by. The bricks, caad doon
Revealed sax hunner corpses there
Sliced up bi butchers, tae remove
Them tae ae muckle dowie lair

The ghaist o ae wee shilpit lass
Fa haunts yon eildritch dowie den
Touches the hairts o mortal fowk
Fa leave wee toys tae cheer her there

Step cannie by thon street o dule
Nae bonnie birds sae blithesome sing
Far hoodies bigg their blichtit nests...
The Killin Close o Mary King.


11.The Landlord

The landlord's den wis in aneth my chaumer
He wis the Sanky hymn on the scratty record player
The wizened neive that haundit ower ma mail
The leer that fuspered 'Is thou frae a lad? '
Lickin his lips like the thocht wis fine an tasty

I reested up abeen in his deid loon's flat
His deid loon, catched bi the sea
Fa's droonin turned the landlord's wife
Frae a wyme tae a snibbit kist

The landlord stank o dulse an fooshty wins
Straicht frae the herbour waa
Creepin as near's he daur, like the win-blawn san

Naethin therein wis mine. Ma rented days an nichts
War fulled bi sea, glowerin in throw the windae
A peepin Tom. Soochin at nicht in ma lugs

Syne ae day, there he stude,
The orra bodach, creaky in yalla ileskins
Me, cookin ma breakfast on ae open ring
His auld cleuk yarked me roon
Tae force his slivvery moo doon on ma lips

A tuilzie settled it. Fyach, he wis strang
Sae muckle strength in a dry auld stick like thon!
Flang aff, he muttered
Jist a wee bit fun
Nae ill dane, lassie. Dinna tell the wife.
A whine, a wheedle, priggin like a tyke

I slammed the yett in his face
For oors, abune his sink, his tap, his drain
Scoorin ma lips wi carbolic till they bled.


12.Major Weir

Did iver ye hear o Major Weir
fa beddit his sister Grizel?
He cairriet a muckle blackthorn staff
as furly's a warlock's pizzle

He heidit the Embro auld toun guaird.
He mockit the great Montrose
Weir wis a Hell Fire preachin chiel,
steered God in his brakkfaist brose

At the heicht o a sermon he cheenged his tack,
gied praise tae the fork-tailed Deil
Telt aabody there o his Hellish ploys
an gnashed his teeth wi zeal

They tuik him up the gibbet stairs.
The hangie thrawed his thrapple
An eftir, a phantom coach drave up
tae ferry him tae the Deevil


13.Airport Security

An Aiberdeen quine weirin bling,
gart the airport security ping
Frae her neck tae her buits,
even roon baith her queats
She had hauf the gowd-plate in Beijing


14.The Blin Lump

A chiel wi a byle on his chikk,
wis silent fur nearhaun a wikk
Fur fear it wid sting
gin he happened tae sing
Or waur, it micht burst should he spikk.


15.Tae Norroway ben the Clouds

The towrist sat in the aircraft lounge
Drinkin the bluid-reid wine
'Oh far'll 1 get a bonnie plane
Gaun tae a neuk that's fine? '

Oh up an spakk a glekit gype
Sat on his fat bumbee
'Oh Norroway is the rarest neuk
That iver a chiel micht see'.

Tae Norroway, tae Norroway,
Tae Norroway he's gaen
Tae see if it's a bonnie neuk
Weel wirthy o its name.

Bit fin he cam tae Norroway
The satt tear blinnt his ee
The cost o breid, an baps an milk
Wis dear's French lingerie.

I didna sikk tae buy a hoose,
Jist ae wee meal, ' he cried
Bit fin he reached the check oot till
They skinned him, flesh an hide.

'Nae winner aa the doos.' he maned
'Luik in a stervin state
The towrists here maun ett the crumbs
The knife, the fork, the plate.

A semmit ower in Norroway
Is dear as ony car
A pair o draaers in Norroway
Wad fund a mini-war.

Be it hail, be it sleet, be it cauld, be it weet
I'll flee hame ben the dark
Hame, hame tae Scotia I maun gyang
Afore I tyne ma sark.'

Oh aa ye towrists o the warld
This Caution ye will thank
It's gin ye flee tae Norroway
Ye'll need tae rob a bank.


16.The Skreich

In mochles an fleecy jaikets, scarves an buits
In the neb-nippin, tae-dirlin cauld o the frozen streets,
Fowk creep up the Pictur Gallery steps
Like climmers ascendin an Alp
Feart they micht skyte an tummle tae the cassies
Like Icarus frae the Heivens.

Some, hae wytit an oor fur the yetts unsnibbin
Cerclin roon like mappies in the snaa

Some hae crossed hauf the warld
Tae keek at a daub as wee as a brakkfest tray.

The snibs slide in their grooves.
The international public breenges by
the Renoirs, Courbets, peintins
0 fjords an Bens an herds frae uplan ferms
Drawn like mochs tae the flame o Room 24.
The Skreich. Skrirk, Munch's skirl
The mask o grue is glued tae the chiel's face
Fite as corp-skin stukk tae leevin flesh.

Munch has peintit the void,
the teemness o waas
Kennin that fyles the warld crummles aneth yer fit
Whylst nearhaun fiers an friens
staun claikin an lauchin
Easy-osy, nae hearin the skreich o yer sowel.


17.Norse Cuisine

Codfish steeped in caustic soda
Lutefish served wi bacon grease
Moose an mackerel, monkfish, reindeer
Molasses poored ower broon goat's cheese

Sauerkraut, wi prunes an pears
Hauf a yowe's heid...een as weel
Soor cream parritch, served wi sausage
Can yer stammach thole the sweel?


18.Ragin Littlin

Fit an ill-naturet loon!
His roose is hotterin,
Hett as soup on the bile.
His hale physog's a girn.

Snoot wrunkled up
Like a prune
Moo fu o slivvers an skirl
till the ragin finally stops
Disn't he gar yer lugs dirl!


19.Aal Eel As celebrated by the Buchan Association

The sids tae sowens hae bin made
The room prepared, the tables laid
Ootbye, blin drift faas saftly doon
As winter haps the cauldrife toon.

Wi caunles flickerin, dweeble licht
An muckle Yule log bleezin bricht
The piper plays a rousin tune
As fowk process aroon the room

The Yule log's heistit, showder heicht
Upon a streetcher, blythesome sicht
Fower sturdy chiels the cloggie cairt
In holly rowed, flames at its hairt
Wi feastin, drinkin, claik an sang
Gweed cheer an daunce amangst the thrang
The Winter Solstice, for langsyne
Fowk merk, wi fire, an meat, an wine.


20.Skreich
An owerset in Scots frae Munch's personal journals:

The sun gaun doon—had steepit in flames
aneth the hynie-aff

It wis like
a flamin sword
o bluid cuttin ben the dome o Heiven.

The lift wis like bluid cuttit wi strips o fire
—the Bens turned derk blue
the fjord- cuttit in cauld blue,
yalla an reid colours

The explodin
bluidy reid- on
the path an haun palin

—ma friens turned skryie yalla file
-inbye me
a muckle skreich