Sheena Blackhall

Gold Star - 4,859 Points (18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)

Sheena Blackhall Poems

721. Dirge (Scots) 11/30/2016
722. Fidele Castro 11/30/2016
723. Mortification Of The Flesh 12/4/2016
724. Remember The Dead 12/11/2016
725. To Christmas: The Unsendable Letter 12/21/2016
726. Listening 1/4/2017
727. The Mind Archive 1/4/2017
728. Dimitri: English Poems 1/4/2017
729. Dimitri: Scots Poems 1/4/2017
730. John Mackie, Scottish Poet, Rip 1/8/2017
731. Mourning 1/8/2017
732. Thursdays 1/8/2017
733. Coming And Going 1/8/2017
734. Donald Trump: Half Lewisman 1/15/2017
735. 35 English Poems From Death Of A Tadpole 7/6/2016
736. Pièta 7/23/2016
737. Requiem For My Son 7/23/2016
738. The Wandering Womb 2/5/2017
739. Scots Poems From Thursdays 2/15/2017
740. The Earthquake -new- 8/19/2017
741. Old Age -new- 8/19/2017
742. Old School Ties -new- 8/19/2017
743. Scotland's Gulag: Peterhead Prison 1987 -new- 8/20/2017
744. Leave-Taking 8/31/2016
745. The Pugilist 6/2/2014
746. 16 English Poems From The Poetry Lesson 2/22/2015
747. Fishing Village 12/18/2014
748. 21 Poems In Scots And Gaelic From 'Mr Charon' 11/15/2014
749. The Strange One 11/9/2014
750. In The Channel Tunnel 10/13/2014
751. Meditation No 9 11/8/2014
752. 11 Poems From An Inside Job (English) 10/13/2014
753. Dream-Time 10/17/2014
754. 9 Wee Poems 10/13/2014
755. Silence 7/20/2014
756. The Irish Sea 10/1/2014
757. Meet The Shakespeares 7/20/2014
758. Under The Mango Tree: Uttar Pradesh 5/31/2014
759. Guiding Light 3/30/2014
760. The Alliterated Robert Burns 4/12/2014
Best Poem of Sheena Blackhall

Immigrant

I can't imagine dying in this land.
The neighbours here have doors graffiti-red
‘Why are you brown? ' another pupil asked
‘I think because my folks are brown, ' I said

Out on our landing, someone's dumped a bed
I dream in Hindi. I don't understand
The baby words in English in my school book
At games, or dancing, no one takes my hand

I miss the smells of curry, frangipani,
The steaming chai at Delhi's teeming stalls
The cooking fires. I even miss the sewers
The thieving monkeys with their chattering calls

I miss the temple incense, the bright ...

Read the full of Immigrant

Wolf Prints

I write in a cold climate.
There may be a moon,
There may not. There may be snow,
There may not.
I write from need, from no-need.
I write from joy from no-joy.
My words are stones,
Skimming ancient water.
Finned poems,

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