Epistle Poem by WN Herbert

Epistle



Leeze me on rhyme! It's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure...
from 'Second Epistle to Davie'

While London's steekit beh thi snaw
and ilka sleekit chitterin jaw
is ettlin tae describe
hoo drifts ur white, and ice is cauld,
and feel thi lave maun be enthralled -
Eh've Bowmore tae imbibe.
And as the nicht - mair dreh nor me -
draas in, Eh think Eh'll scrieve
a wee epistle tae, let's see,
thi deid and Doctor Grieve -
auld hermits, wee MacDiarmids,
thi ghaist o guid Lapraik:
here's a ravie fur young Davie,
an a rant fur Rabbie's sake.

Fur the tartan telephone is playin
‘For Auld Lang Syne'; some cloud's displayin -
well, it's no quite the Batsign - weans
wull hae nae clue,
but aa thir dominies are prayin
tae Burns's Ploo.

Some anniversary or ither
huz gote thi lot tae plot thigither
and ask frae whaur - Stranraer? - or whither
remeid sall come:
they've caaed aa gowks fur blinks o blether
baith deep and dumb.

In stately manses Haggismen
puhl sheeps' wames owre thir heids and then
descend beh greenie poles tae dens
whaur desks await;
they raise thir stumpy Haggispens
and smear on slates.

While maskless weemen keep ut edgy
an gee wir man a retro-wedgie -
remind us hoo his views got sketchy
on burds and… beasts;
demand thir haggises be veggie
and, glorious, feast.

And aa the waant-tae-bes are Robins
mair willin tae wark hard than Dobbin
and fuhl o antifreeze fae bobbin
fur bacon rinds -
thir beaks, aa chipped, let slip thi sobbin
of achin minds.

Thi anely time that Scots gets read
is when thi year lukes nearly dead -
it seems tae need extremes;
when winterin leaves are lipped wi frost
and wolf-pack winds pursue the lost
and ink, in deep freeze, dreams.
When Naichur jinks yir toon's defence
and bursts yir comfort's net
wi snaw fitbaas, then tae thi tense
come wurds thi waurm furget:
deep-layerin, like swearin,
we dig oot attitudes;
wi stanzas come answers
tae city pseuds and prudes.

Whit Burns wiz sayin tae Lapraik
wiz whit we are's eneuch tae make
a puckle lines that salve life's paiks:
we need nae ticks
nor teachers' nods, nor critics' shakes -
we're no that thick.

Ut's no that anely crambo goes
that jingles oot, jejunely, woes:
Burns claims he disnae ken whit's prose,
whit's poetry,
but see hoo crafty his rhyme flows,
and braid as Tay.

Whit Burns bethankit Davie fur
wiz freenship in thi dargin dirr:
when, pure ramfeezlet, thochts gae whirr,
tae knock back gills
by ithers' ingles, bields fae smirr,
can stave aff ills.

But here Eh sit wi midnicht's nip,
or leh doon whaur thi verses slip,
or rise tae brose and habbies' grip
aa oan ma tod,
neglectin meh professorship,
in the nemm o Gode!

Fur twenty fehv years - mair - Eh've trehd
tae scrieve in Scots and it's nae leh
Eh'm nae young billy - why deny
Eh've ootlived Burns?
Fae Davie tae Lapraik we fleh
wi nae returns.

Ootlived, but no ootwritten yet,
nae superbard, nor Guardian pet
nor whit maist fowk wad read;
tho fit fur (no sae) prehvut letters
wi a dictionair sae crossword-setters
micht love me when Eh'm deid.
But whit Burns foond inben oor speak's
a glede fur aa McSlackers:
gin Doric's heat is kin tae Greek
Eh'll scrieve ‘To a Moussaka.'
And thi ithers? Jist brithers
and sisters eftir aa:
still-hopefu peers and hoped-fur feres -
Eh think thi ink micht thaw…

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