Sheena Blackhall is a writer, illustrator, traditional ballad singer and storyteller in North East Scotland. From 1998-2003 she was Creative Writing Fellow in Scots at Aberdeen University's Elphinstone Institute.She has published four Scots novellas, fourteen short story collections and over 100 poetry collections, some of which are listed here (most recent first) . Two of her plays have been televised. She has won several national awards for Scots poetry and short-story writing. In 2009 she became the poet laureate for Aberdeen & the North East of Scotland. more »
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sheena blackhall Poems
Of Auschwitz (7 poems)
1.Shoe-Case, Auschwitz Clogs, boots and shoes built to the skies They stun the mind and glut the eyes
Of Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes (3 poems)
In Memory of Sylvia Plath Hughes The Black Prince of Paradise brought you to this place, Where Cromwell's Ironsides were bread and buttered,
15 Selected Love Poems in Scots
1.Ballad Oh cauld's the doonrush o a burn In winter's iron thraa,
How Many Times Can the Heart Break?
It is hard to be human. When I was young I followed a flowery road A riot of colour and paint. I loved it deeply and well
My son the engineer takes things apart Studies their mechanisms, rearranges them I broke his family in two, his known bearings
If I ever saw a Minotaur, I know I'd cut him dead He eats young girls for breakfast... Oh, he's terribly ill bred
Holocaust relics- A roomful A raceful A hateful
Seven Scottish Inventions
John Logie Baird 1888-1946 Checking out the weather, the traffic or the news, We switch on the TV for fun and current views
The cello slits on her nose release a melodious moo. Her copper pelt is soft as a maidenhair. Spittle sits in the silky folds of her mouth, Like seeds of milky dew.
I’m a mouse, a mouse Nervously leaving the cavernous hall of the house Five steps down from the door
Back o Bennachie (48 Scots Poems)
1.Back o Bennachie The peesie pipes her cloudy tune Aroon the back o Bennachie
Like grey fur boulders rabbits huddle down, Ears pressed back like sleeves, Raiding the grassy larder of the fields.
A bat flew into my room... and I recoiled, My arms shielding my head instinctively. Blind, winged, blundering, mole, It clung by a sliver of claw to a far corner.
How ugly our ears must seem to a cat! How bald. How wrinkly. How pink. How flat. For theirs are tapered, a furry thatch
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Of Auschwitz (7 poems)
Clogs, boots and shoes built to the skies
They stun the mind and glut the eyes
All plundered due to human guile
In every shape and cut and style
That speak of old atrocities
Where were the good, the kind, the wise
Who should have counted human sighs?
The empty clogs on this grim pile
Those crimes unmask.
Why did their God not heed their cries
That from such torment did arise?
Selection. To an ending vile
Their frightened feet walked the long mile
Why did no soldier sympathise?
Just shoes to ask! ...