ony sma’er thocht
ony sma’er thocht twathree poems for hugh macdiarmid on the thirtieth anniversary o his daith A livin’ man upon a deid man thinks And ony sma’er thocht’s impossible.
First Published as a print edition by White Craw 2008 This electronic edition 2016 This is a freely licensed work, as defined in the Free Art License 1.3, the text of which can be found at http://artlibre.org/licence/lal/en/ This license grants the right to freely copy, distribute, and transform this work without the author's explicit permission. Acknowledgements Front cover illustration: detail from a penandink caricature of C.M. Grieve by William Soutar. The original image can be found in Edinburgh University Library’s C. M. Grieve Archive (MS 2960.18) Back cover illustration: digitally remastered from a photograph of a working drawing by Douglas Robertson. The original image can be found at: http://www.douglasrobertson.co.uk/wordpress/?p=143
Wap a fowk in cheens, roup them, mizzle them; yet they bide free. Tak frae them wark, passports, meat on the table, beds ti lie in; yet they bide bien. A fowk tirn servile an puir whan reft o the tung o their mithers; then they are lost for ay. Ignazio Buttitta, ‘Mither Tung’
A new generation comes up that will know them not, except as a memory in a song, they passed with the things that seemed good to them with loves and desires that grow dim and alien in the days to be. It was the old Scotland that perished then, and we may believe that never again will the old speech and the old songs, the old curses and the old benedictions, rise but with an alien effort to our lips. Lewis Grassic Gibbon: S unset Song In time there will be made another song, another story. And in time that too will be halfforgotten, doubtful and misread. Then there will be only the old road, a rickle of stones where a cottage once was, and the wind keening over the dyke for evermore. Andrew Greig: W hen They Lay Bare Not traditions Precedents! Hugh MacDiarmid: motto of the Scottish Chapbook
canaries it’s no the yellae that I luve nor the dippin onclippit flicht nor the fowre spreckelt eggs i the sma ooie nest it’s my suddent risin up whan comin hame lowsed frae the daips o my darg ti hairvest their sang i.m. jock clelland
luve the unco tentation o stryngers the tairible hauddoun o hou ti be wi yer ain kith an kin the solemn certaintie o plants wha’s luve they hae lippent til the insecks the buirds an the win
a strinkle o sna there’s a strinkle o sna owre the lip o the toun the mill burn rins fou sun throu trees wizzent bi the snar o winter a lea o scabbit hirst twathree dugs a brucken shed a bairn pleuterin i the ryme a newhowkit lair lik a lassie’s breist cled in a strinkle o sna on the stane a foreign name a migrant worker lown she lies rowed in a sark o glaur the souch o her braith deavin the silence
拾貝慘案
i.m. morecambe bay, 2004
brounsbank at nicht the trees daena sleep tho some set up in bed an kid on some nod aff for a wee but ye’ll niver catch them i the daips whaur dreams come some strip aff walin ti spend the lang nicht naikit wi nocht atween them an the dunk fog but some raggit shreeds o moss an crottle ithers keep their claes on as the watch the muin chynge frae sickle ti chris grieve’s watterie ee but come the daw they aa streech an yawn an sticks fa aff their heids
nativity pley a dizzen sma weans some wi dishclouts roun their heids ithers flauchtin wings stotter owre the words o sangs wi gey sma meanin but wi muckle souns ilkane’s een alicht wi staurs biggar primary schuil nurserie cless yuil 2005
heirskip the sassenachs, they kill’tna us ti eat but for the gowd that maks them gyte taen juist oor sauls ti sell betimes they daedna even tak oor sauls but juist oor tungs (I’ve heard heartell that scowes cam doun the clyde heichrucket wi oor haiselt tungs) an whan we war but heaps o bane the sassenachs they roup’t up even them they taen oor banes an sell’t them back as heirskip til oor bairns
tay brig disaster the croun flees aff the queen’s pyntie heid there’s an echae o screams an shouts i the air cairriages crashin an brekkin in twa alang the firth (the courier says) a fluid is risin the storm is here the sea houps ashore at grotty broughty whaur the fowk complain o a rinnie nose whiles trains are faain aff bridges
Hou ’tis A fiddler aince pleyed me a tune. Said he: E ven melodies grou auld an los their savour. Whan we first heard this at the Elph lang syne, it gart oor herts loup. Nou it haes lost its savour. An that’s hou ’tis. We maun be weelgaithert an redd for auld age. I say ti my bairns: D aena cast me aff in auld age. For then I’ll hae lost my savour. Yet whiles it’s no a bad thing. For whan we see that, efter aa that we’ve daen, we are naethin at aa, we can stert oor wark aa owre again. efter mairtin buber
twa sma thochts daith:
grief:
a stane drap’t intil a loch that haes the name o haein nae end faain athoot devaul lattin gae the stane
heidegger’s hoose here ye are caa’d an yer name is weelroundit ye birl i the clean set o the circle whaur stert an finis are aawhaur the same a thraw in which there is nae thraw nor joukerie I staun i the lown hert o yer ingaein a steid o stillness that gaithers in itsel yer guid farrin the ruit an rise o aa ye are for poetically man dwalls leavin no juist mairks buit meanins yon orraster wha stauns i the pairk an straiks his heuk maks hale the pairts gies vyce ti the lan piotr golubowski forestar lichtens a swaird ti lat siplins furthschaw i the skaill o the sun an whit am I but a lichtenin o the forest whaur a warl micht come ti staun an ken itsel efter mairtin heidegger
bruce’s speeder
waziristan nor rathlin isle it maiters nocht... yon speeder graiples yet wi the conundrum o space while birlin in its ain sma time on a thin slaiver o silk threid
Ecce Homo Frae wuids an fields gaithert in sheuchs o the hills the fairmer steps intil an onbrucken laun, he’s neck loupit roun wi a bicker o seed, twa dugs tirlin tails ’neath the soup o he’s haun. Abuin he’s stoup’t shoothers the hills heeze a sang til a blaewortfou lift an the smirr o the sun; yet naither a leuk nor a thocht daes he cast ti the hairvent ahint that he’s labour haes won. For he’s darg lies afore him; the stent o he’s braith maun be skailt makin halie the scabbit an mise. Sae ay he steps intil the furthwart of times, sawin seeds o he’s speerit ti mak the deid rise. efter a winnock in st isadore’s church, biggar bi roland mitton
Milestane
Ye can haurdlie see it nou, it’s that owregroun wi girse an weed an grup’t bi moss; yet its grayspreckle face ay keeks oot frae the side o the road lik an auld man’s. Nae mere haundiething is this. It’s art for aa its modestie, its granite stane an cursive script giein the traivler sumpin braw ti mynd while’s catchin he’s braith.
auld year’s nicht
we burn wuid in the street it’s auld year’s nicht flames licht the lamps that line the gait we the leivin tirn oorsels ti shaddaes ti come naur til the deid in this toun whaur the deid aince bid their aibsence brings hame ti us the praisence o anither warld a warld as daurk as the yirth as warm an sleekit as the flames
staurs
mebbe the paum o yer haun maun ay tirn intil the back o yer haun mebbe the leivin maun ay be taen apairt ti be pit back thegither again juist ti see whit we’re r eally l ik I aince sclim’t on a ruif but it was nae guid the warld ablo me was a dreeble o time abuin the Plou fotchit starn flittit an the trowth smir’t by me owre quick for me ti catch
bein there spairks frae he’s pipe in he’s bonnie blae ee thunner o the linn rummlin in he’s banes met us juist the aince in oor lang acquent thusly, on a slab abuin the burngush the wund whummlin he’s reid whiskers, the lift fou wi he’s lauchter... the bruit fact o him i.m. my faither
crossin the cryne
forenicht clear efter rain i the west a yellae licht a lift soum’t clean an cauld as jade the road sclims curve efter curve the toun sluips awa ahint knoweheid doun amang thae spreckles o licht my hoose is blenkin
kilbucho kirkyaird o their hoose nocht abides but the gummel o a brucken wa o the mony wha war sib ti me nane abides no even nane but in my mynd no ane cross is tint this roupit toun is my hert
we thocht oor days wad lest for ay
thon bleck winnock thon emp’y ee ay glours an winter nichts eik til the coontin o oor oors we thocht oor days wad lest for ay but the nicht in brucken muinlicht yer een wi nae warnin are an auld man’s strait an undeemous
scots tung
it isna eith ti hain my tung mang ither tungs that wad devoor it but ay I haud ti the tellin o’t youk time ti the mett o its body an wi it ca back ti mynd a bairn wi a white scaur on his heid whaur a stane haed struck him I press ti los no e’en ane wird o’t for in this tung the deid speik ti me
the halie dug we’d nae wird for the unco beast we gat frae the sassenachs we cried it then t he halie dug for giein us the halie dug we micht gey naur forgie them the takkin o oor l ebenswelt the halie dug the halie dug it maks oor kailyaird leuk mair bonnie
incomin
sleepin bairns tummelt intil a laither boat an pou’d intil the ocean bi whispers an daurkness I’m couerit in my mither’s laip breathin in her bleck hair the smell o her fear wi ane ee I watch the muin skimmein owre the watter the waas o oor warld are flichterin shadaes steer’t bi ghaists an the souk of the tids we sleep agin skin hulls an a lappin cauld ye canna drink my faither stauns tall an lown an dress’t in saut an stares across the watter he’s waukit hauns haudit ti daurk lips thimmelt thegither in prayer
candy burn
caurvin yer wey wee tearaway burn cursin an sweirin steady an strang yer graivel bed tells o yer traivels clean an clear wi garrulous sang whummel awa wee tearaway burn an be ti the yirth lik luver ti luver surrender yersel ti the airms o the tweed ablo winter’s muin wee tearaway burn aye hurry awa wee tearaway burn an daena leuk back yer past is gane
K late ane nicht as kafka’s pen swithert buin a flegsome line the letter K crowl’t aff the page ti hae a quiet wee wird I’m yer cypher, franz my fere the sclentit gaits o praig an vien whaur smel’t ye bluid an t’ daith of god I’m aa ye need ti ken
hermit ye speir o me whitwey I bide i the green hills I smeu an answer ye na for my hert is redd o care as the mey pirrs doun the burn an’s gane intil the onbekent I hae anither warld forby a world that’s no amang men
ane auld cana couple mynd back thon was juist the stairt raw an carnwathlik we war in thae faurdays blate eneuch ’thoot aa thon business wi the wine thankfou ti mary’s laddie for onstappin the joy syne it’s bin a miracle titchin the shore o the ither in oor sleep waukin warm an snod aneath oo ain ruiftree shawin turmits in oor fields e’en the thraits brocht blissin bruidin daith intensified oor life care tocht us the nurtur o a failin bairn puirtith peyed us back wi ’ts ain puir gowd oor mairiage wasna byordinar we focht an glunch’t like oor neibors daed an seikent o it aa betimes lik maist fowk the haill sair fecht! but ay in ilka cup o cauld hairsh watter we pree’d a glisk o cana wine
chris grieve on whalsay atween the wars the scots language (that haed fechtit braw) sail’t til the zetland isles ti tak a wee rest it deuk’t its feet i the german sea an kep its mou shut herknin to the clap o the waves the cry o the gulls aff whalsay the tung on whit we’d dependit taen thae souns deep intil itsel makkin owre their consonants an vowels ti their verra founs an at nicht it bid oot on the sands leukin up at the muckle ‘O’ o the muin sae lik the stairt o a sentence that’s speikit frae the hert
white craw 2016