Heavenly Cow Of Thebes (21 Poems In Scots) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.Luxor Museum

Horus & Hathor, Nut, Bastet & Neth;
Sobek & Nephrys, Neferteri, Amun;
Atum, Thoth, Khapri, Mut, Khepri and Seth,
Isis, Osiris, Anubis & Khnum.

Howked frae the past, staun the gods on their plinths
Each ane a castaway, unner the lichts
Rugged frae their meanin, their warld an their time
Nae preservation can show us the sichts
They saw, afore Moses wis fand in the Nile
Fit mysteries, ecstasies, lie yont each smile?


2. Ozymandias Revisited

There aince wis a poem aboot fame
Writ by Percy….noo fit wis his name?
Tourists heeze by the score
Ramses’ works tae adore
Denigration’s a sliddery game.

3. Queen Hatshepsut.

Flashback (based on an eyewitness report)

Aince fountains filled this avenue, an myrrh,
(Ten gunmen cam tae a temple nearby Luxor
I think oor guides kent straicht aff there wis tribble)
Importit frankincense, Queen Hatshepsut’s delicht.
(Twa guairds war killt, their bluid byled on the san)
Cut in the Theban hills, sic pouer, sic grace!
(Ae group drew near the heezin temple steps)
Thon auncient Queen, could she be o the race
O Sheba, best-lued quine o Solomon?
(We fled inno the temple. We war trapped.
A secunt group o gunmen turned an fired)
Foo straicht an wide the steps, foo cweel the tomb!
(Some polis ran an stertit firin back.
There wis a rowth o gunfire…rowth o soun)
Foo fine, tae breath the styew o history!
(Though they war frichtit they were sent wi pistols
Inno the knowes tae snuff the gunmen oot)
This is the aff-peak sizzen, hett bit quate
It maun be pandemonium at its wirst.


4. The Crocodile God: Sobek

The ultimate in doonricht dehydration,
Crocodile mummy in the sanny wame o the derk
Flash bulbs pit flame in yer een

I hauf expeck ye tae slidder inno the Nile
By sugar cane an corn
Like a lit touch-paper

Fishermen worshipped ye,
Killer o their kind.
Made friens wi the enemy.
Lued him, even.
Daith, wi the green back,
The glentin teeth.


5. Aga Khan (Aga Khan III 1877-1957)

The desert sans are hett’s a lowe
The desert sun’s a flame
An naethin steers bit poodered yird
An bits o birssled bane

Yet in this lan far naethin growes
There wis an unca thing
A single rose that ilkie day
Flooered on a beeriet king

At gloamin time, the rosebud dwined
At dawn, twis fair an fresh
As wis the love that wattered it
Sae constant untae Daith.


6. Hathor

Hymn to Hathor, giver of love, embodiment of passion
(owersett in Scots from a translation by John L. Foster in Hymns, Prayers & Songs, Society of Biblical Lit.1995)

Let me worship the gowden ane
Let me reese oot the queen of Heiven
Let me gie praise tae Hathor
An sing in blytheness tae her celeestial sel.

I prig her tae lippen tae ma plea
That she sen me ma mistress noo
An she hersel come tae see me.

Sic ferlies fin last thon happent!
I wis jocose, I wis blessed, I wis vauntie
Frae the meenit fowk quo, ‘Tak tent o her!
See, here she comes, garrin the young lads boo
Throwe their muckle passion fur her! ’

Let me offer ma braith tae the goddess
That she gie me ma love as a giftie.

It is fower days noo I hae prayed in her name
Let her be wi me the day.


7.At Philae: The Pearl of Egypt

At Philae in the lichtsome breeze
Acacia, eucalyptus, date
Scarce gee ava the simmer heat
Far tourist guides warssle tae sate
The swytin hordes that trail ahin
Them reivin skirps o Isis lear
They canna get eneuch it seems,
O Egypt’s loves an Egypt’s dreams

Queen Isis, on yer temple’s sides
Godfrey Levinge, R. Langton, Mure
Hae hackit oot their nochtie names
On column, plaque and sacred flair
Foo wad some peely-wally nyaff
(Frae Acton, London, says the rock)
Connach a shrine, a sanctuary…?
Wis his life sic a bore, puir stock?

A war memorial fur Sudan
By order o the British State
Is here, in biggins vrocht fur love
Names that nae pharoah cud translate

Bit Fred, or Bert, or Mike or Phil
Are aywis wytin in the wings
Tae scrat their wirthless monikers
Upon the gowden robes o kings


8. Cleopatra (69-30BC)

Priestess o Isis, seed o kings
Born tae a croun, by servants fanned
Frailty, her strength. She could makk aa
Boo tae the Queen o Love’s command

Rowed in a cairpet as a gift, she
Conquered the Caesar in her lan
Made the great Roman General
Boo tae the Queen o Love’s command

Romans despised her. Fan her lord
Dee’d, as the happed assassins planned,
Beauty wis eeseless. Nane wad noo
Boo tae the Queen o Love’s command

See her in barge wi gowden stern
Purple sails by her broon quines, manned,
Perfumed – noo wad Mark Antony
Boo tae the Queen o Love’s command

Wakken the asp an milk its fang
Hither, Anubis, pairt the san
Open the yetts nae mortal sees
Boo tae the Queen o Love’s command


9. Touchin Doon

Touchin doon, the langed-fur Nor East cweel
Wis absent. We’d flown frae the fryin pan
Inno the fire. The hettest simmer in a hunner years

While we’d bin in Luxor, citizens anon,
Israel hid made war on Lebanon

Onythin tae declare? the customs speired
Sabah al ishtar…mornin o cream tae ye
I thocht, bit kept ma tongue atween ma teeth


10. The Time Travellers’ Convention

Bring a pairtner tae the Ceilidh
Dress informal, the invite stated
At the time traivellers’ convention.

Mary Queen o Scots arrived hersel
Signed up fur speed-datin.
Said she wis a romantic,
Cud lose her heid ower the richt chiel.

The sheik in the tartan troosers
Turned oot tae be Rabbie Burns
Wi a bevy o beauties he’d gaithered
On his traivels.

John Knox tuik charge o the raffle
The kirk being eesed tae collectin
Naebody socht him fur a lady’s choice.

Lord Byron niver missed a single dance
In the Gay Gordons. He wis last tae leave.

The Loch Ness Monster, playin watter music,
Last seen wis reelin roon bi Ailsa Crag
Wi thirteen kelpies and a Shetlan silkie.

Feedback suggests they’ll aa be back neist year
11.The Dig

The rich or pouerfu are beeriet inby this kirk.
The dig is a lanscape o lanterns
A catacomb of timmer planks an pits. The stoor is grey.
Sticky wi swyte, archeologists dunt centuries inno trays
Barin brittle banes frae their cloots o clay.

Grave robbers maun weir masks.
Disturbin the deid hauds dangers
Spores, lang sleepin, steered bi the win micht blaa
Cholera, leprosy, rickets, consumption, ague
Whetted the scythe that swypt hale streets awa.

A teenage Covenanter, deid o the pox,
A surgeon, deid o the plague,
A medieval pilgrim, weirin a pilgrim’s badge
Oor Lady o Peety…fa didnae intercede
Tae challenge the smit that ett her disciple’s limbs;
A cheil o fifty, a siller hairt in his ribs,
A wumman’s brooch…his mistress? dother? wife?
Naebody kens. It his ootlived his passion an his love.
A bairn in a kist, its heid on a stane pillow,
Laired here afore the first kirk iver rose.

Skeletons mortally woundit in duel or battle
A magistrate, fas wirds nae langer prattle
A rake. His pride is noo a poodered pestle.
Lairds an dignitaries surface, lees o a past Zeitgeist
Skirps o lace on their baney wrists an shanks
Clay pipes haudin tobaccay. Bane buttons, a fine silk hat,
A loon’s marble…a pair of yirdy dice.
Fishbanes, frae midden or feast.

The rich or powerful war beeriet inbye this kirk
They hae gane the wye o its auncient, sonorous bells –
St Nicholas, St Mary an Auld Lowrie –
Crashin inno the nicht, wi aisse an flames.

Five hunner years thon bells rang ower oor toun
Foo mony citizens noo myne their names?


12.North East Toun

Stars skinkle ower a parkin lot
Hubcaps an bonnets shine wi frost
Like mowdies, weariet shoppers skail
Oot frae the mall, bood doon bi copst
O stappin stammachs, heatin hames.
Twa bats gae flichterin fae the trees
Raggety cloots o hungered wames.

Ice surfs the waves. Black spires luik doon
Icicle kirks in this cauld toon
An hoasts hack deeper in the briest
O fowk fa thole the cauld the least
Slipt somehou frae the shelterin goun
O him fa wore the thorny croun?


13.The Rug

I am swypin the rug I bocht last wikk in toun.
It is indestructible. It is the colour o reid clay.
It will spen oors here, possibly years
Watchin my skin dwine tae the colour o perchment.
I could growe tae resent it, this ferlie, this nae-body
Secure in its ain boundaries,
Impervious tae rot.
The March Past

Yestreen, buits merched up the street
Stoppit the pulse o the toun
Battalions paraded,
Cogs in the war machine
An they were oors,
Receivin the toun’s freedom.

Doos cooed an flichtered. The provost spakk.
A loon saluted wi a bairn’s solemnity
Tae naebody in particular, tint in his ain fecht
As if a sheathed sword lay on a bed o roses
Tae be feted, aa petals an perfume
Nae bluid an thorns tae stain the civic meenit.

14. Six Owersetts frae Cien sonetos de amor (100 love sonnets) by Pablo Neruda,1986, University of Texas Press

IV

Ye’ll myne thon lowpin burn
Far sweet yoams raise an trimmlit
An whyles a birdie, weirin watter
An slowness…its yuletide feathers.

Ye’ll myne thon gifts frae the yird
Scents foraye gowd glaur,
Weeds in the sheugh an reets agley,
Eildritch thorns like swords.

Ye’ll myne thon posie ye wiled
Shadda an watter’s seelence
Posie like a foam-happit stane.

Yon time wis like niver an like foraye
Sae we gyang there, far naethin’s wytin
We fin aathin wytin yonner

V1

Tint in the wids, I brukk aff a derk twig
An hystit its fusper tae ma droothy mou
Mebbe it wis the soun o rain, greetin
A brukken bell, or a riven hairt.

A hyne-aff ferlie it seemed
Deep an secret tae me, hapt bi the the yird
A skreich smored bi muckle autumns
Bi the sappy derkness o hauf-opened leaves

Waukenin frae the dwaumin widlans yonner, the hazel-sprig
Sang aneth ma tongue....its wauchtit sweetness
Climmed up ben ma harns.

As if o a suddenty, the reets I’d left ahin
Cried oot tae me, the lan I’d tint wi ma bairntime
An I devauled, scoored bi the traivellin scent.

XXIV

Luv, luv, the clouds gaed up the touer o the lift
Like bigsy washerweemin – an it aa
Glimmered in blue like the ae starnie
The sea, the boatie, the day aa exiled thegither.

Come, teet at the geans o the watter in the weather
The roon key tae the Aa that is sae quick:
Come, touch the lowe o this teet-bo blue
Afore its petals dwine.

There’s naethin here bit licht, pucklies, boorichs
Space caad ajee bi the graces o the win
Till it gies upo the hinmaist secret o the faem.

Amang sae mony blues…blues o Heiven, drooned blues
Oor een are a thochtie raivelled: they can scarce makk oot
The pouers o the air, the keys tae the seas in the secrets.

XXIX

Ye came frae poverty, frae the hooses o the sooth
Frae the roch landscapes o cauld an o yird’s mishanter
That gied us – efter thon gods hid tummelt
Tae their daiths – the lear o life, vrocht in glaur.

Ye are a wee sheltie o black glaur, a kiss
O derk dubs, ma dearie, a poppy o glaur
Doo o the gloamin that flew alang the roads
Piggy-bank o tears frae oor puir bairntime.

Wee body, ye’ve keepit the hairt o poverty in ye
Yer feet eased tae sherp rocks
Yer moo that didna aye hae breid or sweeties.

Ye cam frae the puir Sooth, far ma soul wis seedit
In thon heich lift yer mither’s ay washin claes
Wi ma mither. Thon’s foo I chose ye, best lued.

XXXVIII

Yer hoose souns like the train at noon.
Bees bizz, pots sing,
The linn tells fit the saft rain did.
Yer lauch reels oot its trill like a palm tree

Comes like a kintra loon wi a singin telegram
The blue licht o the waa claiks wi the rocks, an yonner –
Climmin the knowe, atween twa fig trees wi the green voice –
Comes Homer in his quaet sheen.

Anely here the toun has nae voice, nae moo, naethin sae
Forcey, nae sonatas, skirls or car toots: here,
Insteid, a quaet foregaitherin o linns an lions

An ye – fa rises, sings, rins, wauks, boos
Plants, shews, cooks, haimmers, screives – comes back –
Or hae ye left? (Syne I’d ken the Winter hid stertit.)

LXXXVII

Three birds o the sea, three sun-glisks, three shears
Crossed the cauld lift fur Antofagasta:
Yon’s foo the air wis left trimmlin
Foo aathin trimmlet like a hurtit flag.

Alaneness, gie me the sign o yer eynless birth-stangs
The path – scarce even thon – o the coorse birds
The hairt-flichter that aywis comes
Afore hinney, music, the sea, a birth

(Alaneness held gaun bi the ae physog-
Like a quet, slaw flooer aywis ootraxxed-
Till it wins tae the sma heezin boorichs o the lift)

Cauld wings o the sea, o the archipelago, gaed
Fleein aff tae the sans o nor-east Chile.
The nicht yarked tee its heivenly snib.


15. The Bonnieness o Trees

I hae discovert the bonnieness o trees
Foo they meeve like watter ben the tides o air
The birk like a faist jaad shakkin doon her hair
The larick that showds, auld man in a creakin cheer

Trees growe far they faa, their weird has decreed it sae
A bield alike fur nightingale an craa.


16. A Letter tae Julius Caesar frae the Provinces

Ye hae yer warships, Caesar, breistin the faem wi their prows
Reid wi bluid as the flames o Vulcan’s bellows.

Stang o a kittlit viper, we hae oor coracles, bobbin burn tae burn
They cairry Daith frae clan tae clan as weel as ony galley.

I’m telt yer senators shroud thirsels in togas
Gie the hee-haw tae oor hame-spun worsit, oor skins o wolf an deer.

Craw on – yer claith cuts nae ice ower here
Nae toga haps the hide agin cranreuch cauld.

Yer weemin? Feech! A puckle peintit hoors
Ower prood tae skivvy fur their weddit men.
Oor wives can brew oor ale an bake bere breid
Can stap the cradle fu o warriors
Smeddum an sweirity’s in their breist milk
They cry the coronach abeen oor deid.

Mithras? We wish him weel. We hae Cernunnos
He’s hauf cheil, hauf stag, greater nur ony Pan.

Yestreen aneth the meen in the starn-cercle
The Druids saw yer Empire caad tae smush
Yer Senate hummlit in the hurlygush
Yer statue cowped like ony rotten log
Banned frae the Crack o Doom frae Tir-nan-Og
Whilst we survive, bairns o the mist, the bog.


17.Tempus Fugit(ii)

Foxglove hings its dwinin heid
Blossoms wauchtin aff the tree
Nettles fiery in the sheugh
Aathin fair or foul maun dee.

Here’s a ram in Simmer’s warmth
Jaw an backbeen cad ajee
Een are teem o starnie-licht
Aathin fair or foul maun dee.

Jade bluebottle, drappit gem
Bonnie tho her colours be
Flicht will fail an wing will fauld
Aathin fair or foul maun dee.

Mavis wheeplin in the birk
Mistress o sweet minstrelsie
Even sic a sang will eyn
Aathin fair or foul maun dee

See the chunnerin kirkyaird wirm
Crawlin ben the blackie’s ee
Dwinin as the sizzens birl
Aathin fair or foul maun dee.


18.Rain-Mandala

I hae left a lan o haar tae enter a lan o mist.
Ahin, the ghaistly masts o fremmit boats
Moored bi the herbour waa, showdin like anchored isles.

The spires o my cauld toon climm inno their airy lair
Tae disappear like spindrift in faddomless cloud.

Mist is eildritch, a state o possibilities
Here bide the three weird sisters in their airt
The rain’s an incantation, the licht’s bit
Schmoodrachs o watter, glentin aff drookit leaves.

Haar haps oor kennin o the fowk aroon.
Relationships, like roads ye wauk on bye
Nae seein the wids fur the trees
Or seein them, daurna explore fur fear o cliffs
That micht or michtna lead us tae oor doom
Wer’re aa o’s blin men tappin sichtless forrit.
19. Thomas Blake Glover: The Scottish Samurai

Scottish Samurai,
Heich pine amang the Bonsai
Swappit scones fur sushi
Japan’s adopted hero,
Ben mushroom clouds an efter.


20. Chez Nous

I didnae cheenge the front. Same cooncil door
The gairden’s minimal … girse, ivy, trees
Deliberately a soss, sae nae tae tease
The burglar inno sikkin tae explore.

Ten years syne it luikit ower the river.
Reid tods slipped like sodjers aff the leash;
Noo, supermerket chynes hae found their niche
Health Club’s arrived, a bigsie biggit neebour.

The traffic thunners forrit, thunners back
My bairns left, for traivel, wirk or lover
The hoose sank inno cauld an disregard.
Noo ane’s returned, his life in ane rucksack
Tae soothe wioot the lullaby is hard.


21. May Journey tae the Broch

A coo stauns in a puil o its ain shadda
The sea’s an ice rink sliddery wi shine
A corbie beats the back o tides o air.

A Saltire’s flyin in this bare domain
Dykes an fences steek a quaker’s quilt
A sheugh o saffron saris, breem’s a riot.

Tarmac veins are ticht wi whizzin wheels
Byres an barns hae internet connections
Yowes humph their taiglit fleece atween fower shanks.

A tattie-bogle weirs a Texan Stetson.
Mintlaa’s a merriematanzie cars birl roon.
A reaper roosts, doonpitten in a neuk.
Dung smuchters unner aipple blossom spray
Strichen’s a kirk that isn’t yet a pub
Young mas wauk by, wringin their ringless hauns.
A lifebelt’s propped aside a navy door
The air grows satty near the Nor Sea’s faddoms
An syne the Broch, its anchor still the herbour.