15 Scots Poems From An Inside Job Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.In Praise o Sir Patrick Geddes Born Ballater,1854 - died, France 1932

Ballater born, in Autumn's frost, fin sheughs are bricht wi hips an haws
Young Patrick Geddes lued the lan...'By leaves we live, ' his motto was

A sodjer's loon, hame-schuled an bricht, his lear ne'er driven bi the tawse
A polymath, peace warrior, 'By leaves he lived', a wirthy cause

His symbol wis three cushie doos..sympathy, synergy, synthesis
A paradox, unorthodox, 'By leaves we live, ' his motto was

Nae the three Rs bit the 3 Hs...hairt, haun an heid should be the laws
quo he, tae educate young harns, the leaves that win o learnin blaws

A Francophile, toon plannin star, he strode intae the lion's jaws,
In Palestine, planned Tel Aviv, biggt weel an wycely, buffed its claws

A Maharajah fur a day, in India he gart fowk pause
Scoored orra neuks o stank, disease an in their stead, raised healthy haas

Amang the shakkers o his warld, thon Fowk fa form thocht an laws
He stauns aside the foremaist rank, 'By leaves wi live' his motto was.


2.Aiberdeen
Seagulls skreichin in yer lug like banshees
Granite spirks like fire in Union Street
The claik o Eastern Europe's on the cassies
This ile port far mony kintras meet

Rowies, stovies, Cullen skink an haddies?
Chirizo, pizzas, burgers, sushi, coke!
The buskers frae Romania are fiddlin
Siller ooto the antrin tourist's pyoke

Twa universities are thrang wi students
Frae China, India, Nigeria
Arabs an Poles keep auld religions eident
Oor Scots fowk worship clubbin an fitbaa

Oor grannies are tattooed like auncient sailors
Spray tanned an weirin Primark teenage claes
The Nor sea is the thing that niver cheenges
As gray an gurly as in Norseman days



3. An Inside Job (2)
The airt far poems cam frae
Is far dark watters meet
Far swans in pearled feathers
Slide lichtly, mute an sweet

The airt far poems cam frae's
A bibblin Heilan burn
June sunsheen gars it skinkle
Like gowd frae butter churn

The airt far poems cam frae
Hauds coggies in the stoor
Far aa the dregs o hertbrakk
Dreep sypins, wersh an soor

The airt far poems cam frae's
Far aa the tears that drap
On ilkie kist's doon-pittin
Mell, wi the yird on tap

The airt far poems cam frae
Is like the traivellin tide
Wi treisurs, joys an nichtmares
Warld-gaithered in its side


4.Craas Seen frae a Bus

Craas perched on wires hing doon their dowps
O feathers, sae they winna cowp

For gin their tails stood straicht as leeks
They micht faa ower an brakk their beaks


5.Ye Cannie Miss Him: Glasgow

Glaswegians wear no masks. They take no prisoners.
A bearded busker smells like a badger's burrow
A junkie with staggers is spirited off by the polis

Sauchiehall Street. The unaccustomed heat
Incites a baring of flesh to equal Ibitha

‘Whaur's Donald Dewar's statue? ' repeats a turbaned Sikh
In the insignia of a Glasgow traffic warden
‘He's twa streets doon. A wee green man, so he is,
Wi a pointy nose. Ye cannie miss him.'


6.The Craw: A Scots Owersett o a Poem bi John Clare

Foo peace-fu like it seems for lanely chiels
Tae see the craw flee in the Heivens gran
Abune the wids an parks, ower cantie lea
Thon spikks o clachans or a hoose nearhaun
Ahin the neeborin wids, fin Merch wins heich
Teir aff the branches o a muckle aik

I lue tae see thon lum-swypers flee by
An hear them ower the wizzent widlan craik
Syne jink agley frae hidden widsman's straik
Fa warssles daily in the tress doonby

I lue the seety craw, wad niver spyle,
Its Merch day, blythely skreichin its joy oot
I lue tae see it sailin back an fore
Far parks an wids an waters spreid aboot

7. Three Scots Owersetts frae Banes o Cuttlefish bi Eugenio Montale, frae Inglis Translations bi Antonio Mazza

A Nearhaun Glisk o Glamourie
Day waukens again. I shaw it as a dawn
O threidbare siller on the was
The steekit windaes strippit glimmer
The darg o the sun resterts
An the ootspreid voices dinna bring the ordnar stooshies

Fit wye? I think on an eildritch day,
I reward masel. The pouer that aince gied me virr
Will ream ower ghaistly an oorie frae the gran langsyne
Noo, I'll raxx oot. I'll leave ahin heich hooses, nyaakit streets
I'll face a kintra o unmarked snaa saft as lanscapes in a tapestry
A latchy sunbeam'll skyte frae the snaflake lift
Stappit wi unseen licht
Wids an knows will spikk tae me reesin oot cheerfu comebacks

Gledsome, I'll read the blaik signs o branches ower fiteness
Like a necessary alphabet
Aa ma yestreens will appear afore me at aince
Nae soun will ding doon this lane blytheness
Some Merch cock will takk the air
Or drap doon tae sattle on a palin.


The Skaith o Leevin

Aftimes the skaith o leevin I hae kent
It wis the chokit burn that gluggers
It wis the up-furl o the druchtit leaf at noon
It wis the sheltie cowpit aff its feet

Nae blythness hae I kent
Forbye the ferlie that shaws
God disna gie a hee-haw
It wis the statue doverin at noon
An the cloud, an the merle heich-liftit

Blytheness Won

Blytheness won a body wauks
Wi ye on a knife's edge
At the een, yer a blae licht that glimmers
At the fit, thrawn ice that cracks
Sae he fa lues ye maist, he sudna touch ye

Gin ye fa in wi wowels reamin wi wae
An brichten them
Yer mornin's sweet an steerin like nests in eaves
Bit naethin quietens the greetin o the wee loon
Fa's baa rins aff amang the hooses

8.I am

I am the birdie cheepin ower the lea
The lea itsel an ilkie blade o girse
The siller that belongs tae aa, or nane
That takks a different form in ilkie purse

I am the traivellin ee, the mansion gran
I am the tiger an the tiger's prey
I am the wave, the seagull an the san
I am the rotten an its nest o strae

I am the brierin rowan on the ben
I am the dwinin leaf upon the aik
I am the thocht that glents in ither's een
I am the blitheness in the spurgie's claik

I am the shadda neth the thorny tree
I am the cock that cries atap the spire
I am the dreep faas frae gurly lift
I am the spirk that crackles in the fire

I am the marra in the sodjer's been
I am the unborn bairnie in the wame
I am the rose, the thorn an the stem
I am the reef that haps the hermit's hame

For I am Aa an naethin, ane in Aa
The pluff o stoor fin that greets each spurgie's faa


9.Scots Owersets of Two Tamil Mediaeval poems found in English, from William Dalrymple's ‘In Search of the Sacred in Modern India'

Her Airms

Her airms are as bonnie
As a gently meevin bamboo
Her een are fu o peace
She is hyne awa
Her airt's nae easy tae win tae
Ma hairt is wud wi langin
A plooman wi a lane coo
On a lan aa weet
An ripe fur the seedin


Ma Luv

Ma luv
Fa's bangles glent an ching
As she chases partens
O a suddenty stauns blate
Heid booed
Hair happen her face
Bit anely till the wae o gloamin's by
Fan she'll gie me the
Fu pleisur o her breists


10.The Devadasi: A 16th Century Poem from the temple of Tirupathi, translated by A.K. Ramanujan (1929-1993) , here owersett in Scots

I'm nae like the lave
Ye can enter ma hoose
Anely if ye've siller

Tae step ower the yett
O ma hoose
It'll cost ye a hunner rupees in gowd
For twa hunner ye can see ma sleepin chaumer
Ma bed o silk
An climm inno it
Anely if ye've siller

Tae sit bi ma side
An tae pit yer haun
Bauldly inno ma sari
That'll cost ye ten thoosan

Siventythoosan'll win ye feel
O ma fu roon breists
Anely if ye've siller

Mair siller'll bring yer mou close tae mine
Tae touch ma lips an kiss, tae hug me ticht
Tae touch ma muff an get tae birze wi me

Lippen weel
Ye maun bathe me
In a shouer o gowd
Anely if ye've siller
11.October

October. Noo the parks are plooed
The mowdie's humfy-backit trail
Lies ower the girse in yirdy clorts
A bawd rins hirplin ben the kail

Wee cheepin birdies in the beech
Chirp oot, weel happit bi the leaves
That hinna drapt, for Winter's bite
Has yet tae bare the muckle trees

The bens ahin the loch o Skene
That rise sae blae intae the lift
Still laird it ower the parks an ferms
That hinna yet bin gart tae shift
Bi the ootraxxin toun that spreids
Its graspin clook ower kintraside
Here aa is quaet, nigh gloamin time
Fin latchy cushies hamewird glide

12.The Shaddas Atween the Trees

Fit bides in the shaddas atween the trees
Far naebody sikks tae gyang,
Barrin the midgies dauncin there
In the hauf licht, wee an thrang?
There's fuspers o paws in the oorie wids
Hett fittin it ower the girse
An tapsalteerie leaves cowp ower
As if fleein a warlock's curse

The shaddas atween the trees are derk
An seenister, fey an sleekit
Fin the lift in the scratty airms o aik
Wi midnicht starns is theekit

I lue the shaddas atween the trees
Far nocht bit the wud things dwell
For there creeps the fiery, secret tod
As lane as I creep masel

13.Forhooied

Dowie, dowie ben the brae
Dowie doon the road
Steps the bairned lassie
Wi her wechty load

Kissed an cuddlit easy
Luv wis faist tae flit
She maun bide her lane noo
Wi nocht tae dae bit knit

Nocht tae dae bit sit at hame
Luv seeds growe far they faa
Saxteen years o mitherin
The slowest crap ava

14.The Castlemilk Lads

Chae Gordon ran wi a Glesga gang, The Cumbie,
Did time fur fechtin. Niver used a blade
Chapped on the heid wi an aix, whaun still a halflin
Nae winner his hair sticks up like a hurcheon's prods

See thon wee scar abune Chae Gordon's ee?
He haived a bottle o cider intae a midden
It stottit richt back oot an struck him hard
Growin up in the Gorbals gied him scars

Raised in a boddom flat on Inverkip Street
Doon bi the Clyde, whaur Johnny Begg wis brewed
Barrels, stank o fuskey, big dray shelts
A neon licht that blinkit aa nicht lang
‘Takk a peg o John Beg'….queer lullaby.

Chae's faither wis a busker, cam hame blootered,
Whyles they selt auld claes in Paddy's mairket
The coat in the photy's speecial, though
Brand new!

His sister Catherine, she wis killt bi a larry
Three year auld, nae road sense. Niver luikin….
Chae blanked it. Didna wint thon in his heid.
Ae meenit here, . the neist, a smudge on tar

Peter leans his chin on Charlie's shooder
Granparents raised him whaun his mither deed
TB…it cairriet aff a wheen o ithers
His faither wis a scaffie, sortit toys
Frae trock he fand in backets for the tip

Rab Carnochan, third o three laddies
Da wis a plumber, ma worked wi the Co-op.
Raiked aroon wi the lave, stole neeps frae gairdens
Click! The shutter faas. The trio's catched


15. Miracle on Princes Street

I wis dowpit doon in an Embro café,
As ye dae, aroon three in the eftirneen,
Fin wheech cam a tram, like an electric eel
A miracle o modern engineerin
A bumbazement. A stammygasster. A whigmaleerie

Nae a trick o the licht
It wis a clear day, ye ken.
A wumman nearhaun near chokit on her scone
This tram wis the first o its breed tae skyte ablow the Castle
Eftir a brakk o fiftyseeven years

Ooto ma left ee I luikit at a Windae Display
In a gran shop fur Embro's genteel market
Twa mannekins stude wi their claes aroon their queats
As nyakkit as fin plastic first produced them

Their glaiss een glowered at the tram as it sliddered alang
On its vergin shottie o traivellin
An I's warrant ane o them winkit at the driver!