Scots Poems From Stilts Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Mr Dahl the Seannachie
Mr Dahl wis a screiver o regular habits
He ett toast in bed fin he opened his post
At ten thirty he wauked tae his shed in the gairden
Far he vrocht until noon as an idea-host

A fine gin an tonic, prawns, mayonnaise, lettuce
Fur efters, a swete chocolate bar ilkie day
A nap, an at fower o clock back tae the sheddie
Screivin tales until sax, wi nae ony cliché
He screived tales in pincil, sax sharpened, weel pyntit
His jotters, American, sent frae New York
Wi a suitcase o logs as a richt sturdy fit rest
This chiel, brocht tae life bi a Norwegian story

A green sleepin bag kept his lanky shanks warm
He lued caviar, bacon fryin, an wirds
Like crabcruncher, quodwinkle, jumpsquiffling, muggled
Snozzcucmber, frothbungling, unca absurd

A seannachie, spy, pilot, inventor, faither
A scrumdiddlyumptious creator o fowk
Matilda an Charlie, The Eedjits, an Jeems
An lastly the BFG, great muckle gowk


Watch the Claes
Foo dae fowk get steered up aboot claes?
Takk the hijab, that hides the hair
An whyles the face frae public gaze
The queen hersel weirs heid scarfs in the hills
Fur comfort? Warmth? Tae keep her lugs frae chills?

Baudelaire, in his pre-thocht tae Les Fleurs du mal
Screived lines rael gothic like:

C'est l'Ennui! —l'œil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
Il rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
—Hypocrite lecteur, —mon semblable, —mon frère!

It's scunneration! — an ee reamin wi an unsocht tear,
He dwaums o the gallows fin puffin his watter-pipe.
Ye ken him, reader, this delicate monster,
—Hypocrite reader, —ma twin, —ma brither!

The blaikness o the Goth, drama an wae
Repels some, ithers like the dour, the fey
Claes makk the man, or woman.Choice is aa,
The inner person isnae socht ava


The Pedoscope
The shoppie yoamed o leather
Ma fit becam a skeleton at a touch
The inner wirkins o ma taes
Dwined doon tae banes in the shewed
kist o Clarke's byordnar sheen

The 26 banes o ma fit
The tarsals, metatarsals, phalanges,
Cuneiforms, talus, navicular,
An cuboid banes, glentin oorie green
In a Frankenstein monster screen

The assistant's skeletal haun sliddered in
It grabbit ma fit
A voyce reassured ma mither:
‘A rowth o room inbye the shee fur growth'

My radiated fit, thus passed fur fit
In the buckled sandal
Haein gotten ma radioactive hit


Cat in the Gairden
She sniffs the blae hydrangea
She's vauntie as a pet
She slivvers ower ma hose an queats
She sunbathes fin it's hett

Aneth the wyvin peonies
She flegs a butterflee
Fit fey an fremmit fancies
Dae this cat's green een see?

Memory Makker at Whitehills
My son is makkin memories fur his bairns
They staun, bumbazed watchin bummers
Like licht winged dentists bizzin intae the flooers

Already they hae heistit a dreein parten
Frae a rock puil, pincers snappin
Its ee buds on stalks, bubbles bibblin frae its mou

Later, they'll flee a lowpin kite in the win
Tae jyne a paper jeelyfish, a stingray, a Chinee dragon

Simmer memories, passin intae their harns
Like hinney stored in the caim bi eident bees


Nemmes o Foreshore Rocks, frae village folklore o Whitehills
Deep Jeems, Deevil's stane
Bear seed, Horse heid
Fite moo, Poopie moo
Steamrick, Easter Gerrick
Wan Nellie, Muckle Heri
Lady Paon, Hole o Jordan
Rumblin kitchies, Langforty
Scurrie, Skuthie
Lyaave, Huscey
Craigneen, Saut Steens
Foreshore Stanes
Beach's banes


A Street in Toon
Wattie an Beldie, met in service at Buckingham Palace
Him, in the Horse Guards, her as an unner maidie
Twa genteel Doric spikkers frae the kintra

Mr Greig wi his homburg hat an trench coat
Walkin faist as a brock in this thick brogues
Nae a spy or a spiv,
A violinist, short on spikk an lauchter

The auld maid Mistress Baxter, hauns like violet petals
The hinmaist san in a time glaiss rinnin oot

Sassenach neebors, a Suddron steekit capsule
Blin fair bairns, that niver tuik the sun

The chiel fa gaed his body tae medical science
Nae left wi a pot tae piss in
Eftir he cleared the debts o his feckless laddie

Ma frien fa played hairdressers wi her mither's shears
An clippit aff the braids o a quinie's hair

An orra lassie pued her pants richt doon
An lat her faimily tyke lick her bihoochie

The blaik haired bride o an auncient bodach
Fa prized a hame an security ower luve


Burn o Vat June 2021
The sun beats like a haimmer doon
The Burn o Vat is skinklin broon
A pechin collie steeps its feet
Far burn an bonnie sunbeams meet

There's nae disease amang the trees
Far honest nature takks her ease
The birks sweesh saft far widlan craiturs
Play bi the burn in pleisunt capers

Here nature's flooers brier unaided
Like gems upon the girse paraded
They bring nae smitt upon their heids
Nae pandemic amangst them spreids
For anely man corrupts the lan
Wi wastrel ploys an ill thocht plan


A Veesit tae Cambodia
In 2010 I visited Cambodia, having travelled first to Vietnam for my son's wedding in Ho Chi Minh city. Recently, I read a report on the munitions still left over from the Vietnam war, in neighbouring Cambodia.

The auncient temple o Angkor Wat is a stammygaster
Towrists heeze like flees aroun its sichts

Cambodia's deeply mined
Ten million mines still bide in a smaa kintra

Veesit the pepper ferms, snap watter buffalos
Dunt aboot in a tuk-tuk, three wheeled, open sided

Cambodia's stappit wi ither kinds o crops
Drapped in the 1960s & 1970s

In the Cardamom Bens trek intae the green rainwids
See sun bears, pangolins, monkeys, elephants bathin

Killin wappans bide there frae the Vietnam war
Gifties frae America, an Chineee, Soviet an Eastern block
Ferlies left bi the Khmer Rouge
An the ceevil war that cam in the 1980s.

Takk a boat doon the Mekong River
The liquid muscle o Asia flexxin its micht
Daunder ben Phnom Penh, or Siem Reap
Lie on the fite san beaches aroon the islands

The area far towrists steer his bin cleared o mines
Three decades o war tuik a sair-like toll on Cambodias
40,000 fowk are amputees: twice thon nummer in the hyne aff clachans

Bumbazed towrists snack on wyvers in Tarantula Toun
Deep fried in chilli an garlic
Or crunch on girselowpers or silk wirms on a stick

The puir maun risk the hidden daith o the mines
Blawn tae smush fin howkin them up fur scrap
Or ferm in mine parks, ettlin tae earn a livin
Cairryin watter, gaitherin timmer fur kinnlin

Amputees sit beggin inbye the touns
On July 2020 on ae ferm alane
HALO fand 37 lanmines.
The fermer, a faither an husband, could ferm
Withoot the fear o daith doggin his steps,
Able to wirk the grun tae feed his faimly

Nollywid
Gin ye ging on safari, in Nigeria this day
Ye winna see a lion or an antelope at play
Na, hidin in ahin a buss…a Nollywid film crew
A producer an director will be mebbe stalkin YOU



Monsieur Mangetout
Michel Lotito, June 15,1950 - June 25,2007 was a French entertainer, born in Grenoble, famous for deliberately consuming indigestible objects. He came to be known as Monsieur Mangetout ('Mr. Eat-All') .

Mister Mangetout
Fit d'ye ett fur denner?
Skirlie, an tatties or broth?
Cullen skink, stovies or partans?
Cappuccino, wi plenty o froth?

Mr Mangetout ett steel chynes, a kistie
Wi haunles, twa beds an a plane
Eichteen bikes, twa skis an a computer
A watterbed wioot a maen

He ett sivven TV sets, an award plaque
Fifteen shoppin cairts, sax chandeliers
Nails an glaiss, this byordnar muncher
It's a winner he lived sic lang years!


Scots Owersetts o twa Poems bi Queen Elizabeth 1st o England

On Monsieur's Depairture
I murn an daurna shaw I'm nae content,
I lue an yet am gart tae seem tae hate,
I dae, yet daurna say I iver meant,
I seem sterk dumb bit inbye I dae prate.
I am an amnae, jeel an yet am brunt,
Since frae masel anither sel I turnt.

Ma care is like ma shadda in the sun,
Follaes me fleein, flees fin I pursue it,
Stauns an lies bi me, daes fit I've dane.
His ower familiar care it gars me rue it.
Nae means I finn tae rid him frae ma breist,
Till bi the eyn o things it be supprest.

Some doucer feelins slidder in ma mind
Fur I am saft an vrocht o meltin snaa;
Or be mair cruel, ma joe, an sae be kind.
Lat me tae float or sink, be heich or laigh.
Or lat me live wi some mair swete content,
Or dee an sae forget fit luve ere meant.


Noo Gyang an Lat me Rest
Noo gyang an lat me rest. Dame Pleisur, be content.
Gae chuse amang the lave; ma dotin days be spent.
Bi a wheen signs I see thy offfers are bit vain,
An wyceness warns me that pleisur sikkith pain;
An Natur that dis ken foo time steps caas ajee,
Gies ower tae painfu wae, an bids me larn tae dee.

Sin aa fair eirdly things, sune ripe, will sune be rot
An aa thon pleisunt springs, sune crined, an sune forgot,
An youth that gies chiels joys that ramstam lust desires
In age repents the toys that reckless youth requires.
Aa thon delichts I leave tae sic as daftness trains
Bi pleisurs tae deceive, till they dae finn the pains.

An frae vain pleisurs past I flee, an fain wid ken
The blythesome life at last I hope tae gain.
Fur wirds or wyce reports are yet examples gaen
'Gyang bridle youthfu ploys, till age cam creepin on.
The pleisant coortly gemmes that I takk pleisur in,
Ma aulder years noo shames sic gyteness tae begin.

An aa the fancies fey that fond delicht brocht furth
I dae inteyn tae cheenge, an coont them naethin wirth.
Fur I bi offers vain am gart tae ken the skill
Fit micht hae bin forborne in ma young reckless will;
Bi which gweed pruif I flee frae will tae wit again,
In hope tae set ma fit in surety tae remain.


Twa Owersetts in Scots o Poems bi Queen Mary Stuart

Sonnet Tae Queen Elizabeth I o England
Ae thocht, that is ma grue an ma delicht,
Ebbs an flows swete an wersh inbye ma hairt
An atween doot an hope teirs me apairt
Fin peace an aa tranquility takk flicht.
An sae, dear sister, should this letter dwall
Upon ma wechty wint o seein ye,
It is thon wae an pain shall be ma due
Unless ma wait should eyn baith faist an weel.
On the heich tide aside the herbour bar
An a clear lift o suddenty full wi cloud;
Likewise fleg an wae full aa ma hopes,
Nae because o ye, bit fur the times there are
Fin ma weird twafauld strikks on sail an shroud


A Poem screived at Fortheringhay, nae lang afore her execution
Ochone, fit am I? Fit eese his ma life?
I'm bit a corp fas hairt is rived awa,
An eeseless shadda, a ferlie o wae
Fa his naethin left bit daith-in-life.
O ma faes, set yer envy aa aside;
I've nae mair eagerness fur heich domain;
I've tholed ower lang the sair wecht o ma pain
Tae see yer roose sae faistly satisfeed.
An ye, ma friens fa hae lued me sae true,
Mynd, wintin health an hairt an peace,
There is naethin wirthwhile that I can dae;
Speir anely that ma misery should cease
An that, bein punished in a warld like this,
I hae ma portion o aybydan bliss.


Relationship bi Nummers
She telt him:
‘Three's a crowd!
I dinna play secunt fiddle tae onybody.
Three strikes an yer oot'

She skirled:
‘It hit me fur sax
Pit me back tae square one
Fin I saw her dressed up tae the nines
An ye, three sheets tae the win
In seeventh heiven.
Aye, it takks twa tae tango.'

She gaed on:
‘In the loch o lees
There's mony deid fish.
Dis she ken she's a nine day's wunner?
Dis she ken she'll niver makk the nineteenth hole?


Fit's in the Kist
Cigars an fusky, mobile phones
Gowf clubs, baas, a fishin rod
Takk-a-waa meals, a teddy bear
Near aathin bar a brickie's hod

TV remote, a jaiket tattie
Fish an chips, a base guitar

A meerkat toy, a perr o clown sheen
Aathin except a motor car

Hame grown veggies, liquorice aasorts
Photies, letters, torch an flooers,
Waddin frock, a signet ring
A catalogue tae pass the oors

A fause leg, skiis, alarm button
A fiddle, butter, scone an jam
Cairds an chocolate, Russian dall
A breemstick, breem an a dustpan

Corpse is jist the mortal clooties
Gaen awa tae Kingdom Come
In the kistie, in the lowe
Wheech, Amen an up the lum