Scots Poems From Thursdays Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Februar, The Garioch
The lift is blae, the trees staun bare
Their nails o buds are pyntit sherp
The sheuchs are stappt wi weety leaves
Yowes chaw the girse in gaitherin derk

The mist lies wechty on the howes
Grey hooses hunker cauldly doon
There's dubs an glaur in kirned parks
Far tractors flatten corn rigs' croon

Deep in the win a chitterin bawd
Lays back its lugs fin storms lower
It's gloamin time, the deein sun
Sees car lichts leam wi yalla glower

The lift is teem. The birds are tint
Frae eildritch rowans in the lan
Nae cheerie cheep tae sweet the wids
Aa's dour an dreich. Like ghaists trees staun


Sydney Goodsir Smith (26 October 1915 - 15 January 1975
Whit o the Warks o Sydney Goodsir Smith
A Lallans, poet, artist, dramatist?
A michty screiver o the Scots Renaissance
A pouerfu playwricht an a novelist

Born in New Zealand, as a halfin lad
Moved ower tae Embro wi his faimily
At Oxford, studied History…wine, in France
An practised Art in blithesome Italy

His wirds ye'll find in mony skeely buiks
Skail Wind, The Wallace, Under the Eildon Tree
Carotid Cornucopius, Lines Review
Kynd Kittock's land aired on the BBC

The Grace of God and the Meth-Drinker's much lued
The Wanderer, The Deevil's Waltz read weel
So Late into the Night and Figs and Thistles
An wirds on Robert Ferguson, puir cheil

His drawins edited bi Chapman Press
Orpheus an Eurydice, his poems, colleckit
An mony screivins upon Scottish lear
An ither buiks, wi doucest wirks, selecktit

Ye'll fin his wirds set doon in Makar's Coort
His banes lie quaet in cauldrife Dean kirkyaird
Kent as ‘the kilted kiwi' or ‘The Auk'
Kenspeckle body an a michty bard


Scots Owersett o Twa Poems bi James Wright (1927-1980)
1) This bonnie wee life faas taes
Touched the fite san frae san tae side
Foo doucely naebody kens
Creepit frae his alaneness, an dees

Frae deep watters lang miles awa
He wannert, luikin fur his name
An aa he fand wis ye an me
A faist life an a caunle lowe

The day, ye arenae here
I'm dowpit here in the ragin bell
The toun o the deid, alane
Haudin a wee teem shell

I raxx oot an flick oot the licht
Derkly, I touch his dweeble scars
Sae hyne awa, sae perjink
Starnies in a muckle heeze o starnies


2) Haein Tint Ma Sons, I face The Wrack O The Meen: Yule,1960
Efter derk
Nearhaun the Sooth Dakota border,
The meen is oot huntin, aawywe
Deliverin fire,
An waukin doon haufweys
O a diamond.

Ahin a tree,
It lichts on the wrack
O a fite toon
Cranreuch, cranreuch.

Far are they gaen
Fa bedd there?

Happit awa aneth wings
An derk faces.

I am sick
O it, an I gae on
Bidin, alane, alane,
By the brunt silos, by the hidden graves
O Chippewas an Norwegians.

This cauld winter
Meen cowps the inhuman fire
O jewels
Intae ma haums.

Deid riches, deid hauns, the meen
Derkens,
An I am tint in the bonnie fite wrack
O America.


Naethin Bit Daith frae a poem bi Pablo Neruda
There are kirkyairds that are lanely,
mools fu o banes that dinna makk a soun,
the hairt meevin throw a tunnel,
in it derkness, derkness, derkness,
like a shipwrack we dee gaun intae oorsels,
as though we wir droonin inbye oor hairts,
as though we lived faain oot o the skin inno the sowel.

An there are corpses,
feet vrocht o cauld an clorty clay,
daith is inbye the banes,
like a barkin far there are nae tykes,
comin oot frae bells somewye, frae graves somewye,
growin in the weet air like greetin rain.

Whyles I see alane
kists unner sail,
embarkin with the pale deid, wi weemen that hae deid hair,
wi bakers fa are as fite as angels,
an thochtfu young quines merried tae notary publics,
kists sailin up the vertical river o the deid,
the river o derk purple,
meevin upstream wi sails fulled oot bi the soun o daith,
fulled bi the soun o daith which is seelence.

Daith arrives amang aa thon soun
like a shee wi nae fit in it, like a jaiket wi nae cheil in it,
cams an chaps, usin a ring wi no stane in it, wi nae
finger in it,
cams an skreichs wi nae mou, wi nae tongue, wi nae
thrapple.
Hoosaeiver its steps can be heard
an its claes makk a hushed soun, like a tree.

I'm nae sure, I unnerstaun anely a bittie, I can hardly see,
bit it seems tae me that its singin has the colour o weet violets,
o violets that are at hame in the yird,
because the physog o daith is green,
an the luik daith gies is green,
wi the penetratin weetness o a violet leaf
an the dowie colour of wersh winter.

Bit daith likewise gaes throw the warld rigged oot as a breem,
lickin the fleer, luikin fur deid bodies,
daith is inbye the breem,
the breem is the tongue o daith luikin fur corpses,
it is the needle o daith luikin fur threid.

Daith is inbye the fauldin cradles:
it spens its life sleepin on the slaw mattrasses,
in the blaik blankets, an whyles breathes oot:
it blaws oot a mournful soun that swalls the sheets,
an the beds gae sailin towards a port
far daith is wytin, rigged oot like an admiral.


Idioticals
Wioot wids, watter, flooers, natural ferlies
Touns an aa inbye them
Are idioticals…hotterels o soun an stramash

The Japanee caa it Wid-dookin, Shinrin-Yoku
Wauken ben wids, yer sheen
Kickin the tatterwallops o leaves
Bricht harrigals o Autumn
Lippenin tae the leerickie-laricrichie
Sweeshle o larick, rowan, birk
The skreich o a collieshangie o craws
Or keekin up at the shelts'-tails in the lift
O a saumon gloamin
The branches hung wi the perlin o dyewy moosewabs

Evenin in Yule, in the queeriesome colours o cauld
It's gledsome tae watch the burns
Breenge heigh-ma-nannie doon the bens
Scoorin panjotterls o leaves frae the puils sides
Feelin the shmoodrichs o sna
Faa saft on yer jeeled chikks


Beowulf's Kistin: Owersett in Scots
Syne the fowk o Geats vrocht fur him
Stinch on the yird a kistin-bier,
an hung it wi helmets an harness o war
an breistplates bricht, as the boon he socht;
an they laid amids it the michty chieftain,
heroes murnin their weel-lued maister.
Syne on the knowe thon muckle lowe
waukened the warriors. Wid-rikk raise
blaik ower bleeze, an blent wis the roar
o flame wi greetin (the win wis still) ,
till the lowe had brukken the frame o banes,
hett at the hairt. In dowie mood
they maened their wae ower their maister's daith.
Keenin her sorra, the auld widda
her hair bun up for Beowulf's daith
sang in her dule, an said fu aft
she dreided the dowie days tae cam,
daiths eenow, an the weird o battle,
an shame. - The rikk wis swallaed by the lift
The fowk o the Weders vrocht there
on the heidlan a barra braid an heich,
by sea-farers far descried:
in ten days' time their darg had raised it,
the battle-brave's lowe. Roun brands o the pyre
they biggit a waa, the worthiest iver
that wit could tryst frae their wycest chiels.
They pit in the barra thon precious body,
the rouns an the rings they had reft erewhile,
hardy heroes, frae hoard in cave, -
trustin the grun wi treisur o thanes,
gowd in the yird, far iver it lies
eeseless tae men as it wis afore.
Syne aboot thon barra the battle-keen rade,
athelin-born, a ban o twal,
lament tae makk, tae murn their king,
chant their dirge, an gie their chieftain honour.
They reesed oot his earlship, his acts o pouer
wirthily witnessed: an weel it is
that chiels micht praise their maister-frien
wi hairty love, fin syne he gaes
frae life in the corp, forlorn awa.


Aiberdeen's Braa! Tune: Bonnie Dundee
Gweed fowk o the city the council agree
Ye should redd up yer paths tae the umpteenth degree
On a Setterday night fin yer oot on the spree
Dinna fecht dinna cowk on the street dinna pee

Chorus:
For Aiberdeen's bonnie an Aiberdeen's braa
Its fine granite hooses its seagulls anna
Wi oor Tolbooth oor Toon Hoose oor gran Music Haa
We're the Cock o the North sae let's up an let's craa!

We're bilingual, Doric an English we spikk
An we're cleanin oor toun, noo the lums dinna rikk
If ye wint tae see history ye'd better come quick
We're aa for the Future, malls rise brick bi brick

Chorus

Wi hae parks an museums an theatres as weel
We win prizes for flooers in basket & creel
The Dee & the Don ye can fish line an reel
Wi hae twa universities, fegs, we're nae feel

Chorus

If it's dark up abeen luik for the Northern Lichts
Or watch dolphins in herbour, a richt bonnie sicht
Or tae Filthy McNasty's eat weel on cauld nichts
At the Castlegate, rest, set the warld tae richts

Chorus

Oor kintra aroon is beloved o the Queen
There's castles an mountains an golf courses green
If yer swytin in Palma ye'll wish ye hae gaen
Tae the fine bracin breezes o great Aiberdeen


The Haar o the Sea
The haar o the sea is the braith o the sea
An the braith o the sea is cauld
The haar o the sea, an the wersh sea bree
Grey, grey, aa the sans enfauld


January 2017
A cauld month, eftir a coorse year
And thocht's a flee rubbin its hauns
At the verra mou o Hades
The meen floats in forgotten fitprents
Mist creeps frae the deid ee socket o a craa
Yird guffs o foosht, o damp, o dowieness
O wirmy maggots, fite as leprosy

Echt months tae the day I phoned ma son
Far he lay in his chaumer three days deid
The wikks are cauldrife noo
I gyang throw ma wee daunce o leevin
Like a stane, skimmed on a loch
An yearn fur the hinmaist splash,
Bringin reunion wi't, or annihilation


Lament for a First-Born, Tint.
Fin he wis young I tuik his haun
An led him far the dog-rose grew
He wis ma warld, an I wis his
And whaups abune the heather flew

I sat wi him, my kistit son
Seelent, rowed in his windin sheet
Grief roared inbye, a drumly linn
Far sorra, guilt, an langin meet

Craa will forsakk the bosky win
The sea, shrug aff the leaden tide
The bonnie Dee will turn tae bluid
Afore ma son wauks by ma side


Twa Brithers
Ae brither bedd bi the Great lakes aneth rich maple trees
Couthie, an leal an lovin, in the lan o the wolf an Crees
Tither bedd in Sao Paulo, he claiked in Portugues
His life wis hard an hurtit, ticht's the anaconda's squeeze

An anew is blythe an couthie, born wrang side o the bed
Tither wis born in wadlock, baith bi ae faither bred
Music it wis their heirskip, twa sides o the same sword
For ane lued kintra guitar, tither, the clavichord

Nane iver met the tither, twa brithers neth the mools
Seeds blawn across the oceans. Twa brithers, different rules


Scots Owersetts by Sheena Blackhall of Poems by Jewish Poets

Dahlia Ravikovitch (1936 - 2005) Mechanical Dallie
An thon nicht I wis a mechanical dallie
an I turned richt an left, tae aa the airts
an I drapt on ma physog an brakk tae smush,
an they vrocht tae pit me thegither wi skeely hauns
An syne I gaed back tae bein a proper dallie
an aa ma mainners wis cannie an compleeant.
Bit by thon time I wis anither kind o dallie
like a hurtit twig hingin bi a threid.
An syne I gaed tae daunce at a ball,
bit they left me wi a boorach o kittlins an tykes
even tho aa ma steps wis meisured an patternt.
An I hid gowd hair an I hid blue een
an I hid a frock the colour o the flooers in the gairden
an I hid a strae hat tappit wi a gean.


The Windae Dahlia Ravikovitch
Sae fit did I manage tae dae?
Me—fur years I did naethin.
Jist lookit oot the windae.
Raindraps sypit inno the lawn,
year in, year oot….
Yule an simmer cercled amang blades o girse.
I sleepit as muckle as possible.
Thon windae wis as big as it nott tae be.
Fitiver wis nott
I saw in thon windae.


Testimony by: Dan Pagis (1930-1986)
Na na: they definitely wis
human beins: uniforms, buits.
Foo tae explain? They wis vrocht
in the image.
I wis a shadda.
A different Makker vrocht me.
An he in his mercy left naethin o me that wid dee.
An I flew tae him, raise wechtless, blue,
forgiein - I wid even say: apologizin -
rikk tae aa pouerfu rikk
wioot makk or likeness.


Instructions fur Crossin the Border: by Dan Pagis
Makkie-on cheil, gyang. Here's yer passport.
Ye arenae allooed tae myne.
Ye hae tae match the pictur:
yer een are already blue.
Dinna escape wi the spirks
inbye the lum:
yer a cheil, yer dowpit doon in the train.
Sit comfie.
Yev got a braa jaiket noo,
a sained corp, a new name
ready in yer thrapple.
Gyang. Ye mauna forget.


Ma Faither: Dan Pagis
The myndin o ma faither is rowed up in
fite paper, like sannies taen fur a day at wirk.

Jist as a magician takks touers an mappies
oot o his hat, he drew luv frae his wee corp,

an the burns o his hauns
reamed ower wi gweed wirks.


God takks peety on littlins: Yehuda Amichai
God takks peety on littlins
He peeties schule bairns - less.
Bit adults he disna peety ava

He affcasts them,
An whyles they hae tae creep on aa fowers
In the birsslin san
Tae reach the dressin station,
Rinnin wi bluid.
Bit mebbe
He'll hae peety on they fa lue truly
An takk tent o them
An gie them a bield
Like a tree ower the dosser on the public bench.

Mebbe we'll even spen on them
Oor hinmaist coins o kindness
Inherited frae mither,

Sae that their ain blytheness will proteck us
Noo an on ither days.


Blue Bird: by Agi Mishol. (Romania,1946)
On the kitchie
coonter
the goat-eed
powser
cairries a blue-feathered
birdie
already deid
the beak still
in a partan grip
on a pomegranate twig
ilkie ain o us hauds
somethin
in oor moos.


Ma Dug Libby: by Agi Mishol.
The auld dug his already forgotten fa she is.
Canna hear, canna see, anely her snoot
chitters at the dowp o a guff.
She stauns in the mids o naewye
like a stane, a tree
a palin − canna hear, canna see
her shanks already booin bit
forgettin tae hunker doon.
"Cercling, " quo the vet -
Cerclin aimless,
gypit, like humans
he explains.
The switch o her life is aneth ma finger
bit I canna be sure whether it's she fa suffers
or masel.
Sae I jist straik her heid
an gyang tae veesit
the wumman fas life switch is aneth the finger
o some ither body.


Three Scots Owersets o poems bi Osip Mandelstam
.

Dinna Tell onybody
Dinna tell onybody-
Forget aa ye saw
The birdie, the auld wife, the jyle,
An ony ither ferlie

Or as the day draws nearhaun
An ye pairt yer lips
The laigh chitter o pine preens
Will owercam ye

An ye will myne the wasp at the simmer-hoose
A bairn's ink-clartit pencil-kist
Or the blueberries in the wids
That ye niver pued.


Alexander Herzowitz
Aince langsyne there wis
A Jewish musician caad Alexander Herzowitz.
He dichtit his Schubert
As gin it war a skinklin jewel

Frae morn till nicht
He played withoot devaul
Ae aybydan sonata
That he'd larned bi hairt

Isn't it derk ootby,
Alexander Herzowitz?
Gie it up[, Alexsander Scherzowitz
Fit's the eese?

Let the Italian quine
Flee eftir Schubert
On the nerra sled
Ben the crunchin sna

We're nae feart tae dee
Wi the doo music
An syne tae hing like a blaik
Jaiket on the hyeuk

Alexander Herzowitz,
It's aa bin played afore.
Gie it up, Alexander Scherzowitz
Fit's the eese?


Wee Starnie
Ochone, foo I wish
I cud flee alang a starnie's licht
Unkent tae onybody
Far I widnae be leevin at aa
An ye, ye maun shine in a cercle
There is nae ither blytheness
An larn frae a star
The meanin o licht

It is anely a beam
It is anely licht
Because it has the pouer o a fusper
An the warmth o mummlit wirds

An I wint tae say tae ye
That I am fusperin
That I owergie ye, ma bairn
Tae the starnie-licht wi this fusper

Inglenooks, thin forest of souls in extremis
Openness is key, unlockin the soaring clouds