A Matter Of Lunacy(Scots) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Foosht
Ye think yer priceless wirds'll be aybydan?
Dinna expose yer wirk tae watter or damp
Dinna pit pressure on yer buikie's bindin
Or it's tatties ower the side, like screiver's cramp

Ye think yer priceless wirds'll be aybydan?
Keep them ooto strang or ultraviolet lichts
Dinna store yer buiks in derk, cramped airts
Luik oot fur booklice, mould an fungi, mice at nichts

I'll gie yer daithless wirds ten years at maist
Aa thon hairt's deep ootpoorins aff yer chest
An aa yer lifetimes darg, turned intae aisse
Yer nemme a fitnote in the ongaun press


Painting of The Tennis Party: Sir John Lavery
Ye can smell the heat
Cam rikkin aff the girse
The swyte sypin aff the oxters
O the competitors
Fa'll win an fa'll be beat?

The tennis players are weirin expensive gear
Spectators watch frae the comfort o shaded trees
In the still air clouds o midgies heeze

Phut gaes the saft smack o the baa
Aff the strings o the bat

The players ower the net
Tense, hochs grippit ticht

A ripple o applause
Greets a rinnin volley
A sportswoman's hair hings
Damp an lowse an floppy


Portrait of a Hero: John Innes of Newburgh by James McBey
He sits as still's a stane
Like a daud o Nor East granite
Inscrutable's a Sphinx

He is weirin a blue fisherman's ganzie
A wine reid neckerchief
Derk bunnet, derk grey troosers
He is brunt bi the win an weather
Ruddy chikks, a neat trimmed mowser

In his saxties, grey haired,
An elder o the kirk
Coxswain o the Newburgh lifeboat
Fisher o men. Fit thochts
Lie back o thon sky blue een?
Sic fearsome tides he's seen!
The deck o a lifeboat droonin
Ower an ower
As the sea like auld Poseiden
Shaws its pouer


Clachnaben, Glen Dye
Wanderin willies brichten the sheughs
Derk pink wyvin touers on trimmlin stems
Gowd barley sheens an reeshles in the parks
Aneth the Quasimodo o the Bens

Clachnaben is caaed the deevil's bite
Auld Clootie chawed a daud o knowe frae it
It wis sae soor he spat the moothfu oot
An that's the tor, a granite wart o grit.

Fower times a year Blaik Sabbats were convened
Colin Massie wis the warlock o Glen Dye
Fa rode tae gaitherins on a muckle boar
Tae Craiglash or Lumphanan, pouerfu, sly
Thon days lang gaen, the glen o fowks near teem
Noo butterflees an hairst mice full the scene


The Murder o Murdoch Grant, pedlar,1830, Assynt
In the spring o echteen thirty years,
A pedlar chiel caad Murdoch Grant,
Gaen traivellin throwe the heilan glens
A place far he wis weel acquaint

Twis there he met wi Hugh McLeod
At lane Drumbeg, a dominie
Fa socht tae tryst wi him the morn
Tae see fit bargains he could gie

The pedlar vanished. Fower wikks passed
Loch Torr na h Eigen held the corpse
And Hugh McLeod, announced t he daith
Maun be an accident, of course

The pedlar's goods were stolen awa
His wardly gear, sae much he'd earn
Kenneth the Dreamer's veesion saw
The victim's gear aneth a cairn

His dream wis true. The chiel'd bin robbed
Fause Hugh McLeod hid left his schule
Spennin ower free, tho unemployed
His hame wis searched, that reiver cruel

He hid refused tae touch the corpse
Thon's superstitious styte he fumed
Murdoch wis howked up frae his grave
His battered body wis exhumed

His skull shawed merks o haimmer cloors
McLeod wis tried fur homicide
An later hung near Inverness
Cut doon tae be anatomized

Afore he deed, he dreamed the ghaist
O his auld faither pyntit, sly,
An open coffin an a grave
Tellin him there he sune wid lie

An fin he wauked tae meet his eyn
In Gaelic he sang haly psalms
Until the hangman wi his noose
Stoppit his singin, yark, mid cry


Doric Owersett of a poem by Gensei 17th century Japanese Buddhist monk-poet: Poem Without A Category
Trailin ma stick I gae doon tae the gairden edge,
caa tae a monk tae gae oot the pine yett.

A cup o tea wi ma mither,
luikin at each ither, enjoyin oor tea thegether.

In the deep lanes, fyew fowk in sicht;
the tyke barks fin onyone cams or gaes.

Autumn floods hae washed awa the planks o the brig;
shouderin oor sandals, we wyde the nerra burn.
Bi the roadside, a wee pavilion
far there eesed tae be a wee knowe:
it sains oor hermit mood;
kintra poems bigg ae sheet on anither.

I dabble in the burn, delichtit bi the shallowness o the watter,
keek at the flags, admirin foo firm the stanes are.

The pynt in life is tae ken fit's eneuch-
foo envy thn itherwarld immortals?
Wi the blytheness held in ae inch-squar hairt
ye can full the hale space atween heaven an the yird.

Doric Owersett o Quick and Bitter by Yehuda Amichai
The eyn wis faist an wersh.
Slaw an swete wis the time atween us,
slaw an sweet wir the nichts
fin ma hauns didnae touch ane anither in despair in the luve
o yer body that cam
atween them.

An fin I entered intae ye
it seemed syne that great blytheness
could be meisured wi precision
o sherp pain. Faist an wersh.

Slaw an swete wir the nichts.
Noo is wersh an grindin as san—
'Lat's be sensible' an similiar banns.

An as we traivel farrer frae luve
we multiplee the wirds,
wirds an sentences sae lang an orderly.
Hid we bedd thegether
we could hae becam a seelence.

Doric Owersett of the Apache Wedding Blessing
Noo ye will feel nae rain,
fur each o ye will be a bield fur the ither.

Noo ye will feel nae cauld,
fur each o ye will be warmth tae the ither.

Noo there will be nae laneliness,
fur each o ye will be frien tae the ither.

Noo ye are twa bodies,
Bit there is anely ae life afore ye.

May beauty encercle ye baith in the traivels aheid an throwe aa the years.
May blytheness be yer frien tae the airt far the watter meets the sun.
An may yer days be gweed an lang upon the yird.

Doric owersett of Gifts by Oodgeroo of the tribe Noonuccal (Australian Aborigines)
I will bring ye luve, said the young luver,
Pendants I will bring o the fite bane,
An skyrie parrot feathers tae deck yer hair.
Bit she anely shuik her heid.

I'll pit a bairn in yer airms, he said,
Will be a braw heidman, great rain-makker.
I'll makk remembered sangs aboot ye
That aa the clans in aa the traivellin camps
Will sing foraye.
Bit she wisnae impressed.

I'll bring ye the still meenlicht on the loch,
An rype fur ye the singin o aa the birdies;
I'll bring doon the stars the lift tae ye,
An pit the bricht wattergaw intae yer haun.
No, she said, bring me tree-grubs.

Doric Owersett of a poem by Anna Akhmatova
He lued three things in life:
Evensang, fite peacocks
An auld maps o America.
He hatit it fin bairnies grat,
An I wis his wife.

Doric Owersettin of The Sun is Setting/ The Moon Poem by John Clare
The sun is settin. The dyews are weetin
The girse in the lea an doonbye the green lane
The clouds sail mair low an traivel on slaw
Tae the tap o the knowe an ootower the main
Leavin the hedges an busses full sune
Tae the sleep o the nicht an the licht o the meen

Alane in the gloaming far beauty is traivellin
Alang the green lane bi the licht o the meen
Wi bonny breist risin swete dreams she is wyvin
In hopes that her luver may tryst wi her sune
Boughs steer as a bird hashes intae its nest
An the thochts o her luver lowp up in her breist.

She passes the wud brier far booin the mild lug
Tans broon fur the hairst that's aa mistit wi dyew
The birds in the busses, leverocks in the seggs
An the heich swatch o teazles an thrissles reid- blue.

The sunset is haived tae the edge o the warld
Like a millstane reid hett oot o nicht tae return
Noo it waxes aa dim an its uppermaist rim
Is aa that is seen o thon cercle o fire.

The lassie wauks lanely wi her luve an that anely
Delichtit wi meenlicht an shaddas o eve
Nicht an day aa are brierin in natur an wumman
Fur baith are truth's pleisurs wi naethin tae murn.


Doric Owersett of The Vixen by John Clare
Amang the heicher wid wi ivy hung,
The auld tod plays an daunces roon her young.
She sniffs an barks gin ony passes by
An sweys her tail an turns set up tae flee.
The horseman hashes by, she lowps tae see,
An turns again, frae danger niver free.
Gin ony stauns she rins amang the poles
An barks an snaps an flegs them in the holes.
The shepherd sees them an the loon gaes by
An takks a stick an powks the hole tae try.
They get aa still an lie in safety sure,
An oot again fin aathin is secure,
An stert an snap at blackies stottin by
Tae fecht an catch the great fite butterflee.