The Tower O Babel: Many Scots Owersetts From World Poets Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Twa owersettins o Friedrich Holderlin (1770-1843) fae English Translations bi Denise Riley

Mids o Life (Halfte des Lebens)
Wi yalla pears
An rowth o wud fite rose,
Lan hings ower the loch.
Luv-kinnlit swans steep heids
In deep cweel watter.
Far noo, fin Yule wins roon
Will flooers be fand?
Will sun an shiftin shadda clad the yird?
Waas staun, clean tint o wird,
Soonless an caal.
The win gars weathercocks
Gyang rick-ma-tick.

Ilkie Day (Wohl geh' ich taglich)
Ilkie day, a different path I takk,
Up tae the tinklin burnie or the wid.
Whyles tae the steens far steerie roses growe
I sclimm the weary knowe...bit aye ye're hid.

Far I keek oot upon the blinnin licht,
Ma bonnie bird, ma wirds takk sudden flicht
Inno teem air...I ken oor claik wis richt.

Yer hyne awa. Sair, o yer couthie face
An soons o steerin life, I feel the wint.
Far are the liltin sangs that brocht me peace?
I hae grown auld, an aa lan's grace is tint.

Farweel, fur ilkie day ma gangrel thocht
Gyangs oot tae ye, grows wae, is turned awa.
My een luik langin efter aa that's gaen,
Straicht throw intae yer nerra shilpit staa.


Owersettins o contemporary poetry frae the Laigh Kintras, frae English translations bi Hugo Brems an Ad Zuiderent.

Gloamin (Anton Van Wilderode: Evenin)
The rikk o tattie-shaws hings wersh roon ferms
That lie ayont the twinin maze, lang lanes
Tint in the meenlicht an the mochy haar.
The teams o horse an herdsmen sikk their hames,

A hint o milk an iron's in the staas,
Even the kitchie yoams o hey an curds,
A noisy ritual that's tint o wirds,
Is celebrated as the gloamin faas.

Throw bleary smirr o tears, the windaes leam.
Ahin them, kitchie wummles, tho still seen
Aa sup, till ilkie ashet's fairly clean.
Cockerels an shelt makk haste tae sleep an dream

Screivins (Remco Campert: Letters)
I should screive tae this ane an thon that I'm hale an hairty,
That I wis fu last nicht in a Greek howf,
A Turkish howf...a Norwegian howf...
That I'm grittin ma teeth fur a byordnar heich gas bill
An ither ferlies tae ithers- Dauchlin in a warld that growes mair fey
Far somebody said: 'Ye Dutch, yer aa the same.'
Even tho I'd pyed the cheque, an wis weirin a pair o French glaisses,
An fit's mair hid a buik o German poetry in ma pooch,
An at hame on the table wis Anne Sexton's grand poem 'Wytin tae dee'...
An takk tent o foo I pit in new fuses!
0 a suddenty the licht gaed on again,
An she wis sprauchled, sleepin on the sofa, aneth the blue blanket.
I should screive tae this ane an thon ane:
That I winna dee't. That I refuse. That I'm takkin it tae coort...
That the days here weir awa like rain. That the warld is niver bigger than ae toon...That the warld's the size o masel in thon ae toon,
Ma feet on the cassies, an fit I see fin I blink ma een.
An I should speir foo things are gaun. Whether or no the hoose is biggit. Whether or no the play's weel translatit.
If the bairns are thrivin, an the wives nae ower doon-hairted!


Twal early Japanee Haiku (Gochiku et al) translated inno English in 'The Way of Zen' bi- Alan Watts

In the derk wids Weety sna doondra
A berry draps Faddomless. Limitless
The soon o watter Laneliness


The reiver left it ahin A timmer yett
The meen at the windae an fur a sneck
Yon snail
Dreichness o Winter
In the rain watter tub The soun o the scoorin
Spurgies are lowpin 0 the saucepan
Mells wi the puddocks' skreichs


Leaves drappin The mist hides itsel
Happin een anither In the girse
The rain dreeps on the rain 0 depairtin Autumn


The lang nicht A drappit flooer
The soon o watter Gyaun back tae bough
Spikks ma thocht Twis a butterflee!


The starnies on the puil Wi the gloamin win
The winter shooeries The watter laps
Rochle the watter Agin the heron's shanks






Three owersettins o Zen Poems bi Ryokan, frae English translations bi
John Stevens
1. Dyewdrap
Life is a dyewdrap
Transient, teem.
Foo faist aa things maun crine!
My years are gane
Trimmlin an dweeble
Noo, I tae maun dwine.


2.Thochts
Siller fite, the snaa enfaulds the Bens.
Far frae the clachan, my yett's smored in thick weeds
Midnicht. A daud o timmer's spittin on the fire
I am an auld bodach, fite an taiglit is my beard
My thochts are ay-returnin tae ma bairnhood.


3.Eencemair
Eencemair, mony greedy fowk are thrang,
Nae different frae silkwirms wippit in cocoons
Gear an siller are aa they lue.
Their hauns an bodies dinna devaul ae meenit,
Ilkie year their natur's blichtit waur
Their bigsie notions growe.
Ae foreneen daith comes chappin
They've spent bit hauf their siller.
Ithers win the hinneypot.
The deid man's name is tint
Fur sic as thon, there can be anely peety,
The wae o waste ahint.


A Scots owersettin o a poem bi the Polish poet, Laura Pawlikowska, translatit inno English bi Tom Pearce.

A Byordnar Bonnie Dream
Yestreen I hid, fur a cheenge, the bonniest dream ye iver cud imagine! There's niver been its marra. Aboot sweemin in the air as if in watter.
The fowk inside the dream ken naethin aboot its ongauns,
They're vauntie aboot their progress, their wyceness,
Their haud o the laws o gravity.
I'm dowpit doon amang them, suppin blaik coffee.
We news aboot scunnerin ferlies,
Praise tae the Heivens some God-awfa wummin...

0 a suddenty, I caa ower ma platie an piece.
I lowp ontae the table-heid,
Pit baith hauns thegither as if I'm prayin
An skyte clean ooto the open windae.
In the lift that's pure as a dolphin's dookers, or a diamond
I hear a grue raxxin up tae greet me frae aneth,
Somebody skirlin, the deil has catched me awa, inno the air.
A dowie boorich o fowk meeve ben the cassies.
They're burnin incense, lichtin caunles.
I see their physogs...as Fite as paper sheets,
Sae farrer, farrer, farrer, aff I sail.
I haive aside great drumlie dauds o win, like it wis waves,
I lauch ma heid aff at the glekit pairish.
They hae hard hairts, are beeried tae the neb in bigsieness
Naebody's maistered this airt except masel. Aabody's takkin tent.
Aabody's luikin up at me, bit nane o them can flee!
I reist on the tree taps.
I makk-on I'm a cherub in the lift,
Tho a polisman cries tae me frae aneth.
I sweem, I float, in the maist modern o wyes.
I sigh wi ma young breistie fu o virr
I dicht awa the birdies frae my broo.
At gloamin time, I traivel hame on fit,
I sit at hame aneth a gowden licht bulb
Makkin on that naethin fey or unca'd iver happened.
Aabody's sittin, maist doon-pitten
In an ill-teen. Nae ane will spikk tae me.
They anely dicht their glaisses,
Hodge, an hoast.

Owersetts frae English translations' bi Stanislaw Baranczak & Clark Cavanagh, o modern Polish poetry

Speirin fur Faith: Bi Jan Twadowski
I'm chappin at Heiven.I'm speirin fur Faith.
Bit nae yon hauf-hung tee believin
That coonts the starnies, disna see the chukkens.
Nae yon flee-bi-nicht variety,
Thon speeirtual category that bides a day an a denner.
Yon's nae the faith fur me.
The Faith I wint is fresh as peint,
Nae killt bi priests an seannachies.
The Faith I wint'll follae its ma like a lammie,
A Faith tae fox the harns, that ye'll intuit.
That pykes the wee-est wird, . Nae lang langamachies.
I wint a Faith that canna answer aa,
That disna come adrift wi Daith's doonfaa
Thon's the Faith I wint. A Faith nae easy tint.


The War o Nerves: Bi Artur Miedzyrzecki
Nerves quanter nerves. A natural ferlie.
Tykes wurr at kittlins. Broon bears gurr at bees.
The pine moch frichts the widsman.
Buikwirms deave buiksellers.
Boa an skunk chase mappies ben the trees.
Saft spikk is less than eeseless.
Dwaums aboot gyaun on leave are gran bit pyntless.
(Dis the muckle erne swallae a fly cup
Fin hunsmen frae copters sheet his airwyes up?)
The nichtingale sings on, throw cataclysms.
The erne rules the lift. Come ilkie spring,
Widpecker, skyrie drummer, raps his mornin rhythms,
The swippert swalla flees, swifts flaff their wings.
In the war o nerves, the winner's mind, in Zen's,
The ane fa disna luik fur skaith. Fa kens
A skunk is ay a skunk. Unshakkable truth
Keeps ay a straucht furr. A calm sooch.

An owersett o a poem bi Zbigniew Herbert translatit inno English frae the Polish bi John an Bogdana Carpenter.

Tae Tryst Ferlies Ooto their Queenly Quateness
Tae tryst ferlies ooto their queenly quateness,
Ye maun be sleekit or coorse.
The jeeled lochan o a door
Is brukken bi the knell o a boozer.
A quaich drapped on the timmer fleer,
Gies a sherp skreich like a glaiss bird.
A hoose that's bin set in a lowe
Gibbers wi the lowpin leid o flame,
Wi the leid o a braithless Celtic bard
Aboot fit the bed, the kist, the curtains,
Said feint the wird.


An owersettin o a poem bi Chief Seathl, an Indian o New Mexico, land in English in 'Yellowstone Country' bi Richard Phillips.

Ilkie Pikk o this Yird
Ilkie pikk o this yird is hallowed bi ma fowk.
Ilkie brae, ilkie glen, ilkie howe, an wid
His bin sained bi some ferlie
Blythe or dowie, in the deidlangsyne.
The verra stoor ye staun on
Gies mair luv tae oor fitsteps nor yers,
Fur it reams wi the bluid o oor kin.
Barfit, we feel thon sibness.
Even littlins fa bedd an rejoiced here
A shortsome whylie,
Still lue these derk lanely airts
An at gloamin they tryst wi
The shaddowy shades o the deid.
Fin the Reid Man's worn awa,
An the memory o ma tribe
Is anely a Fite Man's myth,
These shores will heeze
Wi the speerits o as my clan!
An fin yer bairns' bairnies think thirsels alane,
In the park, the store, the shop, alang the road,
Or in the quaet o the pathless wids,
They winna be thir lane.
At nicht, fin the streets o yer toons
An clachans are quaet, an ye think them teem
They will steer wi returnin ghaists
That langsyne filled an lue this bonnie lan.


An owersettin o 'Our Fathers Had Powerful Songs' bi Natalia Belting, New Mexican Indian.

Oor faithers hid pouerfu sangs
Oor faithers hid pouerfu sangs.
At the Crack o Time, fin they scattered tae merk oot hames,
They sang, an the lan they stood on wis theirs.
Nae ither body ained it, the sang made it theirs.
They sang fur watter. Oot it poored in springs.
It flowed doon burns, gaithered in lochs an puils.
They sang, an their sang vrocht the months, the years, the Sizzens.
They sang, an their sangs made Daunce.
Oor faithers hid pouerfu sangs.
We hear them yet, their fitfas an their drumbeats
Fin we lie doon, lugs lippenin tae the yird.


An Owersettin in Scots o 'The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee' frae 'The Gourd Dancer' bi N. Scott Momaday, Kiowa.


The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee
I am a feather in the bricht lift,
I am the blue shelt rinnin alang the parks,
I am the fish, rowes glimmerin in the watter,
I am the shadda steekt tae a bairnie's fit,
I am the gloamin, skinklin in the lea,
I am an erne, playin alang the win,
I'm a bricht boorich o beads
I am the star that is hynest awa ava.
I am the cauld o dawn, I am the roar o rain,
I am the gleam in the tapmaist sheen o sna,
I am the tracks meen lays alang the loch,
I am a fower-colouret flame,
I am a blate deer, stude in the deein day,
I am a park o flouer an aipple,
I am a V o geese in the Winter lift
I am a young wolf's hunger,
I am the dream and the sum o aa these ferlies.
Ye see, I am leevin, am leevin,
I am sib tae the Yird, I am sib tae the Gods,
I am sib tae aa that's bonnie,
I am sib tae the dother o Tsen-tainte.
Ye see, I am leevin, am leevin!


Three owersettins frae 'Native American Songs & Poems' translatit inno English bi Brian Swann

Aybydan Braith
(bi John Smelcer (Cherokee/ Ahtna)
Ootbye ma shielin windae
I hear the corbie's hauf-smored skreich rise frae the burn.

A licht burns laich on ma tableheid
The air in the quaet o the chaumer disna steer

I think aft times o thon nicht
In yer caravan at Nikiski
0 the tales ye telt langsyne

Dena' Ma Suk' dua
'Thon that's screived on the tongues o fowk.'

As a bairn ye war skelped wi a stick
Fur spikkin yer ain leid.
Ma faither, born at Indian River
Disna ken his ain mither's leid.

The nicht, Kenaitze Indians foregaither
At a Russian orthodox kirk

Tae murn in cheenged wirds
Mangst fite-washed crosses
An roosty siller ikons.

As I raxx inno the derk
It is yer voice that lifts
Corbies' wings abeen the burnie's banks

His auncient wirds
Rise like a yalla tide.


Skins as Auld Testament
bi Carter Revard (Osage)

I winner fa first slippit in
Tae makk eese o anither craitur's skin
Tae bide hett
Like a bluidy rape, a heresy near
Tae crawl inno the deer's
Still-stounin presence yonner
Tae takk their lives o fit hid meeved inbye
Tae ett its tasty intimmers
Syne spreid its likeness ower
Thon sleepin an pechin body
Musk-happit inbye the win, the rain, the on-ding
Tae coorie doon in a seal-skin sel aneth a walrus Heiven
The sna wid dunt an chap at..
Tae feel baith feet growe hett even on ice or sna.

Sic a body maun hae thocht the lowe frae a caunle
Wis like thon warmth frae fur an hide
It maun hae bin some kinno bumbazement
Fin the life stouned back inno jeeled haun or fit
Efter the fur happit its nyakitness
Even mair fin the human bodies
Birzin in the bear's derk fur
Fan the Winter's warmth
An syne its bairn inbye the wummin
Sprang alive.


Ptarmigan
(An owersett o an Inuit Poem)

A wee ptarmigan dowpit doon
In the mids o a muir
On the tap o a snaadrift.

Its eelids war reid,
Its back wis straikit broon.

An richt aneth tail feathers braw an fine
Wis dowpit doon the bonniest bihoochie!


Sang o the Open Road
Owersett frae the poem bi Ogden Nash: 'Song of the Open Road.'

I'm thinkin that I winna see
A billboord, bonnie as a tree.

Mebbe, unless the billboords faa
I winna see a tree ava


I like ma body (fin it's neist tae yers)
Owersett frae the poem bi e.e.cummings,
I like my body when it is with yours

I like my body fin it's
Neist tae yers. It's near new-biggit
Muscles swacker an harns mair stinch.
I like yer body. I like fit it dis
I like foo it hings thegither.
I like tae fin its rig-bane
An the trimmlin smeeth snodness that I will
Ower an ower an ower
Kiss. I like kissin thon an this o ye
I like slawly straikin the bumbazement o yer pelt
Yer birze-the finger fuzz, an fit-dye' caat cams
Ower yieldin flesh..an een, like muckle love-crumbs
An mebbe jist like the fey begeck
0 unner me yersel, unca new-farrant


Dauchlin i Wids on a Snawy Gloamin
owersettin o Robert Frost's 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening'

Fa ains the wids I think I ken
The clachan hauds his but an ben
He winna spy me dauchlin here
Watchin the snaaflakes stap his glen

My shelt maun think it unca queer
Tae staun wioot a fermtoun near
Tween icy loch an widlans black
The derkest gloamin o the year

The sheltie gies his reyns a shakk
Tae speir gin there's bin some mistakk
The anely ither soun's the wheep
0 drappin sna an win sae swack

Deep are the wids an derk their sheen
Bit there are pledges I hae gien
An miles afore I steek ma een
An miles afore I steek ma een.


The Road I didna takk
owersettin from The Road not taken' bi Robert Frost

Twa roads forkt aff fae a yalla wid
Sair I sikkit tae traivel baith
A gyangin fit yet bide I did
Glowert doon ane as far as I cwid
Tae far it booed in the girsy swathe

Syne tuik the tither as jist as braa
An likely haein the better claim
As it wis girssy, nae worn ava
Tho as for thon, feet braid an sma
Hid trod the baith o them near the same

An baith thon foreneen equally lay
In leaves nae step hid trampit black
I keepit the first fur anither day
Yet kennin foo wyes gang aft agley
Dooted that ever I wad cam back

I shall be tellin o this wi a sigh
Ages syne as an auld grey beard
Twa roads forkt in a wid an I
I tuik the ane that less gyang by
Yon wis the choice that cheenged ma weird.


Owersettins o Slovene lyrics translatit bi Janko Lavrin & Anton Slodnjak et al

The Sang o a Boozin Cronie: Janez Menart
Because o her reid lips, we twa
Supped reid liqueur till like tae faa.
Because o her een, broon an bricht,
We supped broon rum frae morn till nicht.
Because o her derk, curly powe,
The derk wine set us baith alowe,
An fin my frien began tae dauchle,
I slawly raise up, like tae sprauchle.
Because o her feet, sweet an sma,
I brakk twa bottles on the waa.
Gweed kens foo much, I drank till fu,
The dawn raise up an brocht tae view
Twa drukken hoolets feelin fine,
Skimpit o siller, stappt wi wine.
An fin anither day wis deen,
We gaed on boozin like yestreen.
Drambuies drooned fur three midnichts,
Fur three hale days, fur three hale nichts,
Oh, sair we tried tae lair thon quine
Bit failed tae droon her wi the wine.


A Sang: Josip Murn-Aleksandrov
Hyne in the misty heicht,
The evenin starnie's licht,
The evenin starnie's licht,
Wi tints o yallas, bricht.

Alang the quaet lea,
The siller burnie rowes,
The siller burnie rowes,
Inno the nicht's derk boughs.

Inbye the hairt o man,
Sae monie wishes dawe,
Like starnies, bricht oweraa.
Like burnies–slipt awa.


Myndin on Granda: Tone Payeek
The stoor, noo, differs neen.We cam back cheenged,
Turn up like towrist bodies,
An watch the barley swey throw careless een.
Tell me, auld bodach, Granfaither, heich as Truth,
Far are yer shelts? An far's yer youth?
Yer marts, yer loon, yer neebors an yer wife,
Fecund's the yird sae broon?
Langsyne, langsyne, the clock let faa its wechts,
An booed its heid.
Weirin yer fairmer's beets, yer muckle bunnet,
Ye sclimm the knowe aleen,
Quittin the kirkyaird, sclim the braes o hame,
Teet at the sun, luik langsome ower the glen.
The barley's ripe. Ye watch, an ye are blythe.
Aroon ye on the knowe, yer friens resume their lives,
Claik, noo the craps are ripe
0 prices, taxes, wives,
0 hairsts an wine,
An whyles, o yer deid laddie.
Yer bluid revives. The barn trimmles wi pleisur,
Soun o the daunce. This meisur
Gars the verra corn daunce tae the beat,
0 yer deid feet,
0 yer deid feet,
0 yer deid feet.


The Tummler: Kajetan Kovic
The nicht's the hinmaist show
O the great tummler. Roon the arena,
Fowks' throats brakk inno cheers.
He differs frae the lave,
The grey automata.
He stauns, a skyrie lowe.
A skitter o steely applause,
Shooers ower his powe.
The ban strikks up.
An frae ahin the scenes,
A wattergaw lowps heelstergowdie oot.
Green jooglers,
Pinkie dalls,
Bobbies in blue,
Fite jumbos breengin forrit,
Fey warld far fancies sproot.
Teem echoes dirl wi
The dowie merch o Destiny.
The tummler boos an boos,
Staunin, lane an heich,
Deid centre o fowks' een.
Fowk clap-clap in their ranks,
Wytin the gran finale,
The hinmaist birl
O his skyrie-clooted shanks.
The nicht's his hinmaist oor.
Drink in his colours,
Drink in his bluid,
Strippit an deid,
He'll faa doon in the stoor.


The Lochan. Oton Zupancic
The daily oors that slip alang the lift,
Show in the watter's keekin glaiss, syne shift.
Aa dawns drap in the waves their gowden trail.
Aa starnies on the lochan screive their tale.
Like mony truths, they're pictured ane an aa,
The Ben, the knowe, the steeple, island sma,
Birdie an cloud that wanner Heiven's wyes.
Frae oot the deep aa ferlies doubled rise.
The loch brings coontless glories tae oor een,
Shaws licht an shade, the michty sun an meen,
An as we watch these picturs, they step in
Inbye oorsels, syne vanish like the win.


Forge me on yer Anvil: Oton Zupancic
Forge me on yer anvil, life,
Gin I'm flint, a spirk I'll makk.
Gin I'm steel, syne I shall sing.
Gin I'm glaiss, syne I shall brakk.


The Fairmer Spikks tae the ScholaroAlojz Gradnik
Aneth, I finn the solid grun,
An coontless starnies see owerheid.
Foo dae ye show tae me insteid
Abysses anely...derk, profun?
Far div ye staun? I've aften thocht,
Yer bit a spider in a neuk.
Ae breeze...ae roch win's reivin cleuk,
An as yer spinnin's gaen fur nocht.
I lue the yird, the starns that flame
An glimmer ben the skinklin nicht,
An haein faith, I ken nae fricht,
Fin on the road that takks me hame.
I'm weel acquant wi Yule, wi Spring,
I ken that Time will on me turn,
Bit fin I cross the dowie burn
Daith will uplift me, on his wing.


Owersettin o a poem bi Mihai Ursachi. Translatit inno English frae the Rumanian bi Don Eulert & Cornelia Hincu

Narcissus Nabbit
Bit the watter didna bide still.
Its waves cam in aboot
Fin cried on, sae it seemed,
Frae nichts withoot tap nor boddom,
Foun nor faddomin.
Frae caves, tae be
A keekin glaiss tae his physog.
Foregaithered, the watter
Wis, fur a meenit, his marra,
Loaded tae the gunnels wi Narcissus
In ilkie drap.
Bit the watter didna bide still.
It drappit doon, ilkie skirp
Weirin a smatterin o his luiks.
The hale puil wis Narcissus.
Syne, drappin, iver drappin,
It swalled inno a burn.
It swalled inno a michty river.
Till in the muckle ocean
His icon's swallaed like satt.
In yon glen, aside the puil,
A flock o flooeries grew
Because the watter didna bide still.


Owersettins o poems bi C.P.Cavafy, translatit inno English bi John Mavrogordato

1.The Pictur
Ma darg is in ma hairt an in ma harns,
Bit latchy composition dings me doon.
This day's bin a sair trauchle...it's soor face
Is iver derkenin, rain an win blaa roon.

My wish is jist tae luik an makk nae soon.
Yonner's the draain that I spy eenoo,
Here bi the spring, I see a bonnie loon
A weel-faured chiel, gowd sunlicht on his broo.

He's sprauchled oot. Nae doot he his bin rinnin.
Noon haps him roon, in sleep an joy he's sunnin.
Dowped doon I luik fur lang. An in sic wyes,
Efter ma darg, Art rests me, an repyes.


2.Ae Nicht
The back wynd cud be watched ower frae the windae.
Nerra, in clart an sottar it wis lairt.
Hidden abeen it, in an ill-famed howf,
The chaumer wis a puir, doon-merket airt,
While in the boozer doon ablow, some chiels
Played cairds, blythe-like, an newsed awa weel-sairt.

Upon the chaumer's hummil, orra bed,
I preed the flesh o luv, I preed the moo,
The roosed an randy rosy lips o wine,
Reidened wi sic a vine that even noo,
Tho mony years hae passed, as I screive here
Inbye ma lanesome hame, again I'm foo.


Langins
Like bonnie kistit corpses ne'er grown auld,
Rose at their heids, an jasmin at their feet,
Decked oot wi floories, nailed doon wi a greet,
Langins are like thon...langins that bide cauld,
An niver satisfeed, swicked o ae nicht
0 pleisur sweet, ae glimpse o mornin bricht.


Caunles
Days o the Future rax afore oor een,
Like raws o lichtit caunles, gowden, stoot,
While streeked ahin, the deid days o yestreen,
Are dowie stumps o caunles snibbit oot.

The nearer caunle reets are rikkin yet,
Cauld, meltit, booed, each waxen makk is marred,
I dinna daur teet roon, sae I'll forget
That I, wi their infirmities, am tarred.

I dinna wint tae turn aroon an see
The horror o the line that grows sae quick.
Foo seen the derkenin caunles multiplee
Bricht lowes pit oot, each een a blaikened wick!


The Toun
Quo ye, 'I'll traivel tae the Muckle Furth,
Ben furreign seawyes, ower the fremmit Earth. S
ome better toon I'll fand awa frae here,
Far guilt bladds aa ma ploys. It's turned me sweir
Tae bide far my hairt's fooshionless an sterk,
My harns are hinnert, aa my thochts are derk.
Fariver I step oot an heist ma een,
Blaik larachs o ma life rise up abeen.
This toun that's spyled mair years nor I cud name,
I aim tae quit, tae sikk a better hame.'

'Ye'll fin nae better airt in fremmit toun.
This toon will dog yer trailin fit, ma loon.
Ye'll reenge aboot in streets the same as these,
Grow jist a fite aneth the selfsame trees.
Anither toun wad bring as little cheer,
Untae a chiel sae cankered an sae sweir.
Tae leave yersel ahin, nae road's bin bigged,
Nor ony ship, nae maitter fu weel-rigged.
Naebody spyled yer future bit yersel,
Nae bonnie tune, faas frae a crackit bell.


Twa owersettins o Greek poems frae English itia, islations bi Elena Fourtini

Krinio
Bi Rita Boumi Pappas. The poems tells o the daith o a 19 year auld Greek resistance fechter in word war 2, foundit on fit she telt the poet's man, Nikos Pappas, fa wis the quine's defence arttorney afore she wis shot.

Aim straicht at ma hairt.
It's served me weel this lang.
I've even shood a corbie-colored cloot
Atween ma briests, deid centre.
I've niver heard afore, a gunshot bang.

Peer young sodjers, waukened wi the dawn
Fur this derk duty.
I've niver held a gun masel, ye see.
An sae this execution at daybrakk
Will be a new experience fur me.
I see yer een gap wide...
It's nae yer wyte
Ye itch tae finn ma femininity
Afore ye fire the shot. I unnerstaun
I winner fit bynames fowk gie tae ye?

Fa kens, we micht hae played
Street games as bairns.
Quick, dee yer wark,
Spare me the foreneen's frost I'm nearly nyakkit,
Dress me wi yer fire. Smile,
Let yer luiks enfauld it at the last,
This body niver happit bi a luver
Nae even in the riggin o a dream
Quine that a young bride's joy
Will ne'er discover
This Present pits
The Future in the Past


Pairtin:
Eleni Fourtini, Sparta, Greece

I rowed ma een
In a saft cloot.
I faulded them awa.
They winna luik on ye again
Nane o the twa.

Ma twa reid lips
I beeriet in the mire
An noo it's anely
Watter they desire

Ma feet sae swift
Noo amangst moosewabs lie
Yer yett's a thoosan mile
An mair, ootbye.

My airms, I happit
Deep inno the sna
They winna haud ye back
My luv, ava.

Bit oh, I sud hae sterted wi ma hairt
Fur wersh, wersh war its wounds
The beatin hairt
That stouns and stouns an stouns.



Owersettins o three extracts frae 'Fruit Gathering' bi Rabindranath Tagore, India

Far roads are vrocht I lose ma wye
In the wide watter, the blue sky
There is nae line o a track
The pathwye's happit bi birdies' wings
Bi the starfires. Bi the flooers o the gyaunaboot Sizzens
An I speir my hairt gin its bluid cairries the wyceness
0 the unseen wye.

I waukened an fand his letter in the mornin
I dinna ken fit it's aboot, fur I canna read
I'll leave the clivver chiel alane wi his buiks
I winna tribble him
Fur fa kens gin he can read fit the letter says?
Let me haud it tae ma broo, an fauld it tae ma hairt
Fin the nicht growes quaet an the starnies ane bi ane skinkle
I'll spreid it on ma lap an bide quaet
The reeshlin leaves will read it oot tae me
The sweeshin burn will chant it
An the seeven wyce starnies
Will sing it tae me frae the lift


I feel that as the starnies glimmer inbye me
The warld brakks inno ma life like a flood
The flooers brier in ma wyme
Aa that's bairn-like o lan an watter
Rikks like incense in ma briest
An the braith o aathin
Plays on ma thochts
Like a flute

Short Puja: owerset frae the Friends of the Western Buddhist Order Buik o Buddhist Devotional Texts, English translations a auncient Pali an Sanskrit


Stertin Reverence
We venerate the Buddha,
The Ane o Perfect Enlichtenment,
The Guide tae the Wye.
We venerate the Dhartita,
The Lear o the Buddha,
That leads frae pit-mirk tae licht.
We venerate the Sangha,
The Buddha-sib,
That shaws the wye
An fills wi admiration.

Reverence tae the three jewels
We venerate the Buddha,
An wad sikk tae follae him.
The Buddha wis born as we war born.
Fit the Buddha dinged doon
Oor ainsels can ding doon
We venerate the Dharma,
An wad seek tae follae it,
Wi body, spikk an thocht, until the eyn.
The Truith in aa its aspects,
The path wi aa its roadies,
We sikk tae larn, practise, syne tae ken.
We venerate the Sangha,
An wad sikk tae follae it.
The sib-ness o the fowk fa wauk the wye
As ain bi ain we makk oor ain committment
An iver-raxxin ring, the Sangha growes.


Gifties tae the Buddha
Reverencin the Buddha we gie flooers,
Flooers at brak o day, caller an sweet brierin
Flooers that the morn are dwined an deein
Oor bodies tae, like flooers will weir awa.

Reverencin the Buddha we gie caunles
Tae him fa is the Licht, the gift o licht
His muckle Lowe lichts a sma lowe inbye us
The lamp o Bodhi gliminrin in oor hairts.

Reverencin the Buddha
We gie incense
Incense fa's sweet perfume wauchts throwe the air
Sweeter than incense, is the perfect life
Spreidin in ilkie airt throwe-oot the warld.


Dedication Ceremony
We dedicate this airt tae the Three Jewels,
Tae Buddha, the Marra o Enlichtenment
Whit we aa sikk tae gain
Tae the Dharma, the pathwye o the Lear
Whit we aa sikk tae follae
Tae the Sangha, the growin Buddha-clan
That we can aa enjoy.

Here, may nae menseless wird be spukken
Here may nae unquate thocht steer up oor harns.
Takkin tent o the Five Precepts
We dedicate this airt
Tae the darg o meditation
We dedicate this airt
Tae the growth o wyceness, we dedicate this airt
Tae the winnin o Enlichtenment, we dedicate this airt.
Tho in the warld ootbye there's collieshangie,
Inbye may there be peace
Tho in the warld ootbye there's great ill-will
Inbye may there be luv.
Tho in the warld ootbye, there's dule an wae,
lnbye may there be blythness.
Nae bi the chantin o the halie Screivins
Nae bi the spirkin o halie watter
Bit bi oor ain smeddum wirkin tae Enlichtenment
We dedicate this airt.
Aroon this Mandala, this halie circle
May the lotus-petals o purity brier
Aroon this mandala, this halie cercle
May the vajra-waa o virr raxx far an farrer
Aroon this Mandala, this halie cercle
May the lowe tae cheenge Samsara tae Nirvana
Kinnle an rise.
Dowpit doon, here practisin
May oor thocht becam Buddha
May oor thocht becam Dharma
May oor spikk amangst aa fowk
Be Buddha-sib.
Fur the blytheness o aa craiturs
Fur the guid o aa craiturs
Wi body, spikk an thocht
We dedicate this airt.


Blissins
May aa blissins be yours
May aa the gods takk tent o ye
Bi the pouer o aa the Buddhas
May aa blytheness be yer ain.
May aa blissins be yours
May aa the gods protect ye
Bi the pouer o aa the Dharmas
May aa blytheness be yours
May aa blissins be yours
May aa the gods takk tent o ye
Bi the pouer o aa the Sangha.
May aa blytheness be yer ain


Verses tae Proteck the Truith
Nae tae dae ill,
Tae ettle tae dae guid
Tae purifee the thocht
Thon is the lear o the Buddhas.
Lead a richteous life
Nae ain that is orra
The richteous live blythely
Baith in this warld an the neist.
He isna acquant wi Dhamma
Fa gibbers like a gowk.
He fa hears a nippick o the lear
Bit kens the Truith, an acts on't
Is truly caad a chiel weel versed in Dhamma
Nae ither bield bit Buddha
Bield abeen aa, will dae me.
Ay, bi the venue o this truith
May grace growe grait, an victory
Nae ither bield bit Truith
Bield abeen aa, will dae me.
Ay, bi the vertue o this truith
May grace growe grait, an victory.
Nae ither bield bit Sangha
Bield abeen aa, will dae me.
Ay, bi the vertue o this truith
May grace growe grait, an victory.
Aa praise tae the Buddha
Aa praise tae the Dhamma
Aa praise tae the Sangha
Sadhu Sadhu Sadhu


The Hairt Sutra
Bodhisattva o Compassion, whaun his thochts sank deep inbye
Kent the teemness o aa five skandhas
An caad tae Crockanation the chynes o skaith.
Takk tent, syne, form is nocht bit teemness, teemness nocht bit form. Feelin, thocht an wylin, Kennin itsel, are the same as thon.
Aa ferlies are primal teemness that isna born or killt
Nur is it spylt nur pure, nur dis it growe nur crine.
Sae in teemness, nae form. Nae feelin, thocht or wylin,
Nur is there ony kennin.Nae ee, lug, neb, core, harns
Nae hue, soun, guff, taste, touch,
Or whit the harns takk baud o, nur even act o sensin.
Nae ignorance nur eyn tilt, nur aa that briers frae ignorance
Nae dwinin an nae Daith. Nae eyn o them.
Nur is there pain, or cause o pain, or stoppit pain, or Noble Wye
Tae win frae pain. nae even wyceness tae attain.
Attainment tae, is teemness.
Sae ken that the Bodhisattva, haudin tae naethin ava
Bit bidin in Prajna wyceness, is lowsed frae delusive snorls
Lowsed frae the fear they breed, an wins tae pure Nirvana.
Aa Buddhas Noo an Afore,
Buddhas o Times tae cam,
Makkin eese o this Prajna wyceness, cam tae a full clear veesion
Takk tent o the great dharani, the Mantra o aa Mantras
The Prajnaparamita wha's wirds takk the stoon frae pain.
Takk tent an ken its Truith!
Gate gate paragate.
Parasamgate bodhi svaha