Tick Tock: (17 Scots Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1. A Puckle Hoolets


Tawny Hoolet

Physog like a sliced aipple.
Twa teenie pips o een
Beak like a buckie-winkler.
A bowlie o feathers
Wi a shakkin o ginger spice


Barn Hoolet

A pierrot's physog, wi dowie, waesome een
A braid fite muff somelike Sir Walter Raleigh
Mirl-cloaked an ghaistie-some on eilritch nichts


Wee Hoolet

Wee hoolet is a fleg in birdie-cloots
His face is a fite bogle, een gap-wide as grue
Ae fit hodgin ettlin tae flee awa


Lang-Legged Hoolet

Heilan laird at the games, his bunnet feathers cocked
His plaid is tweedy-broon...Hinney-clear een
His feathers, a reeshlin burn


Short Lugged Hoolet

Hauf a hoot frae the hairt o a cream meringue
He's licht's a moufu o air, like a French croissant.


2.The Skatin Meenister
Inspired by 'The Reverend Robert Walker (1755-1808)
Skating on Duddingston Loch' by Sir Henry Raebum

I've heard o Russian puggies floatin in a space balloon
I've heard o bearded wifies in the bakkies o Dunoon
Bit I've niver seen anither thing mair feariesome or seenister
Than wheechin ower an Embro loch, a Scottish skatin meenister!

Skatin should be dane bi sonsie, swack, reid-chikkit ordnar fowk
Nae a velvet-hattit stumpie wi twa prune-stanes fur a dowp
Send the craitur tae the Urals, or the Diocese o Chichester
Or hire him as a doorman for the pan-loafs at the Dorchester

I ken that preachers rattle tins fur hameless ower the warld
I ken they prattle sermons, an tae halesome deeds are thirled
Bit thon cleric withe penguin's snoot I'd sheet doon wi a Winchester
Thon furlieorum cock-a-breekie vauntie skatin meenister

I'd raither watch peint dryin on the Forth Brig ony day
Than view thon theological stuffed dodo skyte at play
I wad hae him smored in Axminster, or banished tae Cape Finisterre
Thon spinnle-shankit nerra-dowpit Scottish skatin meenister!



5.The Paiddlin Wife an the Birdie

A birdie sat on a telegraph tree
I luikit at him an he luikit at me
An baith o's thocht 'Fit a queer ferlie! '
A phone line bird, an a wife in the sea.


6.November: A Scots owesett o a Poem bi John Clare

The kintra sleeps in haar frae mom till nicht;
An, gin the sun keeks throwe, 'tis wi a face
Blae, peely-wally roon, as tho meenlicht,
Her traivels feenished o her nichtly race,

Had fand him sleepin, an taen ower his place.
For days the shepherds in the parks micht be,
Fusslin alood, tae flocks they canna see.
Nae spirk o sky- blinfauld their steps they trace,
Ower howes, that seem wioot a buss or tree,
The feartie bawd syne hauf its flegs will tyne,
Cooryin doon aneth its girssy bower,
An barely meeves altho the shepherd gyangs
Nearhaun its hame, as tykes bowf in the stoor;
The wud shelt anely turns aroon tae glower
At fowk gaun by, syne knaps his hide again;
An dowie craws aside the road ower dour
Tae flee, tho' pelted bi the bygaun cheil;
Sae day seems turn'd tae nicht, an waukens ill.
The hoolet leaves her hidin-hole midday,
An flaps her grey wings in the tribblin licht;
The hoarse jay skreichs tae times aa run agley,
An smaa birds chirp an chitter wi affricht;
Sic ferlies fleg the superstitious vricht,
Fa dreams o ill-luck, cantrips, sair dismay;
Whylst coo-herds think the day a dream o nicht,
An aft grow fearfu on their lanely wye,
Fancyin that ghaisties wauken frae the mools o day.
Betimes the dwaumin weather will shakk aff
Its mochie prison roun - syne wins wauk lood;
Wi sudden steer the stertled widlan sings
Winter's returnin sang - cloud races cloud,
An hyne awa the warld coosts doon its shroud,
Swypin a streetchin circle frae the ee;
Storm upon storm in quick succession flee,
An o'er the sameness of the purple lift
Heiven's haun peints skyrie colours far clouds shift
Syne on it cams alang the widlan aiks
Wi sabbin ebbs, an stooshie gaitherin heicht;
The feart, hairse corbie in its cradle craiks,
An cushie doos in grip o fleg takk flicht,
Whyle the blue hawk hings o'er them up abune
The hedger hashes frae the storm begun,
Tae sikk a bield that's like tae keep him dry;
An foresters boo ower, the win tae shun,
Scarce hear amid the clash the poacher's gun.

The plooman hears its birrin roose begin,
An sikks an airt awa frae winter's dird;
Buttonin his jaiket closer tae his chin,
He boos an hashes ower the peltit yird,
Whyle clouds abune him in wud fury byle,
An wins drive heavy on the beatin rain;
He turns his back tae catch his braith awhyle,
Syne gaithers speed an faces it again,
Tae sikk aside the seggs his shepherd's harne
The loon that fleggith frae the shilpit wheat
The dowie craw - in ootgaun hurry wyves,
Aneth an ivied tree, his shelterin seat,
0 seggy flags an sedges bun in sheaves,
Or frae the park a teir o stibble thieves.
There he rnicht switherin sit, an entertain
His een wi merkin the storm-driven leaves;
Aft spyin nests far he spring eggs had ta'en,
An wishin simmer-time wis back again.
Sae rowes the month in mixter-maxter moods,
Sunsheen an shaddas, doonpish lood, an calms;
Ae oor <lees seelent ower the dwaumy wids,
The neist wakks lood wi a begeck o storms;
A trauchelt nyaketness the park deforms –
Yet mony a kintra soun, an kintra sicht,
Bides in the clachan still aboot the ferms,
Far wark's roch stooshie hums frae mom till nicht
Knells that the lugs o Industry delicht.
At hinnereyn the steer o darg is still,
An Industry her care awhile lats faa;
Fin Wmter cams fu forcey tae fulfil
His yearly weird, November's thrall ower aa
An stops the ploo, an haps the park in sna;
Fin cranreuch cauld steeks rikk in slaw delay,
An mellows on the buss the berries sma,
For teenie birds - syne Wark makks time for play,
Nocht but the threshers' flails wauk dowie day.


7.Fitty Gloamin

Doon at the fishin clachan, there's nae quines sheilin mussels
Or baitin lines wi mackerel. Nae loons wi ticht neives nettin,
Nae fishies, split an gutted, washed, satted and dried

Naebody's birsslin oatcakes ower the griddle
The kitchie fleers are spreid wi rugs, nae san
Nae Fitty fishers fecht hame throw the tide

The shacks an sheddies, oothouses, sit-ooteries
Haud secunt-haun TVs an roosty bikes,
A puckle gairden gnomes wi beilin peint
The antrin cat or bowfin gurly tyke
Washin still skelps ootbye, ships dowp in bottles
On stoory windae sills. Glaiss fishin wechts
Are door-stops, nudgin drift-wid ben the step

This is the kirkyaird o the fishin trade.
The cottages like ceemetery merkers
Hunker, backs tae the sea like auncient crones

Aybydan, iver cheengin, the sea's dreich sooch
Is Fitty's nearest neibour, an its auldest.
lnbye a playpark, a fishin boatie's turned tae a toy,
Tae cairry a catch o bairns.
The herbour an the docks, the stank o dulse
Is strang on the neb

Throw this warm gloamin, doonthe Fitty shore
A barfit quine, lang-shanked, for verra glee
Kicks up the san that happit mony's a wreck
The smachrie an the spindrift o the sea


8.PangurBan
Anon Irish 8fh Century Here, owersett inno Scots

Pangur Ban ma cat an me
Tis a sim'lar darg we dee
Huntin moosies, his delicht
Huntin wirds I sit aa nicht

Better than men's praise tae pree
Tis tae screive wi buik on knee
Pangur, likewise, nae upstert,
Lives tae cairry oot his airt


Tis richt blythe oor lives tae see
Aboot oor darg, fu eidently
Fin we hae, in generous meisur
Ploys that gie us oors o pleisur

Whiles a moosie frae a neuk
Rins near Panngur's raxxin cleuk
Whiles, ma hams will grup an get
A hale new meanin in its net

Agin the waa he sets his ee
Fierce an faist an sherp an slee
Agin the waa o wyceness, I
Aa ma pouers o kennin, try

Fin the moose lowps intae sicht
Fu is Pangur o delicht!
Aa the warld can gyang tae wrack
Fan a puzzle I can crack!

Sae thegither, we agree
Pangur Ban, ma cat an me
In oor hairts we finn oor bliss
I hae mine an he has his

Practice makketh cat an man
The perfect hunter, Pangur Ban
I win wyceness day an nicht
Turnin derkness inno licht


9.Waunderin Lane Amangst the Futterats
Inspired by the sight of six ferrets taking the air with their owners, near Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage

I traivelled lane amang the crowd
0 towrists far the ice-creams breed
Fin syne I saw, aa waukin prood
Sax futterats tethered on a lead
Aside the road, aneth the trees
Lowpin an snappin in the breeze.

Nae heedin larries' thunnerin roar
Drivin alang wi wechty load
Thon futterats socht jist tae explore
Alang the sheuch aside the road
Sax futterats, cam upon bi chaunce
Tossin their heids in sprichtly daunce

The fowk aside them glowered, bit they
Gaed breengin by wi futterat glee
A body cudna bit be gay
In sic a blythesome company

I luikit lang, bit little thocht
Fit joy thon sax tae me hid brocht.

Noo whyles, fin on ma duvet I
Lie doon in an unca ill-teen
I myne thon futterats dauncin by
They flash upon ma memory screen
An syne ma hairt near skips a beat
An lowps like thon sax futterats' feet


10..Bi the road Basho
In a hedgeraw, a rose
Ma shelt ett it


11.A Scots Owersett o a poem bi Han Shan,

Ina taigle o cliffs I wyled a neuk
Bird-wyes, bit nae pathies fur men.
Fit's ayont the yaird?
Fite clouds hingin on misty crags
Noo I've bidden here- foo mony years?

Ower an ower, Spring an Yule gyang by
Gae tell the families wi fantoosh gear an cars
Fit's the eese o aa than soun an siller?


12.Shanty Toon
Owersett from Shanty Town, by Orphan Veli Kanilc, Turkish,1914-1950

She sees a man in her dwaum
A toff wi a pye o a hunner liras
She merries, an meeves tae the toun
Letters cam tae their hoose
'The Blythe Reest Flats' in the sunks
They bide in a chaumer trig's a box
Nae mair washin claes. Nae mair washin windaes.
Gin she dichts a dish, it's her ain.

She has bairns like angels, like draps o licht.
She buys a secunt-haun pram
Foreneens she gyangs tae the Reid Crescent Gairdens,
Sae that wee Yilmaz micht play in the san
Like the bairns o toffs.

The keech-wirker's best dwaum
Is o the Turkish bath.
He stretches oot on a merble platform
A raw o masseurs raxx oot at his heid.
Ane poors watter
Ane soaps him
Anither wytes his shottie wi a loofah

As new customers cam inbye
The snaw-fite keech wirker quits the bath.


13.The Strang Notion
Owersett.frae 'The Distinct Impression', by B. Kennelly,
Irish, b 1936, from 'The Book of Judas'

I wis deliverin a bairn
In a midden o a chaumer in Keogh Square
The wumman warssled an maned in the bed
Swyte weetin her hair

Sax littlins gaithered an glowered at me
As I wirked at the howdiein
Aside her lay her man
Face tae the waa, whyles snoring

'Is it oot yet? ' he speared o a suddenty
Gin I'd a pail o bylin watter syne
I'd hae teemed it ower his skin.

I hid the strang notion
That the meenit the bairn wis ooto the wumman
Thon bastart wad be back in!


14.Scots owersett o poems bi Basho.

Flechs, flees
Ma shelt piddles richt
Aside ma bowster.


15.Aiberdeen Rap

Aabody come listen tae the Aiberdeen Rap
We've got golf, ile, excitement, on the global city map
Oor exhibition centre hauds twa thousand delegates
We'll pit commerce on the menu; we'll pit salmon on your plates
Aiberdeen's the city that the towrists like tae gyang
Wi leisur, fun an netwirkin, oor streets are unca thrang
We're the Dallas o the North, for oor ile expertise
Keeps the gas an ile flowin aa aroon the Seeven Seas
We hae bens an glens an mystery, we hae castles bi the score
We hae cherm, tradition, history; we hae restaurants bi the shore
Students flock frae mony kintras tae oor universities
We are famed the warld ower for oor cuttin-edge degrees
For a warld conference venue there is naethin that we lack
If yer lukin for a winner, Aiberdeen's the ane tae back!


16.At the Mou o the Moots: For John Law 25/10/1951- 13/2/2010

At the mou o the mools, gin ye'd speir
Fit mainner o chiel wis John?

Ay at the pynt o the pick like his faither afore him
A radical arch-organiser, wi electronic flair
Streetchin his warld frae Silicon Glen
Tae the Heichts o Macchu Pucchu,
On the wings o Chapman an barderie
Wi scarce a meenit tae spare
Ram-stam forrit, a chiel o causes an virr
Herdin the Scots leid on tae future paths wi the hairt o a Bruce
Wi a tongue as gleg as Garioch
Wi the hams o a lamed don Nae mony chiels like thon.

At the mou o the mools, gin ye'd speir
Fit consams lay close tae his briest?
Luv o his faimly, neebors, the wider clan
0 Virgil, Neruda an Soutar
Luv o the airts far his hyne-affkin tuik reest
Sooth Africa, Lanark, Mull,
The years gaen by in a glisk...
Niver ane tae coor frae a storm,
This skeely skipper o boats
Launched noo on his hinmaist voyage
Can bide content, haein steered a course fur Lallans
An aa Scots maitters politick an national
Ay wi a steidfaist haun tae eident herbours
Wirk an the screivers' darg, his keenest pleisurs
Sae wis't a winner, syne,
At the verra heicht o his pouers, he upped an flitted?
Auld age's bauchled sheen wad ne 'er hae fittit.


17.The Alien's Shoppin List

The Queen weirs gloves tae ett her tea
Sae I weir socks tae sweem
For as the queen maun hide her hauns
My taes should nae be seen.

A passin shark micht takk them fur
A tasty cheesy dish
Bit in ma skyrie strippit socks
He'll think they're jeely fish