Scots Poems From Kye Gaun Hame Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Gecko
Inbye a Buddhist Temple by the Kwai
Wi fitewashed waas. A Budddha. Simple shrine
Cweel, shady, yalla flooers in a pot
Twa incense sticks, I watched their rikk entwine

A gecko in the seelence catched ma ee
It didnae girn aboot the incense scent
Thon Asian gecko, seemed tae unnerstaun
That ritual, tae some, wi mantra blent

Makks it seem sweter. As I sat alane
I thocht that in the West, jist ae complaint
Means ither fowk maun boo doon an kowtow
I thocht thon gecko maun hae bin a saint


On Keepin a Stag
Fin I wis wee
I ained an inveesible pet
A Royal stag, wi boskers o antlers

He follaed me hame frae the Heilans
Intae the stoory toun.

I wid watch him in oor spunk box o a gairden
Pawin the grun afore the peony roses

Vauntie. A bobbydazzler o a breet
A stammygaster
Like me he missed the freedom o the Bens
The gairden grippit him in
Inbye he grat, because he couldnae rin

Ae day he vanished, maun hae lowped the yett
Takkin ma young hairt wi him back tae the heilan air
The muir, its burns, the ferns
Tae bide aneth the sun, the mune, the starns

Ghaists
I wauk ben streets an luik ahin the waas.
I think upon the ghaists o fit's dinged doon
The orchards, ferms, the pleisunt wids an braes
The ghaists doon trodden bi the growin toun

Far aince ma great gransire kept dairy kye
On parks o girse an clover, roamin free
Noo stauns a schule, a librar boorded up
A shut-doon kirk, puirtith fur aa tae see

I steek ma een, an thon tint kintra rises
It haunts the cassies, shops, graffiti-scoored
Ghaists canna rowe back time, tae sweter days
Aa harbours cheenge an Time canna be moored


The Aiblich
Bampot, bauchle, bawheid, boozer
A carnaptious, glekit minger
He's a feartie, gomeril, gowk
Numpty, nyaff, a plookie scunner

A radge, a sumph, a shilpit tumshie
Dis his mither ken he's oot?
A face like a skittery hippen
Wi a tongue wid clip a cloot

Ma Faither as a Coal Scuttle
Ma faither wis the fuel that hett the hoose
Solid an siccar, faimily wis his aa
Fin he wis hame, the warld wis couthie, crouse
Nae maitter if ootbye wersh wins should blaw
He gied his life tae keepin aabody safe
Thon sookit aa the smeddum frae his sides
The hungered flames ett up his inbye virr
The fuel that wis ma faither cheenged tae aisse


Language Event:
Doric Owersetts of Questions & Answers, (independent of meaning) between Suzanne Muzard & Andre Breton (Surrealists)

Fit's a kiss?
An incoherence. Aathin faas doon

Fit's daylicht?
A nyaakit wumman dookin at nichtfaa

Fit's rapture?
It's a drap o ile in a burn

Fit are een?
The nicht watchie in a perfume factory…

Fit's a bed?
A fan faist opened. The soun o a birdie's wing


Extract from A Pindaricque, On the Grunting of a Hog: Samuel Wesley
Owersett in Scots
Rev. Samuel Wesley, Sr. (1662-1735) , British, ordained minister of the Church of England, rector of the Church of St. Andrew, Epworth in Lincolnshire, father of John and Charles Wesley — founders of Methodism — and the author of a variety of religious treatises, as well as poetry.

Musical grumphie come!
Nae bluidy butchers here,
Ye neednae fear
Musical grumphie come!
An frae yer bonnie snoot
We'll lippen wi oor lugs
Like yers cocked up devout;
Tae taste yer douce-like voyce, that here an there,
Wi wanton birls, stouns roon the cerclin air,
Musical grumphie! sing some anthem oot!
As swete as ony chitterin monks langsyne
Wi us did roar; fin they alas,
That the hard'hairted abbot sic a soun should keep,
An swick them o their first, their swetest sleep;
Fin they were joggit up tae midnicht Mass:
Foo shoudnae ither grumphies organs play,
As weel as they?

Dear grumphie! king o meat!
Sae near tae Lord Mankind,
The nicest taste that ony o's can find!
Nae mair may I yer glorious gammons ett!
Nae mair,
Snap up frae the free fairmers Christmas store,
Black puddens which wi creash made moos rin ower:
Gin I, tho I should ne're sae lang afore the sentence bide
An in ma great lugs scale, tho ne're sae canny weigh,
Gin I can fin a difference in the notes,
Riftit frae the lauded thrapples
O rotten play hoose sangsters-aa-divine,
Gin ony difference I can fin atween their notes, an yours
A soun they keep wi tune, an ooto tune,
An roon, an flat,
Heich, laigh, an this, an thon,
That Algebra, or ye, or I micht understan as sune.

Like the kerfuffled lutes innumerable strings,
Ane o them sings;
Yer easier music's ten times mair divine;
Mair like the ae stringed, deep, majestic trump-marine:
I prig ye strikk up, cheer this dowie hairt o mine!
Nae the swete harp that's claimed bi Jews,
Nur thon which tae the far mair auncient Welsh belangs,
Nur thon which the wud Irish use,
Frichtenin even their ain wolves wi loud Hubbubbaboos…
Nae aa this instrumental daur,
Wi yer saft, ravishin, vocal music ever compare.


Doric Owersett of What is Life? By John Clare
An fit is Life? An oor-glaiss rinnin doon,
A mist that dwines afore the mornin sun,
An eident, steerin, aft-repeatit dwaum.
Foo lang? A wee devaul, a meenit's thocht.
An Blytheness? Jist a bubble on the burn,
That in the act o grippin crines tae nocht.

An fit is Hope? The huffin gale o morn,
That o its cherms rives dyew frae aff the girse,
An reives each flooer o its gem -an dees;
A moosewab happin disappoyntment's thorn,
That stouns mair sair inbye the thin disguise.

An fit is Daith? Is still the cause nae fand?
Thon derk an oorie nemme o ugsome soun?
A lang an drawn oot sleep the trauchelt seek.
An Peace? Far can its blytheness be aa roon?
Naewye at ava, bar heiven an the mools.

Syne fit is Life? Fin strippit o disguise,
A thing tae be much socht it canna be;
Since ilkie thing that meets oor glekit een
Gies pruif eneuch tae shaw its vanity.
It's jist a trial that aa maun undergo,
Tae larn unthankfu mortals foo tae prize
That blytheness vauntie Man will niver ken,
Until he's caaed tae claim it up in heiven


Doric Owersett o Vacation by William Stafford (1914-1993)
Ae pictur as I boo tae poor her coffee: -

Three Indians in the plottin drooth
Coorie at the mools howked in the graivel,
Raxx intae the win as oor train wheechs by.
Somebody is gaen
There is stoor on aathin in Nevada.

I poor the cream.


Doric Owersett of Far Away by Ruben Dario: a Nicaraguan poet who initiated the Spanish-language literary movement known as modernism that flourished at the end of the 19th century.

Kye that I saw in ma bairnhood, as ye rikked
in the burnin gowd o the Nicaraguan sun,
there on the growthy fern, fu o tropical music

Doo o the wids that sang
wi the soun o the win, o aixes, o birds an wud bulls:
I salute ye baith, because ye are baith ma life.

Ye, wechty coo, mynd me o the douce daybrakk
that caad the kye in tae be milked,
fin ma life wis aa fite an rose;
an ye, curmurrin doo o the Ben
signifee aa that ma ain springtime, noo
sae hyne awa, ained o the Divine Springtime.


Doric Owersett o Nuns Gae Waukin; bi Aldo Palazzeschi (Florentine poet and novelist who made distinctively whimsical and ironic contributions to crepuscolarismo (The Twilight School) and Futurism)

The wee kirks wauken in the hauf licht
Slawly, the nuns cam oot an wauk ower the brig
Fite nuns, blaik nuns, greetin
Ane anither, booin doon
Ane afore the ither, veesitin
Ane anither's kirks, prayin
Waukin back ower the brigs
Aince mair, the greetin, ane tae the tither
Booin, blaik an fite nuns
Slidderin by each ither in the gloam
In the hauf licht, in the gloamin


F.T.Marinetti: A Lanscape Heard, Radio Sintesi (Italian Futurist)
The fussle o a blackie jealous o the spirkin o a lowe eyns up bi droonin at the sklaik o watter

10 secunts o lappin
1secunt o spirkin
8 secunts o lappin
1 secunt o spirkin
5 secunts o lappin
1 secunt o spirkin
19 secunts o lappin
1 secunt o spirkin
25 secunts o lappin
1 secunt o spirkin
35 secunts o lappin
6 secunts o the fussle o a blackie


Doric Owersett o Nicht Café by Gottfried Benn (German Expressionist)
824: The Luve an Life o Weemen.
The cello sups a faist dram. The flute
rifts ben three beats: his tasty evenin snack
The drum reads on tae the eyn o the thriller.

Green teeth, plooks on his face,
wyves tae pink ee.
Ile in his hair
spikks tae open moo wi swallt tonsils,
faith hope an charity roon his thrapple.

Young goiter is swete on saddle-neb.
He stauns her three hauf pints.

Sycosis buys carnations
tae pacifee double chin.
B flat minor: sonata op.35.
A pair o een skreich oot
Dinna haive the bluid o Chopin roon the cafe
fur these fowk tae plyter aboot in!
Hey, Gigi! Devaul!

The yett dwines: a wumman
Desert dried oot. Canaanite broon.
Pure. Full o caves. A scent cams wi her. Scarce a scent.
It's anely a swete raxxin forrit o the air
agin ma harns.
A creashie scunner hyters efter her.


Doric Owersett of Extracts from Night Suite for Pianos & Poet's Voice by Federico Garcia Lorca

Prelude
The bull
Slawly
Steeks his een

Hett in the stable
Prelude tae the nicht


In a Neuk o the Lift
The auld
Starnie
Steeks her trauchelt een

The young starnie
Wints tae peint the nicht
Blae

In the fir trees on the ben:
Fireflees


Doric Owersett o Secret by Pierre Reverdy, Surrealist
The teem bell
The deid birds
In the hoose far aabody is faain asleep
Nine o'clock
The earth hauds itsel still
Ye wid say somebody maened
The trees luik like they wir smilin
Watter trimmles at the tap o ilkie leaf
A cloud gaes ben the nicht
Afore the yett a chiel is singin
The windae opens sounlessly

Lucy
She sprauchles on the duvet
An cocks a lippenin lug
An scrats her chin wi flechin paws
Like an auld strippit rug

Aa nicht ye hear her skreichin
Tae fleg incomers aff
An catches moosies in the derk
Scaled bluid, their epitaph

Bi day her prey's the birdies
Five robins she has killt
Her ordnar diet's spurgies
She snaps them up. Nae guilt

She's couthie an hame-drauchtit
At three am she's in
The cat flap clicks, she's paddin
Upstairs tae makk a din

Her cleuks teir at each bedroom
Bit whyles, she brings a moose
Sae aa oor doors are steekit
She draps an lats them lowse

A cat's a perfeck pettie
Ye neednae takk it wauks
It keechs far naebody sees it
It miews like a chatterbox

Crossin the Styx: Fit's inbye Queen Victoria's Kist
Victoria cam tae cross the Styx
Wi a cast o Prince Albert's haun
An ane o her husband's dressin gouns
An their marital rings gowd bands

A cape vrocht bi deid Princess Alice
A photo an hair o John Broon
Victoria's lace fite waddin veil
Her jewels, wi gems set roon

She wis beeriet wi rings on ilk finger,
Bracelets alang her wrists,
Her thrapple wis layered with necklaces.
Scots heather aside her neives


The Sun King
The Sun King stepped up tae the throne at fower
Takkin the sun as his symbol
He lued ballet dauncin an billiards as weel
Fowk staunin afore him wid trimmle
Twis said that the cheil in the iron mask
Wis his brither, jyled in the Bastille
Fur gin yer a king, it's an onchancy role
Sa yer kin should be grippt in wi steel


Doric Owersett o Green Groweth the Holly by King Henry VIIIth
Green growes the holly,
Sae daes the ivy.
Tho winter blasts blaw ne'er sae heich
Green growes the holly.

As the holly growes green
An niver cheenges hue,
Sae I am, iver hae bin,
Untae ma leddy true.

As the holly growes green
Wi ivy aa alane
Fin flooers canna be seen
Aa greenwid leaves be gane,

Noo untae ma leddy
Promise tae her I makk,
Frae aa ither anely
Tae her I me betakk.

Fareweel, ma ain leddy,
Fareweel, ma speecial ane
Fa has ma ain hairt truly
Be sure, ye iver shall.


Facks aboot Henry VIIIth
Henry the 8th had mony wives
Tae sax wives he wis waddit
Ae deed an ane survived
Twa divorced an twa beheidit (traditional)

Henry VIIIth wis a collector
Horses, wives, braw palaces
Siventy ships, five sets o bagpipes
Tae heist his royal status
Hunners o haunguns Henry kept
A virginal, a rowth o flutes
Recorders, tapestries, claith o gowd
An weel he played the lute

Syphilis, diabetes,
Insomnia, migraines
Spyled the joust an reined him in
Bi rotten ulcers, slain

An aa the murderet monks he'd killt
Cried up frae oot the mools
Fit wirth's a King's repute an nemme
That's biggt on nocht bit jewels?


Dirty Bertie, the Caresser
5 meals per day, (aa 10 course meals)
Cigars an luves a-plenty
Affairs wi Lady Churchill,
Alice Keppel, Lille Langtry

The Uncle o aa Europe
Anti-racist, a peacemakker
Fur aa his fauts, fowk lued him weel
O pleisurs a partakker

Kye Gaun Hame: inspired by The Return of the Herd by Pieter Brueghel the Elder
The cheengin sizzens rule the lives o kye
Dreich days o Autumn drive them inbye byres
Ooto the jeelin weet, blin drift an cauld

The herdsmen caa the fattened breets afore them
Doon frae the simmer grazin on the bens
Alang the dubby wyes they skyte an slidder

Derk clouds blaw seenister ootower the lift
The chitterin trees are nyaakit, leaves hae drapped
Simmer days on dyewy girse hae dwined


Fermers' Daunce: Inspired by Peasant Dance by Pieter Breughel the Elder
Swete green leys, trees, hyne aff bens
Bagpipe music kittles up the cweets
The dauncers, clappin, dauncin

A cheil brings wine in a jog
Twa fowk kinoodle in a neuk
Another pair are argyin ower a dram

An aa the the whyle the music rules the reest
Hurdies shakk, shanks lowp,
The dauncers kick aff trauchles o the day
Honest swyte an blytheness mell thegither
The tunes ring oot like birdsang in the air


The Hairst: Inspired by Harvesters by Pieter Brueghel the Elder
Ferm wirkers lue the lan that they are thirled tae
Ane depens on tither fur the hairst

Pairt o the park is scythed. The sun beats doon
Ben the corn a path wynds tae the clachan
Hyne awa a road twines tae the toun
Aside the toun, the herbour, leads tae
The muckle whale road o the sea

Twa birdies dive an flichter efter flees
The day is plottin hett. It's wirkers' piece time
They sprauchle oot aneth a muckle pear tree
Their simple denner's breid, cheese, milk an fruit
Ane o the hairsters snoozles in the shade
Newsin thegither, couthie like, ferfochan
A puckle weemen boo tae bunnle stooks