Nest Of Tongues Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.The Richt Fool Moch

Her bairns wir barkit ahin the lugs
A richt fool moch fowk styled her
An it wis a winner tae ane an aa
That some chiel’d aince beguilt her

Her yaird wis a midden o orra trock
Teemed bottles an roosty cookers
An the anely bath her bairnies kent
Wis the sea fin they wore their dookers

Bit gin ye sud bann her roch set oot
Wi a shakk o her hudderie heid
She’d gie a bit lauch an tell ye straicht
There’ll be hooses here fin yer deid.


2.Mainsgill Farm, Yorkshire

I’m Kevin, the Bactrian camel
I wallop ma tail back an fore
I watch aa the brosie faced diners
Queuin up at the ferm café door

I share this girse park wi three ithers
Ae Friesian an twa Charlie coos
Fin we’re scunnered o glowerin at hoodies
We forgaither an hase a bit news

See the fowk queuin up for their eerins
A pyokie o tatties an leeks
Syne they’ll veesit the breets roon the sheddies
Fyle the bairns caa the dowps frae their breeks

I’ve a fine heid on ma napper
Ilkie fit is splayed oot like a bap
I’m a thochtie knock kneed an gey hairy
An ma neb dribbles snot like a tap

I pose for ma photie wi pleisur
I’m the sheik in a lan fu o sharn
I hae seen desert san in ma traivels
Nae like thon glekit stirks in the barn


3.October, Deeside

The picnickers hae worn awa
Frae neuks o brig an lochan
An clouds are wechty, dowie, grey
As fower days steepit brochan

The yalla aik, the dwinin birk
Tell Autumn’s hashin forrit
The mornin frost, like futterat’s teeth
Nips faces like a worrit

The craas gae hirplin ower the parks
Like bodachs sair an hippit
The moosie breenges ben the sheugh
Faist pechin, fearie fittit

Nae luvers dauchle bi the Dee
Fowk heid for hame, weel happit
An ilkie Barn frae Birse tae Coull
Wi strae an hey are stappit

A cauldrife month, tae dirl the lugs
Gransires gyang hirplin roon
Auld age is skatin on thin ice
Ae shakk, the leaf faas doon


4.Overheard on the Girvan train

Her sister Meg’s quick on the uptakk
At coortin she niver wis slow
Her Willie’s nae cauld in his coffin
She’s anither man on the go

Puir Mary McWhirter frae Wigtoon
Whan widdaed…a sair-duntin blow…
Tho willin, drew nae mair admirers
Tho her step wis as licht as her dough

Daith turns aff the tap o the nuptials
Bit dis nocht tae the pipes doon ablow
Aince the wellspring o passion’s been tappit
There’s naethin can dam up the flow


5.A Heeze o Poets, Midnicht, Callander

Up the furlin stairwye is Rapunzel’s neuk
‘Let doon yer beard, ’ fowk prigg tae the hoose’s maister
‘Sae we micht rype yer kitchie o its delichts.’

Ae poet’s ootraxxed on a chaise longue
Breathin in the bumbazement o the airt
Far a murderet corp aince lay

Caunles bleeze ootbye in the nicht gairden,
Greetin their waxxy pearlins doon siller caunlesticks
Reived frae Miss Havershan’s chaumer

In the secret greenhoose ahin a flooerygazebo
Mangst the tomataes an doverin heids o fruits
The mistress o the hoose keeks up at the starnies
Fuspers poems tae the wyver, asleep in its moosewab

At the foun o a parked car, a bard o the road
Lies huggin his scrawny knees aneth his kilt
Fylst sprauchled langshanks in an office
Anither poet dreams this Chagall nichtscape


6. Owersettin Coo at Cwid (1925: Bertolt Brecht)

Agin the byre boord wi raxxed dyewlap
She chaws on bales o hey, bit gey polite
Chaws thirty times or mair on ilkie bite
Sooks ilkie dreep frae strae that seeps its sap

Her blearie een are auld’s her teuchened pelt,
Her past’s ahin, aa’s left’s tae chaw the cwid
The years hae cweeled the life-lust in her bluid
She’s nae caad aff her stot bi shocks, I’m telt

An fin she wirks her jaws, some coo-herd wrings
Wi swyty hauns, thick milk frae the puir breet
It cud be claes-pegs nippin on her teat
She disna gie a docken fur sic things

Fit’s on the go? The auld coo disna care
As, drappin sharn she meets the gloamin air


7.Auld Yowe

The raggedy duds o her oo
Hing frae her taigelt dowp
She bleats throwe her yalla teeth
Like a dottled wife or a gowk

Her horns like haunlebars
O a roosty bike, boo roon
An she glowers at the passin fowk
Wioot twa thochts in her croon

Her lammies hae lowped awa
Her mission in life is dane
An the stars keek doon on her plicht
Keek doon, wi their hairts o stane

Hynie awa an heich
The stars in their glamourie
They show nae peety nor luv
At life, fin it’s like tae dee

Niver spare ae consarn
Fur aeons it’s bin like thon
An the auld yowe creaks in her banes
At the wirms she stauns upon


8.Holland

Holland’s a lan that lues the weet
Its sappy parks are framed bi watter
Seggs wyve aside its lang canals
Far antrin herons wyde an splyter

Barges an punts gyang glidin by
Aa’s smeeth’s a skatin rink o ice
Nae humphy howes nor muckle bens
The sea could droon it in a trice

Inbye the roadside ettin neuk
The tatrtrie fermers o Van Gogh
Dowp doon tae their MacDonald fries
For aa feed noo frae global troch

Pylons raxx up on spinnle shanks
Haudin thin wires on shargeret fingers
A kirn o motorwyes furl roon
Reamin wio trailers…sleek humdingers

For taddies, puddocks, dyeuks an eels
Holland maun be a Shangri la
Gin aa the watter dykes fell doon
They’d hae the governance o aa


9.A Piddlin Affair

In Germany ye pye tae pee- near 70 pence, a dear doonpish
The lavvie seat furl roons fin pressed, bit losh be here, it disna flush

Here, wyes are different. Fooshtie dugs gyang snocherin roon the wee cafes
An sausages are three fit lang: eneuch tae burst the slackest steys

The soup, I maun allow, is gweed. The baps are saft an licht eneuch
Bit 70 pence tae drap yer drawers? Man, thon tae thole is unca teuch


10.Bishop Hatto: Scots owersett of God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop by Robert Southey

The simmer an autumn had bin sae weet,
That in winter they hidna hairsted wheat,
'Twis a peetifu sicht tae see aa roon
The grain lie rotten an battered doon

Ilkie day the hungry thrang
Chapped at the Bishop’s door fur lang,
An aa cud tell, tho he wadnae deal
His barns wi corn were stappit weel
Syne Bishop Hatto set a date
Fur the puir tae cam tae his great estate
He telt them tae cam tae his Barn richt faist
For food, as lang as the cauld should laist

Delichtit sic kind wirds tae hear
The puir fowk gaithered frae far an near;
The muckle barn wis fu twa-fauld
Wi weemen an littlins, young an auld.

Syne, fin he kent it cud haud nair mair
He steekit the door an he lauched fu sair
They prayed fur mercy ahin the waa
Bit he kinnelt the Barn and brunt them aa.

'I'faith 'tis a hairty bonfire! ' quo he,
'An the kintra sud be obleeged tae me,
For riddin the lan o the puir low-born
Like rattens that canna pye fur corn.'

Sae back tae his palace fu gleg gaed he,
An he sat doon tae supper richt merrily,
An he slept thon nicht like an angel mangst men
Bit Bishop Hatto ne’er sleepit again.

In the mornin as Hatto enter'd the haa
Far his pictur hung agin the waa,
A swyte like daith cam ower his face
For the Rattens had etten it oot of its place.

As he lookit there cam a man frae his park
Wi his chikks as fite as a corpse’s sark;
' I luiked roon yer granaries this morn,
An the Rattens hae eatten aa yer corn.'

Anither cam rinnin his cape ajee,
An he wis pale as pale cud be,
'Flee! ma Lord Bishop, flee, ' quo he,
'Ten thoosan Rattens are come this wye
The Lord forgie ye for yesterday! '

'I'll gyang tae ma touer on the Rhine, ' quo he,
''Tis the safest neuk in Germany;
The waas are heich an the shores are steep,
An the river’s strang an the watter’s deep.'

Bishop Hatto, terrified, hashed awa,
An he crossed the Rhine afore day’s daw,
An reach'd his touer, an snibbed richt ticht
Aa the windaes, yetts, that loot in day licht

He laid him doon an steeked his een
But a skirl like the torture o hell fire sune
Gart him wauken an see a thing in a dwaum
On his bowster, thon’s far the skreichin cam.

He listened an lookit; ... twis anely the Cat;
Bit the Bishop he grew mair feart for that,
For she sat skirlin, wud wi fear
At the Army of Rattens drawin near.

For they hae swam over the river sae deep,
An they hae sclimmed up the shores sae steep,
An up the Touer they are aa intent,
Tae dae the wirk for which they wir sent.

They cudna be coontit bi ten nor three
By thoosans they cam sae faist, sae slee
Sic nummers hid niver bin heard o afore,
Sic a judgment cam tae the Bishop’s door

Doon on his knees the Bishop fell,
Faister an faister his beads tae tell,
As louder an louder drawin near
The gnawin o teeth wis aa he cud hear.

An in at the windaes they rummle, they steer,
An helster-gowdie they poor ower the fleer
An doon frae the ceilin an up throwe the stair,
Frae the richt an the left, withoot dauchlin or care
Frae inbye an oot, frae abune an aneth,
They rin fur the Bishop wioot drawin braith

They hae whetted their teethies agin the stanes,
An noo they pyke on the Bishop's banes:
They gnaw'd the creash frae his ilkie limb,
For they wir sent tae serve judgment on him!


11. The Siren of the Rhine: Owerset in Scots of The Lorelei by Heinrich Heine (1798-1856) , written in 1823

I wish I kent far it cam frae
This waeness creepit ower me.
The ghaist of an auncient legend
That willnae let me be.
The air is cweel in the gloamin
Sae gently rins the Rhine;
A Ben in the settin sunlicht
Catches the dwinin shine.

The heichest peak still glimmrin
It shaws, enthroned in the air,
A Sireen tint in her dwaumin
Caimbin her gowden hair.
Wi gowden caimb she straiks lichtly
Her hair as she sings her sang;
Echoin ben the gloamin
Her eildritch voice sae strang.

The boatman has heard, it has thirled him
He’s catched bi luve’s tyranny
He's blin tae the reefs that engird him,
The maid is aa he can see
An noo the wud watters awauken
Syne boat an boatman are gane.
Aa this, is fit wi her singin,
The Lorelei has dane.


12. The Coo’s Tail

Hae ye iver hid the misfortune
Tae gyang fur a bus trip yersel
Wi a hantle o ithers aside ye
An the ane that they caa ‘The Coo’s Tail? ’

She’s aywis the hinmaist back, treetlin,
Fin ye’ve grun yer teeth doon tae the line
(Hauf an oor she kept aabody wytin)
Cryin, ‘Mercy, is thon the richt time? ’

In a pit stop tae veesit the wattery
Search parties gaed, thinkin she’d deid
Bit na, she’d bin on the phone bletherin
Wi her mobile clappt hard tae her heid

Syne tae makk the time up, things are nippit
Ye’ve tae swallae yer fly at tap speed
Bit the coo’s tail is shameless an brazen
She’s bedd back for a secunt bit breid

Coos’ tails, I’s avow, should be libbit
Should be dockit afore they leave hame
Bit wioot a coo’s tail tae poor scorn ower
We’d need some ither body tae blame