SCOTS Project - www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk Document : 514 Title : The Toad on the Rock's Opinion Author(s): Sheena Blackhall Copyright holder(s): Sheena Blackhall Text The Singer Hard-duntit nails bigg best ava A bonnie haa, a bonnie haa; Smeddum an virr will bigg it braw, Nae scrattins sma, nae scrattins sma. Sae is't wi sang. Ma faither skailt His marra, banes an sowel intil't An in some auld Scots waefu lilt Wi hertbrak, grue an swat he'd fill't. Syne, fin fowk say,'Ye sang yon weel, It gart me greet', like tyke tae heel I ain ma faither's guidin plan, That early gart me unnerstaun, The singer's bit the barley's beard - The sang's the pith, the sap, the weird. In sang, ye maun brakk doon the boon Atween the listener an the tune, Till luv or grievin, like sma rain, Wauchts throw their consciousness like pain. It's nae the singer, bit the thocht That draas fowk roon, like gowd unsocht, Sae fin ye sing, yer bit the stem The sang's the flooer, the croon, the gem That boos an shudders in the win, An fin ye feenish, they sud fin The fitprints o the wirds alang Their rig-banes o some auld Scots sang. Deid faither, fin I steek ma ee The singer that I hear is ye Oh gie me pouer, tae touch the hairt As ye did wi yer airtless airt. New Year's Resolution published by Anchor Books in 'Worlds of Wonder' Caution says, "Look before you leap". But Ambition lunges from its cage With a lion's pride, wearing its battle dress. Teeth and claws lust after The red and dripping trophies of success. Writing a poem's like that... Like going into war, in no-man's space. Die well. ..they'll pin a medal on your chest. Die badly.. .they'll shovel dirt upon your face. Oh what a beautiful morning! The TV set sings out, my phantom family, Whose lips, carved melons, Curl like the Kaiser's moustache. If Achievement was a cake I wish my slice was bigger than all Australia, As monumental as the Wall Street Crash. Caution says, "Look before you leap!" I bury my fear of falling, off I go, Straight down a chimney stack, not waiting to see If a red inferno crackles down below. Better a moment's flame, than years of guttering Better the drawn blade and the glory charge. First off the Mark Lilac, lavender and thrush, These are images that rush Forward, when folk speak of spring Gay flags, that wave like anything. Easter In the beginning Was the epiphany of the seed Tall it grew Towards the scythe Millstone ground like a doubt between sour walls Grey rat bared its teeth behind the sack. In the mouths of many Young bread lay like a lily On my split tongue It festered like a wound And nothing rose Like a God from a sacred book To hang the stars Like lamps along the cave. I put my faith In the pomegranate In the red walls of its tomb And the wasps That devoutly savour its resurrection Epiphany Today, the heavy stone that sits a little way behind my eyes Rolled back. I turned a corner down to the river And a great weight shifted. I lifted my eyes to the mountains, Rising up in a throng to greet me And a wave of joy surged up, so close to grief So sharp and strong and sweet, it threatened to unseat me. And like a lark, my heart flew high And hovered a little, over my father's land My childhood Eden, rich with my people's dust. Onslaught March onslaught. Ranks of petals open wide A glut of stars, a swaying urgent tide Of daffodils, they cram the green hillside, Though I did not invite them, they appeared. Town trees hold posies. Each, a buxom bride Of Spring, these pastel nuptials belied The bitter months when sere precursors died Ancestral snows those virgin blossoms reared To merry nests swift mated starlings glide As puss on dewy paws with killing stride Her ancient skills rehearses true and tried To snap some beak a wriggling worm has speared Unstoppable, leapt from October-dried Torn flags of Autumn, like a lion's pride Gold, rampant lilies bound while sour inside My aging bones sap rises slow and queered Each feathered songster of Spring's vanguard cried As if it sought my tardy steps to chide.. Time ploughs new troughs and furrows in my hide Though I did not invite them, they appeared Mandala o the Sizzens First a bud on a tree's lang cleuk, cud makk a besom tae swype a neuk. Secunt, a tap like a pixie's toorie, blossom breenges in weather, shooerie. Third, a wallop o sonsie green, fullin the wids neth Simmer's meen. Heestergowdie, last ava, tapsalteerie, awa they blaa Wheerily, eerily, ower they gyang, the wee, the muckle, the weak, the strang, Sooked like a dram bi a man blin foo, intae Winter's gluggerin moo. Climbing Mortlich Heron stands like a statue cast in lead Pines thud seed grenades within the forest Dead in a ditch a pipistrelle spreads its wings A hawk hangs like a new-oiled guillotine Pines thud seed grenades within the forest Toadstool has opened up its cream umbrella A hawk hangs like a new-oiled guillotine Fern is seaweed pulled by a rip-tide wind Toadstool has opened up its cream umbrella Domino-dots, the dark rain sows the earth Fern is seaweed pulled by a rip-tide wind Frog breaks from a cloud of sky-blue puddle Domino-dots, the dark rain sows the earth Heron stands like a statue cast in lead Frog breaks from a cloud of sky-blue puddle Dead in a ditch a pipistrelle spreads its wings Midsimmer Dh I can see the shaddas shift, an I can smell the hey, Fresh cuttit in the simmer park, new- rochled up tae dry. Noo, ilkie leaf on ilkie bough, showds in the simmer win, An I can hear the teuchit's sang ayont the yalla whin. In yon blue sky abeen the lea, nae pick o cloud nor rain Time hauds its braith. The meadow-puil is clear's a windae pane. The moosie creeps, the birdie cheeps, an aa the warld is weel, Midsimmer, fan the sizzen's cairt turns easy on its wheel. Mormaer o Mar The broon-blaik bluid fae the Bens has swallt the burns Mist wyves throw the wids, an aidder that winna shift. The win is snell as it sets the aik leaves dauncin, Aff in the Daunce o Daith that nocht can stop. It sets the copper clouds o larick prancin, It gars the waves lowp by like lang tint years. Rin Dee rin, like a watter shelt richt brawly Ben the banks that are close tae ye's a wife! Ye are the gene that crosses the generations Cairryin pouer an virr, the Sire o Life. Tho I maun staun, a puil wi deid leaves fillin My watter is the muir's communion wine. My Covenant, the Braes o Mar, aroon me Stinch an strang fae the first Crack o Time. What Summertime Does Best. Windows rubbed cobwebbed eyes. A sheep sat by a dyke. Its woolly stare, Was like the place. ...not going anywhere. Cold crows, and stone-grey skies. And then the sun came out! Leaves of the cherry danced down chutes of sun, The honeysuckle wedded to the wall, So full of colour, perfumed leaves and light So full, it seemed the house itself might fall! What Summertime does best Makes a hosanna out of a waterfall. December Song Snow's diamond tiara sparkles in the clouds. Her visit radically changes the Spartan wood. Baroque ice-runnels sculpt cold curlicues. Sky's Ebineezer gray, River is coffin-lead. The old high sun opens the creaky doorway of December Waves gleam like Midas gold. Everything's muffled, swaddled, beautifully dead's A stillborn wooly lamb. In the hollow heart of the wood I watch slow snowflakes fall Like small dumb griefs, they wet my cheeks with ice. Far away, in the houses up on the hill, The glittering baubles turn like poisoned planets Cardboard reindeers' hooves rear cash-till high. Out of the tinsel frost, A single blackbird bobs, Opens its yellow beak From its feathery cage, And pours out music into the firry firmament. The edges of the pine trees blend and blur The silent woods fill up with sable song, And like a child, I flood with wonderment As one by one the Evening Stars appear. Candleflame The flame's a lupin, blue with a gold tip. The stamen's the wick A tiny hand holding a living brand November: Coastal Journey The peetiless snaw drifts doon like grains o san, The train rins ram-starn on ben iron tracks. Wauchts o Winter wheech frae the jeelin sea, The tinny voice on the tannoy tells we're late. The train rins ram-stam on ben iron tracks, A passin train is a bawd wi flanks raked reid. The tinny voice on the tannoy tells we're late, The scaldin tea sea-saws in its plastic cup. A passin train is a bawd wi flanks raked reid, Steadins are harled wi snaw like fleecy oo, The scaldin tea sea-saws in its plastic cup, The tide is weety as dolphins, grey an skyty. Steadins are harled wi snaw like fleecy oo The peetiless snaw drifts doon like grains o san. The tide is weety wi dolphins, grey an skyty, Wauchts o Winter wheech frae the jeelin sea. Wytin fur the Bus This mornin, as I wyted fur the bus, I watched a wyver crunchin up a flee. Nae serviette Nae flooers on the table. Nae saft lichts, backgrun music, Nae waiters, fuss, Nae skinklin cutlery A mediaeval banquet o a brakkfast It munched awa the flee's mortality. Echt chopstick airms Drew the morsel in It chawed the gollach, Left the wings ahin. Like rings o bacon, Or roast chukken skin. Syne, kyte weel stappt Sank back, in its web-hank. And frae its mou, There danglit Ae Lane Shank. The Excommunicated Hand As a hand you were as much good As a bird with a wooden heart As a plastic flower As a paper streak of lightening As an aeroplane of fire As a feather scissors. Why couldn't you paint me a fresco like Leonardo? Why couldn't you draw me a dream like Fragonard? Why do you make each picture grey and bland, Heretic member, excommunicated hand? Queen Street Station Pea-hen and peacock Pea-hen, dowdy and motherly, Soft paunch and greying hair His partner, gorgeously flamboyant In a suit so Mediterranean blue You expect a waiter to step from the lapel With a tray of drinks Peacock's fingers wear more rings than a curtain. They were a matching set It wasn't the overdress That set these two apart from the mainline travellers Rather the butter and breadness The tenderness they couldn't help but show. Names Senorita, or Senora, Mademoiselle, or la fillette Puella, Caileag, Cailleach, wad be even better yet Bit in Scots ye are a Soo, a Doo, A Hen, Aul Goat or Coo As a mither o the nation, My response tae this is MOO! Journeys (i) Door bangs shut. Outside, In taxi, bus, or train The day begins to fill itself with words. Taxi's a closed pod. Its seeds of speech may ripen Or stay in their quiet comer. Crossing the border Crossing the boundaries From home to the public domain Even the rain is often English, A shower, and not a doonpish A mind in transit's a letterbox Awaiting the arrival of the mail An invisible magpie's sits on Anyman's shoulder Called Perception, it feeds upon ideas. 'Journeys (ii) Wee peesies link ben lichtsome clouds, their journey's heich an quick I envy them thon element, the lan o win an rikk Blythe treetlin trooties sweem the burn as swack as lowpin glegs Bit here I'm anchored on the lan, a steen amang the seggs There's puckles traivel aa the warld yet niver move ava While ithers reenge frae Pole tae Pole chyned tae a stirkie's staa There's mony a steen is made o fire, an ithers, made o ice The sickle meen brings sleep an dream. Kent circles shakk an splice Syne we may walk a Netherwarld, throwe stories dwined an deid An gaither up their stoor an aisse tae gie them flesh an bluid Train Journey Grey clouds crawl slowly over racing trees Back yards blur shrieking over streaks of miles Train slits the evening like a knife through silk. A swaggering brace of schoolboys toe-dip puberty Back yards blur shrieking over streaks of miles A fleshy palm taps out a laptop tune A swaggering brace of schoolboys toe-dip puberty Teasing horizons never keep their meeting A fleshy palm taps out a laptop tune Four housewives slip their leash, away - day gigglers Teasing horizons never keep their meeting A black bag flutters like a mourning band Four housewives slip their leash, away - day gigglers Grey clouds crawl slowly over racing trees A black bag flutters like a mourning band Train slits the evening like a knife through silk. Seen from the train, A flying cow, A stone white horse, Tall fields of wheat. Seen from the train, A rain lashed bough, Low lines of trees, Where two farms meet. Drizzle and blizzard and hail and sleet, Splittering splattering on the pane, Whoosh of steel and the flash of wheel, Thundering forward roars the train. Meditation on a Train Five crows drop in a clutch, Shiny's a woman's varnish On wet nails. My ticket's punched, one way. The train chinks like a crate of jiggled milk Just sitting, I see from speeding thorns Hideous billboards rising A slag-heap fills the horizon. Just sitting, Lungs pump wind through bones. Just sitting. Words ply their trade, like dockside whores. Just sitting, The night train speeds on darkening sleepers, Clickety clack, The train and I Clickety clack Into the great round eye of the Autumn moon. Station When's the next train due? Peep peep peep peep Stride luggage stride luggage stride luggage platform-queue platform-queue platform-queue end/line end/line end/line end/line When's the next train due? Following Van Gogh's Star Following Van Gogh's star, A flock of writers Put up at an inn in Callander. At the annunciation of dinner, Toes splashed, a flurry of fish In a hot-cold shower A spider on hairy stilts Filled a sink with screams On landing number two. Shoes walked down shag-pile carpets, Settling in pairs under the dinner table, Their tongues lolled idly at anchor Baring their soles. A very salacious slander The colour of marmalade Spread deliciously on toast. Tea slopped round twenty stomaches Earl Gray infusing heated coversation. Moon's monocle eye Peered through the window As four tall pints of export Pulled their froth caps down. Lagers simmered in lime. Flights of glasses Floated on clouds of trays Following Van Gogh's star An Arthurian unicorn cantered into my head Then stalled coming out of the Stable of my mouth, Not astonishing two Scots publishers In Downtown Callander. Airport Ambience Lichts, flichts, fathoms o heichts, towrists hopin tae see the sichts Far's the aeroplane. Fit's the cost? Fa's the loon lookin feart an lost? Fit like presents in duty free? Somethin flashy, or keech, or twee? Fit'll the weather be like in Spain? Birsslin beaches or drookt wi rain? Fit if yer hyne abeen the seas fin the engine suddenly ups an dees? Fit if a terrorist jynes the crew? Think o the fleg an the hullabaloo! It's ifs an mebbes that are tae blame fur keepin the Cautious safe at hame! The Gasman Cometh Bulldoze music crashed like a tank offensive Matchsticking conversations. Holding the black prick of the microphone, The pop star worked the crowd, a showbiz Hitler Fame was a Halloween moon, white as the powdered faces Of groupie girls, using their unripe sex to trick or treat. Doubts mushroomed, critics sniped. In no-man's land the applause died by degrees Now he's a meterman for Scottish gas, A shriek reduced to a peep Church Hall Walls are dingy, stark. The ceiling's high. A battered piano's here, with chipped brown feet. Hard years have left their mark. The lino's thin. So many share this room, A pot of gruel with one communal spoon. Outside the wind flows round the church like waves. The Whale in the Boatie A gale blew up in the Firth o Forth Aa aa the waves grew gurly As a roller coaster carnival ride Or a washin machine sae furly The watter walloped the waves aboot Till the fish war fairly wabbit Fin the gale deed doon, the whale looked roon An a passin boat he grabbit. 'Oh will ye gie me a hurl ?' quo he Tae the skipper o the boatie, 'Tae a quaeter sea in a far countrie That winna rend ma coatie?' 'Climm in,' said the skipper cheerfully, 'I'm gaun that wye masel, An fit's mair fine, than tae spen the time In the company o a whale?' Proletariat of the Future Bathing belles will bronze themselves on Mars. Spare parts of us will stew in pickling jars. Future Brits may have Dialect make-overs, skill transplants, Shop in virtual realities of infinite un-real orchards. Sky cars will zoom through aerial highways, Intergalactic byways. Redundant hamsters slump by silenced wheels. Treadmills of work are stilled. The death knell's tolling now for nine-to-fivers. Away day seats to Venus are all filled. The Story in the Corner There's a story in the corner of my family It's a real sob story, a beaut, with all the trimmings. Get out your hankies. There's going to be boo-hooing It's wooing your pity. Sympathy makes it purr. Now, it repeats like onions, like a stuck record. It's dead of course, dead as a tailor's dummy But I love to take it for outings...It does so love its outings Wearing its best coat. Though its glass eye frightens the relatives to fits. If it went too long unsaid, I'd have to admit it was dead And so, though the spider is building a nest in its grizzled hair I'm letting it stay in the comer. Did you notice the albatross wings I wear round my neck? It flew in from an ancient rhyme. What's this story, you're wondering, And what's it got to do with a mouldy albatross? Didn't I tell you? Once upon a time ... Stories (i) The silence o the muckle trees The lazy bizzin o the bees The burnie far it takks its ease They tell the finest story Like oo that's snagged on barbit wire I'm tethered noo, bit sweet's the hire That brings me tae this seely shire That tells the mountains' story The sooty craa flees heich an black I hitch a lift upon his back Tae share the muckle erne's crack Winged seannachie o glory Stories (ii) Some stories are like rosebuds Soft as the toes of babies. Others are hard as a factory's polished lino. They were young once, these stories. Some have callouses Some missed the railway track Some grow sour. Others improve with years. Some, you have to get down on your knees To coax from a dusty corner under an iron bed. They roll out, rusty and dusty, Rhematicky and stiff... But take them out. Encourage them to run Watch as they blow the cobwebs Out of their mouths and ears! Little Red Riding Hood's lovely furry suit Faither's back wis hairy as a wolf. The fur aneth his sark Blaik fuzz, wad gar him scrat, an flech betimes. 'Tae ma anely dother, I bequeath ma pelt' Hirsute Celtic weemin, Little Red Riding Hood's wolvine legacy. This tide o bonnie fur Shrunk tae the isles o oxters, Peninsulas o dowp Listeners Trees hear whirring wings Dove croos The news of leaves The grumble of wheels on tar Rumbling onward often against their will, Whilst paving slabs attend to Brush strokings, Spade scrapings Snail smashings Wrecked mid-voyage Crossing the garden path Cracked by a thrush's bill. Words, like birds Must find a suitable roost, Somewhere to perch, to preen To beat their feathers, To test-flight thoughts and dreams Rose opens her velvet ear To the squawks of day. Into her focussed petals noises sink Each bird call is allowed to have its say. Her silent petals listen, only listen. It is enough to tilt her head and glisten. I am a seashell, Letting the sand pour in From a broad bay In the rest of evening When the ascending moon Pulls back the tide, Lights up each prickly star My pearly whorls empty Fill with ocean echoes The cool and sinister breathing of the haar. Red River, Red Sky Here, swallows dressed in scarlet Flash over sunset pyres. The sophistry of sapphires! The solitude of spires! Here, storm clouds scud the heavens Like sunbeams wearing shrouds Where strollers in the shadows Cross the wet grass like clouds Here, flowers of hurt and sorrow Their bitter perfumes yield Like unhealed scars we carry From suffering's battle-field Here, like drowned wreaths of roses The blood-red moments float Like pitter-patter petals That circle round a moat. Eird Hoose I wad hae me an eird hoose, an eird hoose, wi shaddas fur ma bed A cailleach - lair, wi its reets fur hair, this bield tae the Derkness wed Here, Winter wadnae enter, nur ae ae heich wird be heard Like a mowdie-skin, the pitmerk, blin, wad ring me like a gird Ooto the wye o the aidder, the erne an the peckin craa Nae storm will iver fin me. Nae breengin breezes blaa I'll turn ma jaa tae the moosewabs, like the stoor an the blawn caff Fae the warld's merrimatazie, sae lichtsome I'll step aff The Toad on the Rock's Opinion Wetland's drained away by locust suburbs, Hills poke up from torcs of masonry, Like seals, ringed by a strand of human muck. This rock my flipper's on, holds Gaelic whispers, Bubbling up from the tarn's peaty throat. The lub-lub of the loch is thick with echoes Only a toad hears, silting into the dark. What the Anatomist didn't say Hairt dunts like a drum, a pulsed rhythm, tapped on a streetched skin. A reid bellows wirked in a derk smiddy, Fired bi the sook and blaw o miracle braith. The Spitfire Veg Aipples gie me the pip. I'd raither be an ingin, culturally spikkin Nae some wee berry ony craa can shakk An ingin is the the spitfire o the veg Ye think it's gaen... It ay comes roarin back. Buddha-Wood A book's a wood. A chair's a tree The grain holds good. They preach to me That like that book, The wood, the tree As I am them So they are me.. Girl with a Pearl Earring Vermeer's model; cheeks like mother of pearl Head, a closed snowdrop On the brittle stalk of her neck Stands barefoot in her clogs Quietly breathing through the canvas centuries Sleek peasant Miss his brush strokes caused to purr. A Bit of Embro Rough A Cypriot sundial, casting a long shadow Demetrius stepped from a myth Into an unhinged day, that was swinging quaintly ajar. The genii in the Retsina conjured him Smack into the middle of the eatery For the titillation of Embro office snackers. In the mind of an unwed girl He would swirl like a fine brandy His eyes stalked every women who crossed the door Mopping them up like yoghurt Sweet and creamy. His dark kebabs, His sweet strong Turkish coffee Made secretaries hunger for more. The curls, dark on his brow The olive oil in each fillette's baguette Party-pieces A cacti spinster bristles, a prickly succulent. A surgeon plays with a fish knife, Tenuous connections are made across the soup. From the kennel of his mind a councillor barks an opinion. Like a gentle whiskered mare, An elderly lady nods across her starter. Theatre Visit Puddles on pavements mirrored the passing queue, Rain pelted gaberdines, or wetted calf-length fur, Brillcreamed dads with razored cheeks bought tickets. Permed mums with post-war faces powder-puffed. A statue, pointed the way to pantomime, Lip-sticky Romance, sealed with a smoochy kiss, Kilted tenors' tremulous performance, Knicker-showing can-can ladies' twirls. Tier upon tier of families teetered above Like layers of a wedding cake, a special treat Lights dimmed to the in-drawn breath, the opening curtain. The audience laughed and cried at tilting shadows Farce was all the rage. Strange feel of velvet seat on infant legs, Swinging sandaled feet above a drop. The paint-faced people frightened me, like dolls That smiled although you knew they weren't real. Hannibal Lecter's Alternative Christmas Denner The precedent is Sawney Bean, the Scottish cannibal fa'd clean, The puddens ooto Jock or Jean, wi potted heid, fur snacks atween. His neb cud gyang on Monday's plate...a treat, fit fur a potentate A culinery tour de force, atween the broth an trifle course, Wi's tossell sookit like a sweety, he'd brichten up the cock-a-leekie Insteid o bubbly jock's gee-gaws, Lecter wad feast, wi slivverin jaws On Santa, roasted wi paw-paws. Feed fur a wikk on Mister Claus! Of course, the reindeer wad be free tae makk a documentary Aboot their lives as postie-beasts, afore they left their chimney-roosts! Statue The card was quite specific, Private viewing at 10 pm. Admit one only. It was a lonely spot. Gray gargoyles peered from plinths through wreathes of mist. An eccentric laird had raised a temple there, marble, beside a loch. Gothic moths gigantically fluttered through trees And one drowned boy, eyelids like floating petals, Steeped the water permanently black. Nobody else was there when I arrived Though a glass of red wine rested on a bench, And two grey doves croo-crooed a little welcome. It's never sunny in that dismal place, But there was light enough to see the sculptor's work. Near to the ground, hedged in by ivied oak, And rhododenron bushes, thick and dank, The statue squatted, hunched, its head bowed down Like a tormented crab dredged up from some sick sea. The gleaming wax of the statue shone like bone. Two burning candles by it, making a moonlight river Of its piano-key anatomy. Strange, that the sculptor had chosen To melt the frozen creature of his own design. I looked. The name on the plaque was mine. A Real Doll I was a perfect girl child Ay, a real doll. Never spoke out of turn You could have put me out on display Next to the shiny mirror, the china ornaments. Not a hair out of place. Maybe that's why I got to stay. Maybe they really wanted a teddy. The Hermit and the Raptor Owl, tears at her tethers. Raptor, all wrapped up On her perch, her outlook, shrunk. The hermit paces his flat. Options shrunk to a giro All wrapped up in himself. Outings widen vistas, opens doors. Off the leash, owl flies on exultant wings Face and feathers alight An outing to the country Part funded by the social The hermit comes alive High on a Huntly hill, Benefit-land could be on planet Mars. Tethers forgotten, bird and hermit soar. Open Day, Waldorf School Honey glows in the jar, Strawberries flaunt their kissable lips. Burgers sizzle and hiss. Ribbons meet and pleat, Tabors rattle. Thin high notes of a flute, Greet cloud-high bubbles, Bright balloons of joy. Lupin, foxglove, circle the wattle fence, Sycamores rain from the skies, Futures rustle underneath the leaves. A hundred stories hatch. Imagination flexes growing wings. Mud and stone give birth to mysteries Flood Inspired by Sir Edwin Landseer's painting, 'Flood in the Highlands' The derkenin cloud. The spit o rain. The burnie bigger growes. The lichtenin teirs the lift in twa. The larick boos an soughs. The Heivens teem. The lochans ream. The cooerin yowies bleat A broken gate's a burn in spate..a warlock, wud an weet. The spring that treetled doon the braes is noo a roarin linn Wi ragin kelpies gaun afore, the horned Deil ahin. Flood in the Heilans! See the craft wi watter at its croon! A Heicher Haun than mortal man dings ae wee faimly doon. An bits o gear that they haud dear, claes, gee-gaws o the best The risin tide casts aa aside like plooshare throwe a nest. The worsit plaid wi'ts tartan braid, the greetin tittlin's cradle Are heelstergowdie on the reef wi chitterin tyke, an table The riven blanket in the wins is tom tae threids an thrums Like a bodhran in warrior's haun the thunnerin doonpish drums Aa draiglit in the dubby glaur, a precious christenin goun A mither's snawy petticoats, bumshayvelt, heid tae foun. Buik, buit an pan, the hale jing bang, gyang furlin ben the wave In smithereens fine crystal speens sink tae a stormy grave. The heichest lum, the stootest waa, rich herds o milkin kye Are bit as nocht, fin aa unsocht, Misfortune cries inbye. Anaesthesia Screivin's anaesthesia fur livin. Whyles I screive like a Maori war canoe. Efter the screivin Fin the mind is teem o thocht Peace showds like a wicker coracle, Lapped by a quaet loch. Deid an Alive Bawd, killt on the road's An ugsome frozen cloud o bluidy fur Ahin its glaiss een Maggots meeve an heeze A bonnie butterie's furlieorum tongue Rypin gowd fae poppy bi a zebra crossin, Micht reest a meenit on the bawd's stiff lug Brakkin its journey, winnin back its pech Two Couplet Persian Ghazal Houses in towns are places people hide, In skyscrapers like specks they seem, so small. Moon in the city, hanging bound and tied, To streets where light-gleams fight in shopping mall. I like wild things that fly against the tide, Although I know their destiny's to fall. Intimate Grippin anither's haun (a skeleton's glove o skin) Is nae great shakes. Is merely pumpin win. Hochmagandie's a cocktail mix O juices. A quick fix. Twa meenit pick-me-up fur ennui. Bit thocht, dear bocht, that bares the sel itsel, Yon's intimate, fin harns thegither mell, Thochts sweeled thegither sharin the same shell. The Furniture takes stock "How has your day been?" asks the waiting dark. "Rest, for you must be weary", sings the chair. Like a draught, like a silhouette, I cross the floor. I sit like a pebble, washed up on the shore, Sit till the moon comes up to fill the room Watching the stars drop down on the river's back They ride the waves, so bright, so full of joy, A tribe of gypsies, shining gold and black. Last Portrait of George Mackay Brown Cheeks are hollow's a Viking longboat Eyes have a dark, metallic glow Face is etched with the storms of living, Dried by the winds from a sullen Voe. Hair is withered, for Winter's come. With it, the season of the crow. Ice is the frill on the blowing curtains, There, in the room where dragons go. Under his brow with its deeps and furrows Thoughts like the grey tides ebb and flow King Canute at the Gym Grip and grab... .fight the flab Designer slim... fit and trim Metal thruster... .gut buster Poking, stabbing... .punching, jabbing Sagging bums... .squidgy tums Wobbly belly... .give it welly. Whack and thud... .pumping blood Faster, faster... .mind is master Dehydration... .perspiration Flapping laces slapping paces Armpits, damp... .moving ramp Boxing fist... .masochist. Jiggling breasts... .see-through vests Bulging veins... . cricks and sprains King Canute......new tune, old flute Still Life Movie A pensioner's bus tour stops at a North East beach. They step down tenderly, helping each other out. This is a brief hiatus in their lives. Bemused, caught in the sea's headlights Folk stand still as cliffs Their short emotional seasons, sulks, frowns, smiles, Dimple and glint on faces hacked like rock, Hands gnarled like driftwood struggle with headsquare knots Grey wisps of hair escape, fly up like birds. Sea pulls their attention in. Stock-still, they watch it move Threads in a needle, woven into the whole. Orange Slice in a Cocktail Mother fruit, dead slice, all killed up, chewed dry, I remember when you were fizz, were froth, were flamenco kicking-legs Drops all drunk, squeezed flat, Mother fruit you gonna die Orange brown, Mother fruit. All killed up, chewed dry. Orange of the sliced thin mouth, wet as a watery eye Squeezed leak, your rind is a disappearing horizon Your fruit is wrinkled-tan You trickle down my throat. A soon over pleasure All washed up on the rocks. A Thing Worth Knowing Sweet rot, that cradles the earth That fills its belly with leaf, with queen, with bird, If I press my ear to your mouth Will you whisper me one dark word? Where does the last sigh go from a dead man's mouth? Does it melt, like April snow? The weight of a single tear. Is it leaden's a tolling bell? First leaf of Spring, Will you drop first in the Fall? Deer Skull Twinned horns reeted in ae white cave, Coral-smeeth, the colour o bleached linen. Keenin wins abseil doon comes o been, Glissade like fite birds cairriet on wings o snaa The shocks an whorls o teem ee sockets glent Far glances quick an blate aince berthed an blinkit. Caledonian Antisyzygy Whole cultures turn to dust In the spacious catacombs of un-becoming, Miniature selves, splitting semantic hairs Peering out through Pictland cracks The debris people leave behind their backs. When you enter ancestral vaults. Hope may sip a brandy, pack, and flit. There may be a blessing, a curse Or there may not. There may be a Norseman there, beside a Scot. One day a postcard will come, sent from your past, Written in your own hand and you won't know it. From a self you waved farewell to at Heathrow airport From it, or the one above, or the one below it. The Song of the Corn The sky is limitless, the wind horse rides it. The sea is fathomless, the dolphin swims it. The land is bottomless, the mole ploughs it. The oak is the acorn, the thing and its beginning. The feather's the eagle, the bird and its ascending. The field is a mandala. For death it's born Alpha and Omega. The song of the corn. Suicide Lady Dropped in the river like a burst car wheel, Neat laces tied in bows..pretty, rubber shoes, Hair, waving in water like a big hello, The suicide lady rolls jelly baby eyes. Lost property, No takers. Waiting to be bagged and tagged and binned. This work is protected by copyright. All rights reserved. The SCOTS Project and the University of Glasgow do not necessarily endorse, support or recommend the views expressed in this document. Information about document and author: Text Text audience General public: Males: Females: Audience size: 1000+ Text details Method of composition: Handwritten Word count: 5941 Text publication details Published: Publisher: Self: Limited Edition / Thistle Reprographics Publication year: 2004 Place of publication: Aberdeen Text type Poem/song/ballad: Other: Collection of poems Author Author details Author id: 112 Forenames: Sheena Surname: Blackhall Gender: Female Decade of birth: 1940 Educational attainment: University Age left school: 16 Upbringing/religious beliefs: Brought up Protestant, now Buddhist Occupation: Writer and supply teacher Place of birth: Aberdeen Region of birth: Aberdeen Birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd Country of birth: Scotland Place of residence: Aberdeen Region of residence: Aberdeen Residence CSD dialect area: Abd Country of residence: Scotland Father's occupation: Manager of Deeside Omnibus Service Father's place of birth: Aboyne Father's region of birth: Aberdeen Father's birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd Father's country of birth: Scotland Mother's occupation: Private Secretary Mother's place of birth: Aberdeen Mother's region of birth: Aberdeen Mother's birthplace CSD dialect area: Abd Mother's country of birth: Scotland Languages: Language: English Speak: Yes Read: Yes Write: Yes Understand: Yes Circumstances: Language: Gaelic; Scottish Gaelic Speak: Yes Read: Yes Write: Yes Understand: Yes Circumstances: Elementary. Gaelic choir. Poetry. Language: Scots Speak: Yes Read: Yes Write: Yes Understand: Yes Circumstances: