SCOTS Project - www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk Document : 510 Title : Diminishing Lines Author(s): Sheena Blackhall Copyright holder(s): Sheena Blackhall Text Show me your shining Teeth Splatter-red droplets Crimson my snow-white thoughts So empty, a cold mind, you wouldn't believe. Wolf, I even wish You'd jump between my ears, Squat in my inner landscape Show me your shining teeth. Fridge In the black kitchen Midnight is two red dots In a square clock. I hum quietly Little fridgy tunes; Cuddle my marg in frost, Crystal by crystal Converting milk to ice. Diving for Poems: Dhanakosa, Balquidder Diving for poems, I entered the moon's reflection. The water swallowed me like a womb, Like a shark, like a dark friend. Shadows swam round me; I dipped into the depths, over and over. Moon poems are beautiful, plucked from inky fathoms. I would wish for all poem fishers Little lights set out along the shore To guide them back Visibility moderate A ship sails by wi sides o steel Torn pennants flee ower sans surreal The lift is alien. Nae birds flee Ben this deserted territory. Bit gin the waves should rise an swey The Heivens cheenge fae blue tae blae The mirror crack, the dream growe real Fit monsters micht the Deep reveal? Sea-Washed Inspired by the painting 'Sea-Washed' by Marian Leven, Aberdeen Artists' Exhibition 2003. If oceans of shark and fin Torn rigging and splintered prow Should suddenly widen, sea pour everywhere, If the hairbreadth crack in the side of all that's real Should swamp the cosy world of the here and now, Watcher, high and dry on the gallery floor Would you simply stare? What if the canvas tears? The breakneck tide Comes tumbling out from the frame, Great fathoms of gales Would you hear the screech of gulls, The icy song of whales, As your eyes roll back and your dry mouth fills with brine Watcher, here in the gallery? Pebbles, Waves, Gulls Blisters of pebbles rise through sun-tanned sand Waves topple like dynasties. Tonnage of salt, slippage of tide, the wreck of an April day Melting into the strand in gritty shards. Scabby with barnacles ghost-posts rise from the spray Where gulls like crosses flex angelic wings. Sky, Sea, Beach Sky sinks a shaft of light into the sea No-one else on the beach Apparently notices. A tug-haired toddler pats a bucket of sand Hammering home the obvious, Upended like a duckling, Pink polka dots on her tights, Spread like cake mix Dropped in a warm pan Across her two small buttocks. The firmament continues to descend. A herring gull sails grimly through the clouds Like a cargo boat from Orkney Laden with sheep. The sky continues to pour A linn of light down from a Heavenly fissure. Waves rush to my feet, Thick with the silt of stars. A greyhound, skin and bones, Lollops onto the surf Shaking the spray from its flanks Like a shattered rainbow. Bon Accord Fae distant ports, the warld's bree Sweels roon oor sturdy herbour quey. Doos strut aroon oor Norlan toun, Far lawyers stride in inky goun, An seagulls skirl an birl ootbye, Winged citizen's o evenin sky. We are gweed hosts, as we hae been Fur centuries in Aiberdeen Tae politicians, priests, prelates An mony wirthy heids o state Like Kings we treat baith loon an Lord Oor City's motto? Bon Accord! Seascape Air is a dead cod smell. Sea has battened its shoals Under a green hatch. Tide is nosing the day Along the beach, Baring its marble teeth, Shaking its frothy pelt, Its roar is storm. Waves leap ashore, A hunting pack of ice... Slubber and swish Slubber and swish Six feet down and dropping Six feet down, dissolving Shards of sea shells Crumble into smush, Ground by the sea-quern Into coral grits. The shore is sucking my shoe, Sardonic salt-mine. My sand-glass empties Into the mouth of Time. Seaman on a Stormy Pier Out of his depth on land, A ticking mine, anything sets him off, Gripping his chipped pipe in his lobster's hand. Hat like an upturned boat, He'll grab Fate by the throat. Storm's brewing. Pier's curving. Street lights flicker like they're about to fuse. Sails go whiplash-crack On the grey cheek of twilight. Sunset's a fresh bruise. Coastal Episode: Devon Coast Pregnant with ale, an Englishman With walrus cheeks and salty laugh, Fair-weather Falstaff, soaks in sea Under a, roasting English sun. More waif than wife, his other half Measures blue milk into his tea. Pale's a communion wafer, she Shoos off a seagull. Clotted cream On wings its white pot-belly hangs On slithering shingle, rasping smush, Of Britain's end, that ragged seam Of wishy-washy hurlygush. White cricketers rub polished balls, On quintessential English groins, Railwaymen, traders, teachers, squires With faces that King Harold knew, Minted from John Bull's iron loins The human currency of shires. A squeeze box wheezes out an air, Squat pugs with masters, go parading. A Morris dancer's jangling knees Please crowds, yet ache to be off wading Where saucy wavelets slap the sand And beach hats flop like hot sweet peas. Oh Archers, Emmerdale, Eastenders Soapwriters all, could you devise One episode where wet sands slide Between pink toes, where no-one dies And nothing happens, no one sighs Only the tired, repeating tide. Bridge of Don Skyscrapers tile the horizon with slabs of glass Tulips slash through the ground like galloping lancers A Taj Mahal of a swan swims past on puff-ball plumes Diminishing Lines Striations, gradations, follow their own order, Their fixed limits. Shingle-line is buskers, prancers, Friskers of terriers. Tattooed chancers, Whippet pee. Strollers with blackthorn legs, Hair braiders. Sellers of sandals and ice cream, Whiff o wacky baccy, high and dry. Candy-stick sunburned trippers, skinny-dipping, Clothing, dripping. Fairweather punters stripping, Plastic bags, punching against the wind, Lobsters shoulders lie beside boulder bums. Pebble ledge. Sea edge of seagull patrol, Shoals of screamers, streamers, beamers, Smiley dogs with loppy stroppy ears. Shoreline's getting serious... Bobbers, surfers, divers, Speed boards. Shoals of larking teens, Dung knots tugging the sea voluminous skirt. Far out, waves toss and crash. Red flags rage at the rash. Powerboats lunge like sharks on a long leash. Line upon line leads out to the Unknown, That tenuous haze where sea Becomes the full and empty sky. Brig o Balgownie (1) Brig o Balgownie, stoot's thy waa, Lang shaddas o heich trees doonfaa, Onno the wrunkled watter's broo, Roon banks lulled bi the Don's balloo. Abeen its archwye, cauld an black, It cairries cobbles on its back, Far traivellers dauchle, watchin dyeuks In convoy, sail fur shady neuks. Snaadrifts o clouds slide saft thegither In archetypal simmer weather Far Don tynes its identity In the braid quicksans o the sea A Slice of Sunday The sky is having a long lie. A fountain of floating beech leaves Hangs in the hot air. The cool grass sucks the river up like a straw. Bubbles slide on the grave faces of stones. In the deep fork of a twig, A green fly abseils through a patch of sun. In the silences between the crunch of walkers, The void fills up with sky and road and birdsong. After the panting of joggers, the jovial 'Good mornings' of walkers, After the barks and sighs of dogs and excitable children, The rattle of bicycle wheels, the crackle of boughs, The day, like a stream healing, Closes completely over the breaks in its flow. In the distance, footballers call. Traffic rumbles and thunders over a bridge Whose grey foundations are braced against the waves. Today, I seek no more Than to feel the sun on my skin Like a lizard, crawled from the damp Of a hidden lair, up on a rock to dry, Moving its eyelids slowly to catch the scene, Watching the little lights flash by on water. Brig o Balgownie (2) Sheela-na-gig: Celtic female fertility symbol The arch, reflected, shows Sheela-na-gig Flauntin her braid fertility, as if tae prig Mankind tae breech the portals o the brig. Blue kingfisher flees faist, his hame tae bigg, While dugs stravaig tae sniff an pee unchyned Mangst reeds that doos micht chuse their reefs tae thigg. The God o watter looed this bonnie rig, Fin he howked oot a bed tae haud the Don, Flanked bi the shady willow's dreepin twig Ower yon Veenetian gondola, the swan River in May A crow's a cross of black in a blue sky The restless slime tugs at the anchored branch Such struggling! Eel swims against the stream Cloud sits, a nest of white on bobbing blossoms The restless slime tugs at the anchored branch Fish leaps - a rainbow bridge of falling sound Cloud sits, a nest of white on bobbing blossoms Zen stone worn smooth's a moon lies on the bank Fish leaps- a rainbow bridge of falling sound Green leaves like grand pianos harbour birdsong Zen stone worn smooth's a moon lies on the bank The river constantly unpicks its seams Green leaves like grand pianos harbour birdsong A crow's a cross of black in a blue sky The river constantly unpicks its seams Such struggling! Eel swims against the stream Affirmation I will spikk in ma first-born leid, Foonert, ferfochan, fey It is safe an kent, The lowe is aywis lichtit in the hearth, Drookit, dowie, dreich I will spikk in ma first-born leid, Far short socks hing on the line, Far the meen an the eirde Are roon an fixed an hale, Sleekit, slystery, stoory, stammygaster I will spikk in ma first-born leid Glaury, glysterie, gomeril Afore the buik cam An the buckled skweelbag An the pen that aywis blots Afore I learned that silence wis ma frien. The Existential Dilemma of Ordinary Object Igor Kadinsky's mug Is green and tin with literary pretensions. It yearns of setting its lip to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Yevtushenko. When steam curls up its sides It thinks of trains, a hedonistic frisson. Father O'Rourke's cup Is stained, with hidden depths. Its hand is placed on its hip, Like Marilyn Munro Descending the stairs Into a roomful of partying politicians. Mary Brady's tumbler's secretive, Hasn't been out for years. It's in a locked cabinet, Giving nothing away. The Laird of Inverquhomerie's silver quaich Dreams of multiple salivations, When a quaich was an item Revered by congregations, When tongues like little fishes Licked its sides. Latchy Fin meetin fowk first aff, Ma Scots sel's aywis latchy. It's a fey wee body. It winna enter a hoose Till the hearth's bleezin The kettle's bylin It's gotten tae ken the fowk Coo's tail skelpin, Niver lifts till last! Ma English sel goose-steps Like a Nazi stort-trooper A caul jeel wauchts fae't Like an Arctic berg. The Prosthesis Speaks I'm reliable. Not pliable. I never tan: Rain is water Off my back. I enjoy, however, The laying on of oils. I never lose an ounce, Or gain a pound. I am very supportive, Programmed to serve. I follow no secret agenda, Have no axe to grind, Metal Fatigue's my only niggling angst. My cousin Henrietta spends her life in a hammock, Lazy hussy! She's Mrs Alfonso-Parker's Silicon implant. She has been fondled by a peer of the realm And a very short sighted postman. Fortunately, she's quite a tactile creature. The Mart Ram dam lamb lamb ram dam dam ram lamb Abraham's fall guys. Solid sea of jumpers Precursors of gloves, socks, toories Even the black sheep's bringing three bags full. The wethers are blethers, making sheep's eyes at tups Who're beginning to show their horns. Here to be fleeced, like falling dominoes, Sheep follow the leader, are a dictator's dream The penny never drops they've been stitched up. Washing Eek! I am a sheet of the line, Yawning. Wumf! I am a pillow Fawning into the billows of the wind. Crack! I am a linen shirt Arcing and flapping, Like an American flag. Flump! I am a quilt-slip, Playing fast and loose with air. Whump! I am a tablecloth In full sail, Suddenly caught by the tail. Slump! We are the washing. Tossing. Waa I bigg poems, pages, whyles hale buiks Ooto roch wirds howked fae ma fowk's spikk, Ooto the dubs an glaur, the tcyauve an plyter O their life's darg. A warld that nippit their thochts, That clippit their wirds like oo. Wirds war cairdit threids, fae ma deid gran, minnie's moo. She wis the roch waa o a cauld byre, A bield, a cyarn o rocks. My faither wis the grit, held it thegither Agin the dreich onchancy warld o cheenge. I hae taen their waa. I hae smeethed ae side o't Made o't a genteel, English side, that's freemit. Gib ye scrat aff the peint, wud bogles roar aneth it The lowe o dispossession roars in the teem range. Shopping Trolley I am a shopping trolley. I am hooked on pushers, They strip the shelves like locusts. Bikers zoom me round with granite fists. Pensioners slump over me like caterpillars, Babies are dumped in me like pupae. I whizz through plastic jungles of bananas To the surprisingly friendly cackle of plastic hens. I am a shopping trolley. I am heavily into Zen. I am a metal meditator. One day I may levitate Over the drinks aisle, frightening the alkies. I am a water carrier. This bottle on my spars Contains the following: (Please read before swallowing) Calcium quinine magnesium Chloride sodium potassium Sulphate nitrate If you've a dicky prostate Avoid this mineral water at all costs. It harbours aluminium and iron The ideal drink for thirsty horse shoes Parched park railings, dehydrated nests of non-stick pans. Dialogue with table We have taken away your forest, Replaced it with a kitchen. Don't tell us you liked the owl With his hootings and lootings, Or the faithless birds That fled your coop each Autumn. Ingrate, it is useless to deny it... When the light is dimmed, We have heard you groan and sigh. We civilised you, table. Took you in from the cold. Wind shall not rot you, nor the rain decay. Why are you not ecstatic? The Horticultural Poem This is a horticultural poem About horticultural things, Of reeds and weeds, where sycamore seeds Have horticultural wings. The wind in the West has all the zest Of a punch from a fist of clover, In the wheezy East it's a perfect beast When the cabbages bowl you over. I'd go for a walk, but on every stalk The whin seeds are exploding. By that quiet rill, drawn up for the kill, New rifles of pods are loading. From armies of sedge, platoons of hedge Breed bristles strong and sharp. Beware that petal, it hides a nettle Whose bite's as bad as his bark! Daisy Chain I am watching a tiny daisy in the grass In twenty minutes it has not moved one inch It has not lowered the drawbridge of the day So that light may canter over its flag of gold In twenty minutes Seven dappled shadows have blown their patterns Over its sundial face I think it has grown tired of rehearsing for Winter I think perhaps it is plotting to tear The calendar of the leaves Into a thousand petals raging across the grass Persley Walled Garden Opened 1997 for the S. T. U. C. Centenary Commemoration of Workers Memorial Day. A walled garden Surrounded by: one deer of an excitable disposition three vandals in top of the range trainers. a castleful of O.A.Ps a constipation of traffic Flown over by: arthritic pigeons with iron hinges a plethora of planes a sparrow which unaccountably dropped its nest Smelling of: four star petrol assorted herbs Slithered upon by: a spaghetti of worms an ooze of snails With: rising damp in the lawn which is shaved to a number one one coy tesco bag tucked under a hedge's wing a concrete pre-cast fountain with nozzle implants a thrush enjoying a cold collation of Red Thai chicken salad a rose's foreskin pulled back red and crinkly releasing a single drop of wobbly dew And all marked out like a freemason's apron, measured and made precisely, like Louis the Sun King's parterres at Versailles. Live workers tribute to dead workers Resting in peace after the final whistle. A solitary ant crawls over a bag of crisps. The Veggies Response to the Vegan 'What manner of person,' implored the Tahini, 'Made me from the wreck of another's bambini? They cried 'Open Sesame', shattered her head In my jar there's a trillion young Sesames, dead.' 'As for me,' cried the fiery, outrageous Pimento, How rude to wrench me from the land of flamenco, To sit like a lemon, my soul on the block Awaiting the guillotine crash of the chop!' The turnip, the broccoli, onion and leek, Arose in a body, gave vent to a shriek, 'Do you know how it feels,' they berated the chef, 'To be notes without music, with no treble clef? To be torn from the earth, for a soup or a stew, To feed two legged predator vegans like you?' The cabbage said, 'Plainly, you haven't a heart, Oh the gallons of scallions you've torn apart!' And the aubergine paled neth her Persian élan, When the cook poured the salt in the foot of the pan. The mushrooms grew maudlin. The spring onions wept, The parsnips grew angry and punched the courgette. The potato made eyes at a Golden Delicious, The chilli turned red and incredibly vicious. But the carrot was silent. For once through the grate He'd entered Nirvana, the non-veggie state. Bluebell Wood Bluebell wood on a flapjack day Six jade jewels Clustered round a brooch Bluebottles nuzzling A glistening ball of dung Tree TREE as a name Doesn't grow as a tree does. It does not sprout letters in Spring Nor lose them in Winter. Birds do not sing In the branches of TREE Nor do they nest In the white spaces of a page. Clouds do not rest On the tops of the printed word. The stars do not shine through the print Nor does the snow steal up the stems of ink Soft, like a dove breathing. Tree of Life White brain stem. Neurons' tendrils Can twist or travels straight to the heart of the matter The Brain's the Tree where Knowledge sits and sings In the windy Ship of the Skull the Mind peers out From two round portholes, scanning the sea for icebergs Tree Bark Amber centipede, like a spill of treacle Slithers over the cracked hide that is bark. Bark, like hard-baked mud, Was once a honey pot of wood, Dripping with resin, seeping with sap and growth. Death is lightening its load, Buoyant as cork, thatched with emerald feathers of moss, It is crossing the Sylvan Styx With a cargo of tiny insects, crumbling into the forest Season by Season. See...Seed...Season Easing out of its structures, Into its essence. Conference of the Snails after a conversation with Angus Calder on gasteropods and their wonderful crenellations Brothers, we are slithered here together In full flood, to ooze. Our manifesto's a convoluted trail, A trellis of slime set out in the best Celtic manner With a flourish. This venue of a row-boat is most apt. We shall be launched in moonlight, Secretive as the magnificent Masons. Our ceremonies shall include Horn weavings, ritual munchings of air and mulch. All mention of shellings to be punishable by exposure to a thrush With long beak and no table manners. We shall inaugurate a brotherhood of slugs. Worms to inhabit the lower orders, Split-backed bugs to be our emissaries. The founder of our Faith was a visionary, Monsieur Pierre Lune Who slipped from a rainy taxi in Paris under a whore's umbrella To be eaten as a martyr. We are a closed order. We colonise the dark. Such stereotypes those humans! So alike! Pifft! Such nonentities! Whereas we, beloveds, are most beautiful, mysterious, Infinite in variety, the Chosen. Our hymns and humours are divinely damp As Lucretia Borgia's vulva. Anoint your antennae with Nivea! Each shell is a sculpture in motion, Sliding through the parting air inhabited moistly by mushrooms. We are a glide of turbans. Our tiny horns are minarets of joy! Kai Moon's Dip Hua! The mahout's toes tap Kai-moon's scabby ears That flap like rudders in the slipstream heat. The jungle hits you with a wall of warmth. Elephant hide feels bullet proof, A bursting horse hair sofa Being carried on Kai-moon's back Is to brush the treetops on a moving mountain, Each ponderous thigh creaks in its curtain of skin. Her footprints gouge out bowls in the ochre mud. We reach a pool that is mosquito heaven. The horizon heaves, Kai-moon has stopped to drink. The mahout nudges her and down we sink Into the chocolate pool through man-high reeds Like a house sucked into quicksand. The water's now a handspan from my feet. Burned charcoal-black beneath the tropic skies, This Thailand matriarch enjoys her dip. Her drowned trunk periscopes up, Snorkels and squirts, Swallows the murky water. I pray she doesn't develop the urge to wallow. She doesn't. Wet and dripping she emerges Into the scorching day, Swaying into the steaming, humming leaves. Peppercorn Peppercorn, peppercorn, fae hae ye been? I've been tae Asia, that's far I hae been. Peppercorn, peppercorn, fit did ye there? I touched up a boodle on Tienamen Square. Secrets An aa thon years I thocht ye gaed tae Perth Fur genteel holidays, takkin the air wi bankers, Grocers, solitary widows like yersel, Strollin the streets, a slider in yer haun, Listenin in ceevic park tae brash brass band. Ooto the blue the truth's bin run tae earth... Nae Perth bit en suite in the Hoose o Daviot. A fey hotel, an inmate's view o Bedlam. Oh stigma, oh stigmata. Oh persona non grata. Did siller makk insanity seem sweeter? Fur entertainment, veesits tae the theatre Electric shocks tae jolt ye back tae kilter. Did siller takk the sting ooto the shame? Ye'd nae hae tholed the rammy o a ward Far ithers wanner oot an in o sanity. Ye missed oot there..there's comfort in the kennin Yer nae the anely soor cheese in the pantry. Asylum. Bywird fur a haley haven. A sanctuary. A safety and a bield, Fae village sklaik wi aa its slichts an slanders, The Hoose o Daviot wad bin a shield Wi a revolivin door, on hinges hung, Far minds wheeled roon that whyles cam unsprung. An easy fleggit vratch, my memory hauds Ye coontin aff lang years wi lanely crosses. Foo weel they dug a pit wi gleamin spaads, Tae hap yer hurts wi sods, like tainted losses. Yet, if upon yer flesh ye'd worn yer wounds The balm o sympathy wad ken nae bounds. Did Buttons bring strange potions on his tray? Yer grave is green. The blaik yird winna say. Yer public face wis private. Burnished braisse We'll keep' like thon. The lave is blawn aisse. Midnight House Upon a Summer's Day Insanity is never the horror rooftop hit by lightning, The Gothic stairway, the shaggy streaming hair. It is when the day fuses quietly like a light bulb. It is when looking down, the hands in the sink Inside the yellow gloves, seem to belong to a stranger. It is when the midnight house upon a summer's day Makes time tick like a bomb. Ah, then the street lamp Is the Cyclops only eye, staring so intently into the pool It does not seem to have notice it has drowned. It does not notice the sky is a white Armada, Calmly sailing off through chartered seas, far away Beyond the crackling stairs, burning down known checkpoints, Devil's familiars. Melancholia If you cut a melon, it will cry. Squeeze it, it cries even more. Who holds the key to unlock childhood's door? But coal is hard and black. Its pain is trapped. Hard tears can wait a long time to be tapped. Epitaph for a Healer : for Jim God only likes nice girls and tidy boys, But you sat down with me, un-nice, no-good, In a way that nobody's parents ever would. Safe, to say the unsayable in that room, And oh the relief of dropping all pretences, Raising the drawbridge, lowering the defences! Now I would walk through living coals to take Your hand in mine, kind ghost, for pity's sake Actions, more than epithets can tell You were a man who loved his fellows well Who'd guide them back from No-Mind's dark abyss To sweeter vistas, pin-stripe Theseus. Lazarus Only a god could pull a stunt like that, Like plucking a plumb from a pie past its sell-by date. There are lines which should not be crossed, Lairs should be left unopened. Death made living flesh is miraculous But also barbarous. It doesn't seem right ... like trawling the night And catching the moon in a bucket, just for the hell of it. Quite a show, as spiritual parlour tricks go. But what of the gape in the ground? What becomes of the status quo When the dead start shillyshallying to and fro? What if, to your surprise the dead did rise, Long after time had chosen to erase them? Would you look them in the eyes? Would you turn and face them? The Hiccuping Directory Anderson, A Anderson, B And- And- And- And Anderson, C. Cruickshank, B Cruickshank, D Cruick -Cruick -Cruick -Cruick Cruickshank, V Macafferty, F Macafferty, G Mac-aff-aff-afferty Macafferty, T. Williams, A Williams, P Will-ill-illiams Williams, V The Valla Yeitie Inspired by the singing of Nichole Robertson 12/11/2000 Doon the centuries daunced the sang, Prood an fine like a slaw Strathspey, Like flooers o the rodden, licht an fine, The blossom afore the crammosie. Whiles twid reest in the antrin throat, That gart it craik like a corbie's craa, Coarse, fur a bonnie tune like thon, Tae be malagaroosed, an it sae bra. Precious, a culture's flickerin flame, Kinnelt an kept bi the traiveller's kin, Cannie, thon hauns that cupped it roan, Shieldin an heirskip fae the win. On a nicht o stars in a Norlan toon, The gangrel tune fand a siller reest, Fin a gowden heidit quine steppt up, An lent thon sang baith braith an breist. Syne, throw the howf in thon cauld airt, The past swept by on bleedin feet, For the sang wis cruel as the tale wis auld, O a bairn an its mither left tae greet. Ye micht hae heard a preen doonfaa, Fin Sorra chappit the door ajee, As the singer jyned wi a quine langsyne, Tae gie her dule tae Eternity. Nae a note nor a wird she chynged, Nor bi artifice, sikk tae smore't, Up frae foun o a quine thon nicht, Hairtbrak itsel tuik wing an soared. Singing Event It's good to sit in the grass of an old pasture, Watching the summer light cross-cross the field, Threading the air, the hum of hazy insects, The dyke behind composing July's epitaph. Cool tombstone, lichen respite for a fly When work cogs stop. All needless converse ceased. It's good to sit awhile, apart from Time. To observe the hay Coddle the hooves of piebald, grazing cattle As it has done for furrowed centuries, To watch a plough horse whisk away a gnat From its chestnut rump, is gentle the eye. Grass, cattle, strollers, birds...All share a common journey Stepping down to the same low destination When the glorious Sun in the sky withdraws its favour. Not yet. A human voice carries a song from a tent Rising and falling over the swaying, rhythmic hay Out of body, a drifting lovely air High as a swallow floating into the wood. Pantheist in a Hey Park On simmer nichts, I'd herd the bairns like kye Tae Waukmill wids, up tae the trinklin burn Tae wash the stoons o day fae their foonert feet. Village fires war lichtit, rikk furled skywird. Craas, like doorstops perched on the antrin post, There, far I'd sprauchle oot in the hey's saft bed. Dreepin inno ma lug, the blaikie's notes, Drapt frae the derkenin mou o the warm gloamin. Win, like Vulcan's bellas, blawin the beech alive. Here, thocht tuik flicht, jyned wi the soarin hawk Winter's Wytin Roon the Neuk Widdershins the breezes blaw, Seety-feathered corbies craa, Winter's wytin roon the neuk, Shakks his wizzent powe an cleuk, Dunts the antrin leaf awa... Nicht growes langer. Berries faa. Snifter-dichter in the sheugh, Snaa'll be wi us seen eneuch, Breets coor hungeret in their hames, Beens'll powk throwe wastit warnes. Sae this day I gaither oo, Catch the sunlicht on my broo, Gaither warmth afore it's hid, Stap the jar an steek the lid. The Veesitor Ben the nicht on frostit taes, an eildtrich carl trod the braes, Shilpit shanks an hudderie hair, creepit fae a stormy lair. His lang beard wis taiglit oo, cauld his shadda bell the dyew, Sib tae starns an waukrife meen, shards o Sorra in his een. In his pack, baith deep an wide, gleanins fae the kintraside, He'll pit ferlies rich an rare.... Putrifee their sweetness there. Twa grey deerhounds lean an thin, ane afore him, ane ahin, Lowp aroon his hirplin fit, the gangrel wi the kirkyaird smit. Ben Balquidder, late yestreen, strippin leaf fae runkled gean, Cam a carl I ken ower weel. Winter, wi his deidly creel. A Brocher's Fareweel: for George Bruce 1909-2002 Tune: Tarwathie Fareweel tae Auld Faithlie, adieu Mormond Hill, Fur the virr o a Brocher is sattled an still. He is takkin a voyage, grey oceans tae cross, An the skreich o the scurries rings lood wi oor loss. He will niver lie weel in a lang timmer sark, He wis niver a Makar fa coddlit the Dark. Kandinsky, Nijinski, Beethoven an Blake, Ye've a fier comin ower will kittle yer claik. Oh there's mony he'll ken o the fowk that bide there, Fur it's thrang wi the ferlies o speerit an air, Wi Pound, Yeats an Eliot weel he'll belang, Tir nan Og's far the gowden an gracious are thrang. The price that the ferryman takks is his braith, Fin a life's at its lees syne richt kindly comes Daith, An aff tae the lan o Tam Linn he is gaen, Like a wave - skelpin dolphin that's briestin the faem. Fareweel tae Auld Faithlie, adieu Mormond Hill, Fur the virr o a Brocher is sattled an still. He is takkin a voyage, grey oceans tae cross, An the skreich o the scurries rings lood wi oor loss. Interlopers Two tables along from two Dutch lovers whispering And a housemaid pushing a broom, three sparrows hop round a menu. A flea-bitten dog climbs onto a seat, not ordering, lolling abundantly. This is not reciprocal. I do not perch on sparrow's branch, Or slouch in the brown dog's kennel. Moreover, not content with patronising the eatery, Even now three sparrows are hopping about this page, The flea-bitten dog is lolling across this poem. Hospital Waiters and watchers, hand-wringers, knuckle-crackers Nudgers and whisperers, sweet sucking, crisp crunching visitors Sit through the clockwork evening, in the always-lit reception Where the sun does not go down. Where no draught may go, In-patients, out-patients, live patients, dead patients, (All of the walking wounded) Throng long corridors leading to cells of pain And the relief of pain. Death's entourage is here. The bric a brac of bones. Cold operating tables, dripping red. Bruises like blackberries. The suck and throb Of wriggling drips, like soft-feeding lampreys. The silence of the surgically dead. The potted plants are a dead giveaway: No greenfly live on their unmoving leaves, Dust nests there like fine crematoria ash. Signs breed like mice on every space and sleeve. Plastered on every wall the hall allows Effigies of fossilised consultants Stare into middle distance, like dull cows. Beyond the bleary windows, the March sky Slides like a glacier, slipping from its berth. Citizen Blackbird folds his sooty wings Lances a maggot, wombed in Mother Earth. The Merriege o Convenience On Sir William Quiller Orchardson's painting "Mariage De Convenance" Auld men, like dry sticks, easy brakk An should tak tent they dinna wed Young wives, fur they will surely shakk The siller fae their pooch, syne bed Some young an lusty gallus loon Will set the horns upon their croon. A hoose, tho braw an bricht's a preen Is unca dreary aa yer leen. Orange Orange is Slogans, fists and drums, Frightened women closing windows and doors, Children snatched from the street. Orange is Xmas morning. A window of frosted stars, A tangerine like a huge carbuncle Down at the toe of a woolly sock, Its coat tugged quickly off Like a fat lady's on a hot day. Orange is a A magnificent mincing cat Walking across the room, Its tail erect and waving. Orange is marmalade toast, Slowly melting into bread While roasted coffee pours. Orange is rioting petticoats In a hot Brazilian fiesta. Orange is Pips afloat in the moat of a squeezer, Launched in a squirt to soothe a streaming cold. Orange is A tease. Not as easily won As a Cox's Pippin, It requires foreplay to get its juices flowing. Orange is Cheap and plastic, a Woolworth's picnic cup, Or Buddhist cool in meditation robes. A Jesus Sandwich Coffee and cream, Straight stocking seam, Two old gossips finger wag, belly sag, Eyebrows raise. Seen better days. Lordy, Lordy, A special view of relativity! This country, she go to the dogs! Gravity roots them to their seats, Infinity rattles the atoms in their bones. They've bagged a Bible apiece Lordy Lordy A Jesus sandwich. The Telling Poem I would like to tell this poem why I write, This paper I drag my pen along, Like a thin shadow. The paper listens deeply. It has opened its face, It has emptied its hairt, It is waiting for me to start. So, I begin. I ring the bell to call the slow thoughts in. They come like monks, Their alms hidden in pouches. I tell the story Short and sharp's a sigh. I may make the paper wait. I may torment it. There is a time for food, A time for fasting. I am a wine-maker Today the grapes are young The wine is not for tasting. Ruin by a Cornfield The slate roof had been leeched by barns and byres Wide to the sky, it was a nest for swifts, A drop-in centre for rain. It rode my childhood dreams, that ruined house, Dappled sunbeams stippling its flanks, Whisper of cornfields rustling in its ears. Mouse-fur in its hearth, ferns in its kitchen, Nettles in its sink, it was harled by lichen, Cabbage whites, its moving wallpaper. The wind sang in its bones, a happy kettle It always ate me up, a hungry host, Eager for human visitation Eager to hear a voice that was not a bird's It filled my memory's pockets full of clover, Roddens, sun. The gold and emerald fields. Pollockshields East Koran. Ramadan, Pollock, Pollock, Pollock, Pollock, Ran-dan, breid n' jam, Punjab keelies, Glesga Hindis, New Delhis weirin wellies, Lad-brokes, arti-chokes, Turbanned weans, curried beans, Quines in sahris, Arctic larries, Wee swally, Shug an Ali, Pollock Pollock Pollock Pollock Pollockshields East, Urdu's fand a reist, train rinnin, tootin, stoppin, Dev is here tae dae his shoppin, train stoppin, hop in, hop in, oh-mak-me-padme-rice oh....mmmmmmmmmmm In a Hindu Temple. Aarti Ceremony, dusk, Jaipur Merrymatanzie o mochs, bricht dragonflees Waucht ben a temple that's ableeze wi licht, A merble pantheon o Ganesh, Siva, Kali, Hanuman, Butterlamps glent bi alabaster shrines Upheld by jewelled an scented sahri quines, Gowd stoor fae Heiven's billion waukenin starns Floats wi lotus petals on fower bowls. Three Hindu priests wauk forrit tae the altar, Heids bood like oxen yieldin tae the yoke. Abeen their chantin, chink o tinklin bells, Drawn curtains offer Lakshmi, Narayan Twa deities, the Aarti gift o Licht. The preists skirp ritual watter ower the fowk Twa fat dreeps trickle, cruiked, ower my broo, Inno the runnles o my Scottish chikk, Into the cracks anither lan has cuttit. Titles of Poems Currently Incubating - The Aperitif that is the Brig o Balgownie - A Poem to be whispered behind Wheelie Bins - The Penance of Greyfriar's Bobby - The Muscular Soul of the Owl - What the Cloud said to the Satellite - The Dead Bird's Last Song - Lassooing a Small Back Street Now and Again Now and again a bubble breaks from the loch, Fir shadows change like shoppers Shifting seats in fast food bars. Now and again no wind disturbs green leaves, The moon comes out and with it no bright stars. 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: 6319 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: