Singing Like Pavarotti 164 Scots Poems Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Owersettins Intae Doric

Michaelangelo: To Giovanni Da Pistoia on Painting the Vault of the Sistine Chapel
I've already growed a goiter frae this torment,
Booed up here like a kittlin in Lombardy
(or onywey else far the stank o watter's pyson) .
Ma kyte's squashed unner my chin, ma fuskers
pyntin at heiven, ma harns stappit in a boxie,
ma breist yarks like a harpy's. Ma brush,
abune me aa the time, splyters peint
sae ma face makks a fine flair fur dreepins!

Ma hochs are powkin intae ma intimmers,
ma puir dowp raxxes tae wirk as a coonterwecht,
ilkie meevement I makk is blin an eeseless.
Ma skin hings lowse ablow me, ma rig bane's
aa raivelled frae fauldin ower itsel.
I'm booed ticht as a Syrian bow.

Because I'm stukken like this, ma thochts
are gyte, leein styte:
onybody sheets wrang throwe a cruikit blawpipe.

Ma peintin's deid.
Defend it fur me, Giovanni, proteck ma honour.
I'm nae in the richt airt—I'm nae a peinter.


The Sang o Sangs
Foo bonnie are yer feet withoot their sheen
O prince's dother!
The jynts o yer hochs are like jewels
The wirk o the hauns o a wycwe wirker

Yer navel's like a roun glaiss
That disna wint drink
Yer wyme's like a howpie o corn, ringed wi lilies

Yer twa briests are like twa young roes
That are twinned
Yer thrapple's a touer o ivory
Yer een like the fish puils in Heshbon, bi the yett o Bat-rabbim
Yer neb is as the pouer o Lebanon
That luiks ower tae Damascus.

Yer heid is like Carmel
An the hair o yer heid like poorple
The king hauds in the galleries

Foo braw an foo pleisunt ye are
O ma dearie, fur delichts!

Ye staun like a palm tree
An yer breists like boorichs o grapes

Quo I, I'll gae up tae the palm tree
I'll takk haud o yer boughs
An yer breists like the fruit o the vine
An the whiff o yer neb like aipples

An the reef o yer mou like the best wine fur my dearie
That gaes doon sweetly
Garrin the lips o thon that are sleepin, tae spikk

I am ma dearie's
An his desire is aa fur masel

Cam, ma dearie,
Lat's gae furth intae the park
Let us ludge in the clachans

Lat's gae early tae the vineyairds
Lat's see gin the vines brier
Lat's see gin the douce grapes growe
An the pomegranates brier
Thonner will I gie ye ma luves

The mandrakes gie aff a smell
An at oor yetts are aa mainner o pleisunt fruits,
New an auld,
That I hae pit aside fur ye
O ma dearie

The Vulture: bi Aleksandr Blok
Drawin cercle eftir cercle
A furlin vulture owerluikit a park
Lyin teem. In her puir hame
A mither's maenin tae her bairn:
‘Cam, takk ma briest, loon, feed on this
Growe, ken yer place, shouder the cross.'

Centuries flee by, clachans bleeze
Are dumfounert bi war an ceevil war
Ma kintra, ye're ay the same
Dowie, bonnie as afore.
Foo lang maun the mither maen?
Foo lang maun the vulture furl?


Andre Breton - Freedom o luve
Ma wife wi the hair o a widlan lowe
Wi the thochts o hett lichtnin
Wi the wyme o an oorglaiss
Wi the wyme o a dratsie in the teeth o a tiger (dratsie=otter)
Ma wife wi the lips o a cockade an a heeze o byornar starnies
Wi the teeth o tracks o fite moosies on the fite yird
Wi the tongue o scrubbit amber an glaiss
Ma wife wi the tongue o a dirkit host
Wi the tongue o a dall that unsteeks an steeks its een
Wi the tongue o an unbelievable stane
Ma wife wi the eelashes o strakes o a bairn's screivin
Wi broos o the rim o a spurgie's nest
Ma wife wi the broo o sclates o a hett-hoose reef
An o steam on the peens
Ma wife wi shouders o champagne
An o a fountain wi dolphin-heids aneth the ice
Ma wife wi wrists o spunks
Ma wife wi fingers o chaunce an ace o hairts
Wi fingers o cuttit hey
Ma wife wi oxters o mertrick an o beechnut mertrick= pine marten
An o Midsimmer Nicht
O reid sauch an o an angelfish nest
Wi airms o faem an o watter locks
An o a mellin o the corn an the mill
Ma wife wi shanks o firewirks
Wi the meevements o clockwirk an wae
Ma wife wi calves o bourtree sap bourtree=elderflower
Ma wife wi feet o initials
Wi feet o rings o keys an Java spurgies' suppies
Ma wife wi a thrapple o unpearled barley
Ma wife wi a thrapple o the glen o gowd
O a tryst in the verra mids o the torrent
Wi breists o nicht
Ma wife wi breists o a seagaun mowdie- knowe
Ma wife wi breists o the ruby's crucible
Wi breists o the rose's ghaist aneth the dyew
Ma wife wi the wyme o an unfauldin o the fan o days
Wi the wyme o a muckle cleuk
Ma wife wi the back o a birdie fleein upricht
Wi a back o quicksiller
Wi a back o licht
Wi a thrapple o rowed steen an weet chakk
An o the drap o a glaiss far ane has jist bin drinkin
Ma wife wi the hochs o a boatie
Wi hochs o a chandelier an o arra-feathers
An o shafts o fite peacock feathers
O an unfeelin pendulum
Ma wife wi a bihoochie o sanstane an asbestos
Ma wife wi a bihoochie o swans' backs
Ma wife wi the bihoochie o spring
Wi the sex o an iris
Ma wife wi the sex o a miner o burns an o a platypus
Ma wife wi a sex o dulse an auncient intimmers
Ma wife wi a sex o a keekin glaiss
Ma wife wi een fu o greetin
Wi een o poorple armour an o a magnetic needle
Ma wife wi savanna een
Ma wife wi een o watter tae be drunk in jyle
Ma wife wi een o wid aywis unner the aixe
Ma wife wi een o watter-level o level o air yird an lowe


The Wag at the Waa in the Auld Jewish Ghetto: Vitezslau Nezval 1900-1958
Fin time is rinnin awa on Prikopy Street
Like a racin cycler in a ghetto, fas hauns gae backwirds
Gin Daith lowped oot on me, I'd dee as a sax year auld loon.



Simmer: George Trakl 1887-1914
At gloamin thonner in the wids
The gowk birds haud back their wae.
The cornstakks boo deeper inno thimsels,
The reid poppies.

The derkenin lift brakks ajee
Ower the knowes.
The auncient sang o the girselowper
Dees in the herbor.

It niver steers,
The croun o the chestnut.
Up the twinin stairs
Yer dress reeshles.

The caunle's glimmerin seelence
Derkens the chaumer.
Yer siller haun
Snuffs it oot.

Nicht, nae win, nae starnies.


Cam tae me Rudaki 870-940/41
Cam tae me -
Fa?
Hersel.

Fan?
At daybrakk, feart.

Fit o?
Roose,
Fas?
Her faither's
Tell me!

I kissed her twice.
Far?
On her sappy mou.
Mou?
Na.
Fit, syne?
Cornelian.
Foo wis it?
Swete


Wumman: Lady Sute-Jo 1633-1698
Wumman—
Foo hett the skin
She haps.

Na: Lady Ki No Washika,8th Century
It's nae because I'm nae ower auld
Mair wizzent than ye jelouse…

Gin I say na, it's anely
Because I'm feart that aye
Wid bring me naethin, in the eyn,
Bit a coorser laneliness.


A Wyce Mistress Isobel Campbell c.1200
Tell him it's aa a lee;
I luve him as muckle's as ma life;
He neednae be jealous o me—
I lue him an hate his wife.

Gin he killt me throwe jealousy noo
His wife wid dee o spite,
He'll dee o wae fur his wife—
Three o us deid in a nicht.

Aa blissins frae heiven tae the yird
On the heid o the wumman I hate,
An the chiel I lue as ma life,
O a suddenty, daith be his weird.


Ower an Ower: Rainer Maria Rilke 1875-1926
Ower an ower, fooiver weel we ken the airt o luve,
An the wee kirk-yaird wi keenin nemmes,
An the frichtfu seelent ravine far aa the ithers
Eyn: ower an ower we gae oot twa thegether,
Unner the auld trees, streetch doon ower an ower
Atween the flooers, face tae face wi the lift.


The King o Connacht: anon 600-1200
‘Hae ye seen Hugh
The Connacht king in the park? '
‘Aa that we saw
Wis his shadda unner his shield'

FINIS

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Grave Interview
Can ye see the starnies throwe yer reef o girse?
Dae ye spikk tae yer neebors, lyin nearhaun in the mools?
I canna accept complaints aboot ither graves nearhaun
Yer neebors micht be farrer alang daith's pathie than yersel.
Larn tae thole it, the slaw seepage spreidin aneth the yird.

There's a nae pets policy…nae Fido, Flossie, peein ower the flooers
Ye hae the richt tae lie in yer property in peace
Mowdies are a pest, we dae oor best tae kill them,
Bit they like the grun. Fit mair can I say?
Gin yer heidsteen growes shoogly an yer neist o kin winna pye
We reserve the richt tae ding it tae the grun.

Nae skyrie lichts, win chimes,
Or orra luikin plastic gee-gaws alloued
The cooncil landscape gairdeners hae tae tend the girse
An sae need a clear access tae the grun.

Mebbe ye'll lie here fur centuries,
Mebbe ye winna. Steens frae the 1700s are happit wi fogg.
Mebbe a thoosan years frae noo, a hoosin estate
Will be biggit on tap o ye, yer aisse micht be fertilizin parks.

Archaeologists micht howk yer casket up,
Scholars screive papers aboot beerial customs mangst the Post Millenials
Ta ta fur noo, I'm gled o a listenin lug.

The Hoast
There's a hoast gaun aboot:
In Sowerbrig, a homeopath had a dreepin neb
In Haworth, an antique dealer pyochered intae a Queen Anne chunty
In Embro, a bodyguaird snochered ontae his sleeve
In East Keswick, a midwife wis feelin peelywally
In Lanelli, a bus driver hoasted ower his timetable
In Glesga, a wee nyaff spat intae his teem coffee mug
An thon's nae even the hauf o it!


Face Ache
Fin waukin doon the street a body smiles an stauns tae spikk
As if they'd kent me aa their lives. I hae tae think rael quick
Because, fin ooto context, I hinnae got a clue
Ower aften I will smile an say, ‘I'm dandy, foo are you? '

I ken that they're blonde haired or broon, bit itherwise I'm tint
Are ye a teacher, bankwirker, och it's an affa wint
An whyles they'll say, ‘Ye mind on me? Come on noo, hae a guess! '
Thon's fin I'd like tae thrapple them. ‘I canna! ' I confess
Unless I've kent them really weel, I jist learn tae be fly
There's nae a hope in hell I'll mind the casual passer by

Andy Gray, Scottish comedian, died of Covid, Jan 2021
Andy Gray wis born tae bring fowk lauchter
At Pantomime his skits wir ay terrific
Tho he hid niver won a British Bafta

His pairt in River City wis a chauncer
He'd clown, he'd jink aboot as weel as mimic
Wis kent as gallus, couthie, an a grafter

An syne, ower sune, the eydin o the chapter
Killt bi the sauvage cleuk o a pandemic
That scythes doon nurse an teacher, wirker, actor

There's nae ae single ferlie that's a factor
That biggs anither daith as a statistic
Bit pit nemmes tae the nummers, people maitter


The Prince o Seelence
William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck
Wis born in Lunnon in echteen hunner
Served in the army, bit wis pit oot
Ower peely wellie tae thole guns' thunner

Neist, he wis the MP for King's Lynn -
Hardly spakk, sae he gaed it ower
Tae an uncle, sayin it didnae suit
Him, as he cudnae haunle pouer

Syne he offered tae wad an opera singer
Adelaide Kemble, as fair's a swan
She turned him doon, his harns gaed gyte
An he bedd like a hermit eftir thon

He keepit tae five rooms in his hoose
Saw anely his valet, nae frien, nae kin
He ained twa letterboxes at hame
Ane for oot and anither for in

He gaed fur wauks in the pitmirk derk
A skiffy wauked 40 yairds apace
Lichtin the wye. Bi day he wauked
Oot wi a brolly tae hide his face

He poored his siller in the estate,
His stables hoosed a hunner cuddies
Ilkie chaumer wis peintit pink
Feyer thon ony ither body's

He'd tunnels biggit aneth the hoose
Somelike a rabbit's yirdy warren
15 miles o a muckle maze
A gallery, ballroom, maist uncommon

The aulder he grew, the gyter he grew
Chukken wis roastit twinty-fower sivven
His skiffies brocht chukkens on heated trucks
Run ben tunnels, fey wye o livin
He deid at seventy nine years auld
Withoot an heir tae follow eftir
The Howard Hughes o his era. Tint
O blytheness, o, luv an lauchter
The Day the Dee raise up: Storm Frank Dec 30th 2015
Fur three months it hid rained. Syne snaw melt thawed,
The sun shone in the lift, blearie an cauld
Thon night, the weather cheenged. An fowk could see
Cars in the city car parks, float as Dee
Raise up tae breenge oot ower her weety banks
Scalin roch waves aa doon her city flanks

Three hunner hames in Ballater tint pouer
Businesses wir wracked, the Dee ran ower
Streets. The gowf course turned intae a loch
Tree trunks gaed sweemin on waves derk an roch

Forty Caravans sailed in the spate
Branches like kinnlin, an the antrin gate
Pairt o the Braemar road wis washed awa
An Abergeldie Castle like tae faa

The storm gey near snappit Cambus brig
The Clunie birled like a whirligig
Whilst at the Linn o Dee the torrent's roar
Cracked like a thunnerbolt frae michty Thor

Whyles, Nature yarks oor chyne tae lat us ken
Fa rules the Eirde. It's clear it isnae men

Nemmin the Vertues o ma Kittlin Lucy
She's a blythe an bonnie craitur, wi snawy fuskers
She furls herself like a buckie an coories doon
She sharpens her cleuks on the rowan in the gairden
She staps her kyte on a diet o moose an spurgie

Twa threids a a thrum, twa threids an a thrum
Ma kittlin's purr is a clarsach strum

She licks herself clean as a fussle, a bobbydaizzler
She purrs like a tractor hotterin, fin she's delichtit
She anely hisses an spits fin truly angeret
She teaches bairns tae be kindly tae ither breets
Twa threids an a thrum, twa threids an a thrum
Ma kittlin's purr is a clarsach strum

She is the imp in the hoose fa lowps an jinks
She snores an sprauchles at ease abune a bowster
She caimbs her tail an fur baith gleg an swack
She raxxes up tae play wi a baa o oo

Twa threids an a thrum, twa threids an a thrum
Ma kittlin's purr is a clarsach strum

She lies atap ma wyme, baith hett an couthie
She sclimms a tree like a straik o fleein lichtenin
She vanishes oot wi the meen, cams hame at daybrakk
She dichts her snoot wi her paa as a snifter-dichter

Twa threids an a thrum, twa threids an a thrum
Ma kittlin's purr is a clarsach strum

She tummles heelster-gowdie chasin a moch
She hides ahin a buss like a hunkerin tiger
She sups her cream like a leddie, wi perfeck mainners
She is the queen o the hoose, wi jewels fur een

Twa threids an a thrum, twa threids an a thrum
Ma kittlin's purr is a clarsach strum


The Grumphie Chiel
James "Jemmy" Hirst wis born in seventeen thirty echt
His faither wis a fermer, fa sent his loon tae schule
He broke the pastor's glaisses rode a grumphie roon his yaird
Wis expelled fur bein tricky an brakkin ilkie rule

Syne they sent him tae a tanner, tae larn the tanner' trade
He lued the tanner's dother, she wi smallpox drappit deid
An eftir thon, he grew richt queer an fleggt the fowk aroon
‘It's clear, ' the neebours aa agreed, ‘that Jemmy's aff his heid'

He bocht a bull caad Jupiter, an hitched it tae a cairt
Wi a create o wine inside it, an odometer, roch hewn
An fit wis mair byordnar, a thing nae seen afore
The odometer gaed ding fur ilkie mile the wheels gaed roon

He tuik his bull tod huntin, trained grumphies steid o dugs
Jemmy rode on Jupiter jist takkin in the scenes
He fixed sails tae his cairriage, a lan-boat o a kind
An kept a deid-kist in his hoose tae serve tea tae his friens

Late on in life he merriet, wore a toga on the day
The merriege wis conductit in sign language aa wye through
The king heard o his antics, an he socht him tae the coort
Bit ae noble tuik hysteericks, seein him, an skreiched ‘Mon dieu! '

For on his Royal veesit he wis weirin patchwirk breeks
An yalla buits upon his feet, a glekit luikin chiel
Wi reid/fite strippit stockins, an a coat o otter pelts
Nae easily forgotten, as the troot said o the eel

The Meen Spikks Oot
Last nicht the meen waukened me up
‘Heh yersel, ' quo the meen
‘Ivery night fur 73 years ye've barely luikit at me
Bards, the gyte, luvers, werewolves
Aa takk tent o me.

Bit nae ye.

I ken ye like hoolets
Ye sat up hauf ae nicht glowerin at ane
Fair thirled ye wir tae the craitur
I ken ye like watchin starnies in a loch
Oh ay, an ye tell the Buddhist tale
O the bawd in the meen.
Ye sing o the chiel in the meen
Bit feint a thocht o the real meen, masel.

Luna, Cynthia, Selene,
I hae mony names,
Nae that ye wid ken, ye ignorant wee midden
Ye hae tint the sense o winner o the Druids
Tho I alloue, ye keek up whiles at times o hairst
A back-throb in yer bluid.

Mind, fin yer in the mools,
Ye'll anely hae me an the sun luikin ower ye foraye
Mebbe ye should practise watchin me fur noo? '