The Storm Nursery (27 Scots Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

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