Scots Poems From Scarecrow Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Autumn IX
Yestreen I heard a birdie sing
Inbye a bonnie beech tree hedge
As if it didnae ken nor care
Autumn wis hidin in the sedge

The daith o leaves is roon the neuk
It peints them yalla, reid an broon
An doon they'll drap like faain rain
In waesome Autumn's dowie croon

Sic cheenges cam tae great an sma
First ae grey hair, a nippin knee
The stert o auld age: clawin cleuks
That herald yer mortality

Autumn draws near, like cat wi moose
It winna stop, nor else devaul
A jeelin in a body's banes
A cheenge, the turn frae warm tae caul

Noo blawin in the win, dry leaves
Like Simmer's ghaists, ethereal
This is the Sizzen o the scythe
The nichts draw in, a mournin pall


Butter
Butter is braw
In millionaire's shortbreid
In Polish plov
In Turkish pilav
In Iranian tahdig

Butter is braw
In Louisiana crawfish
In hollandaise sauce
Spreid ower sannies
Pittin the virr intae sponges
Clartit ower jaiket tatties

It's bin aroon nine thoosan years
The Norsemen beeriet butter wi their deid

Butter is braw
It sains sair crackit nails
It swackens a skreichy hinge
It slidders a ring aff ony swallin fingers

Butter is braw
Margarine's fur gypes


The Fitdivyecaat
The Fitdivyecaat is furry an fat
He's a snoot like a conger eel
His lugs are lang, his braith is strang
He's the colour o cochineal

On Monday he dines aff roastit wirms
On Tuesday it's gollach soup
On Wednesday it's snails an forkietails
On Thursday it's puddock poop
On Friday it's wyvers etten raw
On Setterday, maggot cheese
On the Sabbath it's fricassee o wasps
Wi a salad o minced up bees

The Fitdivyecaat has griffin's wings
An whyles he weirs a wig
An fin he's fou, weel, jist fur you
He can daunce an Irish jig


Letter tae Aiberdeen
Dear Aiberdeen

We lue tae hear classical pianie, violin, frae the Music Haa
As weel as the bearded buskers on yer cassies,
The scores frae the band in the Art Centre pit
Or the Tivoli's musicians, ring sweetly in oor lugs

Horns an sirens mell wi the skirl o gulls
As at nicht in oor granite hames
We coorie doon tae sleep

In the derkness, the sea flings its lace-like waves
Ower yer sheenin beach gaen ower tae win an tide
Aneth the starnie Heivens

Alang yer sides, the Dee & Don
Haud ye atween their airms
As they raxx ayont the lan
Tae the Muckle Furth

In the day, we wauk yer bywyes
In oor multicultural toun
Ye welcam aabody, nae bigots merch
Alang oor Union Street, wi flags o hate

This is jist a letter tae say we are prood
Tae bide in this cauld Northern toun
Waiters, scaffies, drivers, ice cream sellers
Schulebairns, mithers, OAPs,
Fowk frae the business quarter
This toun wi its skinkle o siller
The eident citizens that throng each teemin street
Are blythe tae caa ye hame
Say Bon Accord tae incomers we meet


The Mystery o the Sheen
Abyne. Nearhaun the Huntly Hotel
A cheil's Heilan dress sheen
Plunked on tap o a bin

Has onybody spied a barfit Heilanman
Hirplin ower the road in the wee oors?

Wis he oot on the spree,
Plain dottlit, or up tae some malarky?

They widnae hae fittit my loon
Or I micht hae taen them
It maun hae bin a stoater o a pairty!


The Lonach Gaitherin
The Lonach Gaitherin, piobaireachd fills the air
Buits dunt in girse, neives rug in Tug O'War
At Bellabeg, Strathdon, the thoosans heeze
An drams are taen bi watchers near an far

Braw tartans flichter in the glents o sun
The Heilanders hae trekked since echt am
Sax mile, wi nips frae stops alang the wye
Intae the ring they merch, the hale jing bang

There, in the shadda o the Cairngorms
Dizzens o heavies pech. They cowp the caber
Haivin haimmers, humfin muckle stanes
Whyle ithers in the hill race swyte and slaver

Puckles o fowk are nebbin roon the staas
Fur tasty treats an local crafts an art
An puckles listen tae the pipin tunes
As littlins swallae gulch, their moos aa clart

The dauncin boords are fur the young an swack
Strathspeys, Hornpipe, Seann Truibhas, the Ghillie Callum
The Heilan Fling, the Tulloch Reel as weel
The Irish jig, aa daunced wi virr an smeddum

Fa's Best Dressed Heilander, amang the fowk?
Nae gweed tae joodge amangst sic bobbydazzlers!
An aabody gaes hame fin aathin's by
Wi myndins o a Games Day's stammygasters

Tae the Muckle Hoose Wyver
Wyver wyver hairy fricht
In ma chaumer neuk each nicht
Fit the sorra dispatched ye
Tae cam here an torture me?

Muckle hoose wyver, lang shank
The verra sicht o ye is rank
I hae read hoose spiders bite
Hornygollach imp o spite

I maun takk ma buik an splat ye
Intae smush I'll grind an flat ye
There! Ye've made the paper black!
Sic a sottar frae ae thwack!



The Grumphie
The grumphie daunced on a bed o banes
As it supped the bree frae the midden
It wadnae be catched, it lowpit free
Wadnae dae fit it wis bidden

Bit it wis taen at the hinnereyn
Tae the killin hoose, ram stam
Thon stoppit the spree o the wee grumphie
Turned intae bacon an ham


Sivven Yowes
Sivven Yowes gaed ower the muir
Ane wis swalled bi haar
The secunt yowe fell brakk neck doon
A crag, on a skiffin o glaur
The third yowe hytered ontae a road
A larry stowed her heid in
A fourth yowe steppit intae the Dee
An dreed her weird bi droonin

A fifth yowe deed in giein birth
Tae triplets, life-in-daith
A sixth yowe cowpit on her back
An smored, for wint o braith

The sivventh yowe wis sheared an selt
Tae a butcher's killin hoose
An the ghaist o the yowe that wis swalled by haar
Is the anely yowe still lowse


Owersetts

Scots owersett of Transition by Piedad Bonnet (Spanish Columbian)
[Those days were beautiful.] But how sad the dusk that followed. - Friedrich Hölderlin

I eesed tae be a loon an ma kingdom wis day.
The warld cam tae me in lichtnin forks:
Ma mither
Mummlin an the sodjerlike fitsteps
O ma faither gaun up the stairs.

In ma chaumer, I tuik tent o a wolf an a lammie
An the guff o camphor
Raise till the gloamins becam rikk.

Thon wir braw days.

Stooshies as weel, an yetts, an barks.

Hoosaeiver I wis a loon an on the brod
Ma glaiss o milk glimmered like a caunle

O a suddenty nicht fell ben ma broo
An there I wis, a cheil, barfit in the mids o the path.


Scots Owersett of the poem Homeland by Do Trung Quan (Vietnamese)
Mither, fit is a hame lan?
Ma dominie sez I maun lue it
Mither, fit is a hame lan?
That aabody misses sae muckle

Hame lan is far the sweet carambola growes
Far ye sclimm tae pu fruit ilkie day
Hame lan is the auld path tae schule
Far ye rin hame chasin yalla butterflees

Hame lan is far a blue-green kite is fleein
Blythe abune the young on girssy parks
Hame is far a wee ferry floats
Saftly rowin in hame river watters

Hame lan is a wee bamboo brig
Wi mither in her pyntit palm-leaf hat
It's perfumed ley flooers, the sweet girse o Vietnam
Wauchtin tae sleep in the lang simmer nichts

Hame lan is warm, luein airms
Lyin asleep ben the nicht's rain
Far areca flooers skitter on the veranda fleer

Hame lan is a swatch o pumpkin flooers
An a violet Malabar spinach hedge
It's the reid on a fence o Hibiscus veins
An the brawness o a pure fite lotus

Aabody has anely ae hame lan
Jist as aabody has anely ae mither
Hame lan, that aabody misses sairly


Scots Owersett of Taps at a Window on an Evening by Batsheva Dori-Carlier (Hebrew)

At the airt left teem for a guest
I set an ashet, a teem ashet, a fork, a knife
An I ken he winna bide lang.
The deid arenae kent fur enjoyin fite rice an lentils.
As iver, he'd raither read Nagib Mahfouz's Luve in the Rain
Which he bocht years syne in the Auld Toun in paperback.
Myndins are gaithered at the brod like nourishin maet:
The braid hauns o ma faither grip ma haun an ma sister's haun,
Grip the string o beads, the pipe, the buiks,
Wi thon same douce restraint
Fur brukken ferlies.
Like rain, ma faither cam back frae the ither side.


Scots Owersett of Jerusalem Is Full of Used Jews by Yehuda Amichai (Hebrew)
Jerusalem is stappit wi worn oot Jews, weariet bi history
Jews secunt haun, slichtly bladdit, at chaip prices.
An the ee raxes tae Zion aywis. An aa the een
O the leevin an the deid are crackit like eggs
On the rim o the bowl, tae makk the toun
Puff up rich an creashie.

Jerusalem is stappit wi trauchelt Jews,
Aywis proddit on again fur holidays, fur memorial days,
Like circus bears dauncin on achin shanks.

Fit dis Jerusalem nott? It disnae nott a mayor,
It notts a ringmaister, wheep in haun
Fa can tame prophicees, train prophets tae ride
Aroon an aroon in a cercle, teach its stanes tae line up
In a bauld, risky sett oot fur the gran finale.

Later they'll lowp back doon again
Tae the soun o applause an wars.

An the ee raxes tae Zion, an greets


Scots Owersett of A Dog After Love by Yehuda Amichai (Hebrew)
Efter ye left me
I lat a dug smell at
Ma breist an ma wyme. I lat yer guff fill its snoot
An set aff tae fin ye.
I hope it'll teir the
Baas o yer luver an bite aff his todger
Or at least
Will bring me yer hose atween his teeth.


Scots Owersett of Some Like Poetry: Wislawa Szymborska (Polish)
Puckles -
Sae nae aa. Nae even maist o them aa bit the minority.
Nae coontin schules, far ye hae tae,
An the poets thirsels,
There micht be twa fowk per thoosan.
Like -
bit ae body as weel likes chucken soup wi noodles,
Ane likes compliments an the colour blae,
Ane likes an auld scarf,
Ane likes haein the upper haun,
Ane likes straiking a tyke.

Poetry -
Bit fit is poetry?
Mony shakky repons
Hae bin gien tae this speirin.
Bit I dinna ken, I dinna ken an haud ontae it
Like tae a railin that acts as a crutch.


Scots Owersett of Encounter by Czeslaw Milosz (Polish)
We wir ridin ben frozen parks in a wagon at daybrakk.
A reid wing raise in the derkness.

An o a suddenty a bawd ran ower the road.
Ane o us pyntit tae it wi his haun

Thon wis langsyne. Noo neither o them is leevin,
Nae the bawd, nur the cheil fa pyntit.

O ma luve, far are they, far are they gaun
The glisk o a haun, whoosh o meevement, wheesh o stanes.
I speir nae ooto sorra, bit in winner.



Owersett of Building the Barricade by Anna Swir (Polish)
We were feart, biggin the barricade
unner fire.
The bar cheil, the jeweller's luver, the barber,
aa o us fearties.
The servin quine drapt tae the grun
ruggin a pavement stane, an we wir verra feart,
aa o us fearties-
the scaffie, the staahauder, the auld body.
The druggist drapt tae the grun,
ruggin the lavvie yett
an we wir even mair feart, the smuggler-deem,
the dressmakker, the taxi driver,
aa o us fearties.
The loon frae the reform schule founert
humfin a sanbag,
sae we wir really feart.
Altho naebody gart us,
we did bigg the barricade
unner fire.


Scots Owersett o Optimistic Man by Nazim Hikmet (Turkish)
as a bairn he niver rugged the wings aff flees
he cans didnae tie tin cans tae catties' tails
or snib hornygollachs in spunk boxes
or flatten emerteens hames
he grew up
an aa thon things wir dane tae him
I wis at his bedside fin he deed
he said read me a poem
aboot the sun an the sea
aboot nuclear reactors an satellites
aboot the greatness o humanity


Scots Owersett of History of the Night Jorge Luis Borges (Spanish)
Throwoot the rin o the generations
cheils vrocht the nicht.
At first she wis blinn-ness;
thorns scrattin nyaakit feet,
fear o wolves.
We'll niver ken fa vrocht the wird
fur the whylie o shadda
atween the twa gloamins;
we'll niver ken fan it cam tae mean
the starnie oors.
Ithers vrocht the myth.
They made her the mither o the unmeevin Fates
that makk oor weird,
they killed blaik yowes tae her, an the cock
fa craas his ain daith.
The Chaldeans set oot twalve hooses tae her,
tae Zeno, umpteen wirds.
She tuik her makk frae Latin hexameters
an the fleg o Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the hamelan
o his hurtin soul.
Noo we feel her tae be inexhaustible
like an auncient wine
an naebody can luik on her wioot vertigo
an time his chairged her wi bein aybydan.

An tae think that she widnae exist
bar fur thon dweeble instruments, the een.


Scots Owersett o When I Die I Want Your Hands On My Eyes Pablo Neruda (Spanish)
Fin I dee I wint yer hauns on ma een:
I wint the licht an the wheat o yer lued hauns
tae pass their freshness ower me ae mair time
tae feel the smeethness that cheenged ma weird

I wint ye tae live while I wyte fur ye, asleep,
I wint yer lugs tae gae on hearin the win,
fur ye tae smell the sea that we lued thegether
an fur ye tae gae on waukin the san far we wauked.

I wint fur fit I lue tae gae on leevin
an as fur ye I lued ye an sang ye abune aathin
fur thon, gae on flooerin, flooery ane,

sae that ye reach aa that ma luve orders fur ye
sae that ma shadda passes throwe yer hair,
sae that they ken by this the rizzon fur ma sang.


The Queen's Ither Subjects
Aged fower her faither gaed her a wee shelt
A Shetland breet caad Peggy, that she lued
An rode weel bi the time that she wis sax
Fur luve o breets suited her royal mood

Richt tae her ninth decade she rode her shelts
An bred braw racin winners in her care
Mair nur a thoosan prizes graced her stable
Frae thoroughbreds reared in her keepin there

A rowth o corgis yappit at her feet
Fed fat on rubbit frae the Royal estates
Aince caad ‘the meevin carpet' at her back
Aywis the nicest deinties on their plates

Her racin doos wir kept at Sandringham
Twa hunner birds in thon laft rest
The Royal doos weir cyphers roon their shanks
Their boxies stampit wi the Royal crest

In her lang life the Queen ained unca breets
Twa sloths, a puckle jaguars as weel
Twa beavers, a great jumbo, sivven year auld
Tae pass tae London Zoo fur bield an meal

Aa whales in British Watters the queen ained
The fishes royal, sturgeon, porpoise tae
An dolphins. Swans that sweem the river Thames
Wir hers tae coont upon Swan Uppin day
Her Scottish hame, Balmoral, hooses bats
That bide inbye the monarch's castle haa
She helped the fitmen catch them in a net
An free them frae inbye the biggin's waa

Fit makk o body disnae like a breet?
A cat, a dug, a doo, a shelt, a wyver?
The Royal hives hae learned o their loss
The dowie news, they've tint their queen foriver


The Beggars' Benison & Wig Club
The genteel cheils in Ainster, Fife
‘May prick nor purse ne'er fail ye'
Tae the solitary act held true
Pledged wi a glaiss o fusky

Five hunner strang the memmership
Watched posin nyaaakit leddies
An ither sic-like orra ploys
Douce quinies wioot plaidies

The wig they kept, frae Charles the King
Thon selfsame Merry Monarch
Wir snippins frae his doxies' pyubes
Wid makk a guid man vomit

Oh Ainster is a bonnie place
Bit in thon hyne back days
The pliskies that wir cairriet on
Wid ony deil amaze