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The Sanctuary KnockerI’ve chapped at the sanctuary knockerI’ve priggit tae be let inTho I’m nae frien nor foe tae yeNae sib….nae kith nor kin

Ma kintra’s riven apairt bi warMa bairnies greet at nichtAn ye hae peace an breid tae spareI claim alms as a richt

I hinna steepit ma hauns in bluidNor bombed bairns in their bedTho cauld’s yer kintra, fey’s yer wyesIt’s tae yer yetts I’ve fled

I’ve chapped at the sanctuary knockerStranger, aneth the skinI hae a hairt that beats like yoursStranger, can I step in?

Easter WidsCatkins in their foggy hoodsFite an saft as Angels’ snoodsNod as breezes daunce alangGirse is fair wi gowans thrangAn the incense o the treesAa the widlan purifees

Idioticals Wioot wids, watter, flooers, natural ferlies Touns an aa inbye them Are idioticals  hotterels o soun an stramash The Japanee caa it Wid-dookin, Shinrin-Yoku Wauken ben wids, yer sheen Kickin the tatterwallops o leaves Bricht harrigals o Autumn Lippenin tae the leerickie-laricrichie Sweeshle o larick, rowan, birk The skreich o a collieshangie o craws Or keekin up at the shelts’-tails in the lift O a saumon gloamin The branches hung wi the perlin o dyewy moosewabs

Evenin in Yule, in the queeriesome colours o cauld It’s gledsome tae watch the burns Breenge heigh-ma-nannie doon the bens Scoorin panjotterls o leaves frae the puils sides Feelin the shmoodrichs o sna Faa saft on yer jeeled chikks

SmokeA puff of smoke, grey fluff and featherBursts from a hedge On a clumsy fledgling flight

Nature has dressed the braes around in goldA glut of glorious daffodils

Snowdrifts beneath the treeAre a distant memory

The clock ticks onRound the changing face of seasonsThe mirror shows late winter all year round

Cheenge is LichtsomeCheenge is lichtsome, whyles onchancyHeelstergowdie, muckle an leastAa the warld’s gaun tapsalteeerieOzymandias, wha’ll faa neist?

Stars an stripes, nae hugger-muggeryOh, wi lauched at fey ongauns! Like a B Movie, wi skulduggeryShowbiz, sabre-rattlin, cons

Cheenge is lichtsome, whyles onchancyNaebody’s lauchin here, this dayThon wins o cheenge will they blaw lichtlyOwer the seas frae the U.S.A?

Between the Cemetary & MacDonaldsTattered memories blow across the pavementA toddler cries fat tears down chubby cheeks

Seagulls are active ingredients in this cityscapeSirens wail by, opening wounds in the ear of dayMillions of birds have slipped through the back door of night

This street, these centuries, this cityHow many winters will pass before they crumble?

Will pestilence, war, or global warming prove fatalBefore more than birds pass through the door of night?

Easter Bairnie: for Skye-Marie AndersonThe April trees are wauchts o greenNew-glimmerin in the glentin sunThe rikk o barbecues soochs byRisin ootower the flooery grun

A heron stauns abeen the DonFar waves rin by like liquid glaissIt makks o steen a nat’ral plinthIt’s like a statue, motionless

A tyke dooks at the watter’s edgeDowp wags like a clock pendulumWee birdies in the hedge’s midsIn hidden hoosies, threip an thrum

Students wauk coortin haun in haunIthers stravaig, een glued tae phonesYe hear the crack o beer-tin tapsAn early foggy bummer drones

A fisher yarks his sheenin lineAlang the current, trystin trootA bairnie’s Easter days are catchedIn a prood parent’s photo shootTreisur mair dear than that o KingsThe joy tae faimlies new life brings

The Corp in the Cooncil Meetin Cooncil meetins, it is saidAre scunnersome an borinAs Mr Bentham could attestWis he asleep an snorin?

Na, na, his spirit micht hae binHis mummy niver spakkIn fact, the perfeck cooncillorI think they’ll seek him back!

Princess Mary’s Xmas tinThe Princess Mary Xmas tin Wis vrocht wi siller for officers, Braisse for the ordnar sodjers, Tae be giftit on Xmas Day,1914

Ilkie tin wis peintit wi her picturAn stapped wi a swatch o baccy, A pack o fags in a yalla monogrammed paper, A lichter, a Xmas caird A photie frae the Princess hersel. Forbye, Puckles o tinnies hid sweets, chocs, lemon sookers

Anely 400,000 wir at the Front fur ChristmasBi then, the Deid Man’s PennyFower inches in diameter, wis sent insteid Tae the murnin neist o kinA wee braisse tin, fur the shell-shockedThe blichtit, the gassed, the blin

The TortieSome fowk are killt bi fire an swordAeschylus daith indeedWis fey: frae oot the Heivens drapptA tortie on his heid

Cadail, Mo Ghaoil – ‘Sleep, Darling, Sleep’ Regimental Pipe Tune‘Sodger, lie doon on yer wee pickle straa, It’s nae very broad, and it’s nae very braaBut, sodger, it’s better than naethin at aa, Sae sleep, sodger, sleep.”

Requiem for a CooA rocket fae the USA drappt on a Cuban cooAlas, thon douce-like bovine breet Deid faist, wioot a moo

The Cubans beeriet it wi state, A maist sincere processionA victim, politeecians said0 imperialist aggression

In ChurchTwa auld caileachs dover on their pewsThe kirk is cauld, the seats as hard as steenTheir hair, like rattens’ tails, Faas oot aneth their fake fur bunnetsTheir glaisses slide tae the eyn o their nebsThey are rowed like buckies Booed ower their fooshty Bibles

Oh, the wershness o auld ageBeens like spunk-sticksYe could crack in a meenitDried up like the river beds o AfricDrouthy fur rain.

They were born fin wee fite tykesGlowered intae gramophonesFin trams gaed rick-ma-tick alang the railsThe psalms are their pop tunesNaethin tae dae bit staun in the queueWytin tae enter God’s mansionsUp in the lift

The Wesley bone folk traditionFit micht ye dae tae pass the time? Peint on a horse vertebrae of course! A Methodist preacher raxxin his airmsListen, or thole Damnation’s curse!

Dunfermline TounThe coach parked in Dunfermline tounSae passengers could dineAn ilkie floor-pot in thon caffSprootit a plastic vine

The tatties, hard as hinnersanWis granite-like an teuchAn beeriet aneth greeneryBit they war chaip eneuch

Auld bodachs weirin basebaa capsWis pushin cairts like ZimmersA heeze o European leidsWis heard ower gairden strimmers

Wee knickums skirled like bansheesAroon hydrangeas an heatherAn Fifers ower a mug o teaCried, ‘My, thon’s affae weather! ‘

An sic a rowth o geegaws thereTae tryst cash frae the poochAn halflins deavin faithers(Bairns are aywis on the mooch)

Ay, bluid-reid wine wis drunkenOwer the olives an broon breidBit nae in unca quantitiesNa, temperance ruled the heid

Ah, weel-a-wat DunfermlineThe kintra’s fate’s deciditAt Burger King, or Dobbie’sBritain jyned or else dividitOwer panini, pizza, curryLatte, watter, ChardonnayThe Fifers argy-bargyVote for Sturgeon or fur May?

Funeral for a ShankThere aince wis a shank amputatitThat in Mexico City wis fêtedIts funeral wis langAn byordnar langFur a shank tae be sae celebratit

Bit it didna bide lang in its lairIt vanished ae day tae thin airDid it lowp aff itsel? Did it drap doon a well? Thon shank isna seen onymair!

Byron’s WaddinA jeelin win blew frae the seaThe snaa cloud gurly flewTae County Durham’s, Seaham haaA waddin pairty drewThis twa days intae JanuarThe year, echteen fifteenThe bride, Sir Milbanke’s dotherA virgin, fair an clean

Young Annabella stude unveiledSnod in a muslin dressHer een war glentin, bricht an blueHer bridegroom tae impress

The groom, fite-face an curly powedThe lad o her desirinCam hirplin, gammy-fittit in, George Gordon, sixth Lord Byron

At his command, the bridal richtsWar keepit quaet an quickHer dowry, less than he’d hae likedLuve, thin as caunle-rikk

The bride pit on her traivellin claesThe coach wis fussled upFar kirk bells pealed an muskets firedGeorge dooned the stirrup cup

An first they cam tae RushyfordThe groom wis stern an dourThe bride sat winnerin, fearie-facedFit merriege held in store

At Halnaby, throw drivin driftBaith lay at last in bedLord Byron, throw a nichtmare cried‘I am in Hell! ‘ he said

Daybrakk wis cauld, The groom stepped ootHis mainner…jibes an sneersYoung Annabella kept inbyeHer pilla wat wi tears

Ego-TripAm I braa? Am I winnerfu? Tell me. I wint tae ken

Am I a stoater? A bobbydazzler? Text me. Snapchat me twitter meNaebody’s takkin me on!

Ma phone hisnae pinged in five meenitsNae ony hits? I Facebook, therefore I am….

Toun-Soun(2) Fitbaa supporters argy-bargyinTeethless junkies prigginProtestors giein it laldyCars birrinTaxis tootinScurries skreichin fit tae burst yer lugsBussies hotterinBoozers singinSteer aa thegither an ye hae a toun

Lament From a Special UnitIther bairnies see the starsAa I see are fuckin bars

Magic mushies gart me spinReefers let the madness in‘Keeps him quaet’ they telly my maLife set me up tae watch me faa

Locked up. Keepit ooto sichtHalflin caged in eynless night

The MitherWashed the plates an walked the dugPared the tatties, raiked the aisseTeemed the chunty…skelped the rugScoored the steps an buffed the braisseBleached the hippens, manglit sheetsPreened the linen on the lineHoovered neuks, fed girnin geatsBeddit ilkie night at nine

Prayed tae God in kirk on SundayPrayed that he micht keep a placeIn his mansion up in HeivenFin at last, she’d see his face

At the Hinnereyn, turned scunneredBairns grew unbelieving, upAa her tellins gaen fur naethinTears in her communion cup

An English YoweAn English yowe is a genteel yoweIt disnae baa it beysIt weirs a coat like a judge’s wigAs it minces doon the braes

Like a curly poodle escaped frae CruftsIt looks doon its neb gin ye meet itThe thing tae dae wis an English yoweIs tae cut its thrapple an eat it

The YettI’m a yett.Langsyne I micht hae bin a tree

Throw the aix-man, I tint ma reetsAn the jyner jurmummled me Wi his plane, his saw, his nailsTill I wis aa o a mixter-maxter

Noo I’m a yettThe Sizzens dinna bother me

Gin I’m feelin contermaschousI skreich, fur I’m stiff in the jynts

I’m a kirk yettSae nooadays I’m anely in eese on the antrin SabbathA waddin, a kistin, a chirsteninOr a programme on Sangs o PraiseNe’er dae weels peint me whylesFur community service…nae pride in thon darg

In Spring fin I see the trees in the kirkyaird Fu o leaves, an din-raisin egg-hatchin birdsI’m gled I’m a yett

Noo, ma congregation’s cheenged‘Happy-clappies’ the grave-digger caas them.Nae mair lang langamachies o sermonsThe meenister’s Nigerian.I hear I’m tae be peintit baby pink

The Saltire RapJohn Knox, Darnley, Annie LennoxBurns, Ma Broon, Macbeth, the KrankiesBishop Elphinstone, Doon, kilt socksCalvin, Wallace, Bruce, the Kelpies

Nichola Sturgeon, Jackie KayThe Big Yin,007, a rowieTam o Shanter, Troon, the TayNessie, Silkies, Greyfriar’s Bobby

Irn Bru, Glen Fiddich fuskyByron, Scott, Mars bars in batterGorbals, hame o mony a pliskyEmbro culture, Glesga patterUp yer kilt an doon the watterVikings, Romans, Picts, the laveScots wirds bubble up an hotterTattiebogles…Sawney’s cave

Easter SabbathDaffs dwine, a deein, dowie yalla showWee lammies hunker bi their mithers’ wymesGean blossoms faa as fite as Winter snaaThe breem’s in bloom, the birks are elfin greenDouce bluebells nod their bonnie fairy snoodsA bigsie cockerel waukkens aa frae sleepA cloud rowes like a steen frae Heiven’s mooThe pea-the-beds are thrang in ilkie sheugh

Fur a deid SonAt the risin o the sun an its gaun doonI mynd on ye At the blawin o the win an the cauld o WinterI mynd on yeAt the brierin o buds in Spring’s rebirthI mynd on yeAt the blueness o the lift an Simmer’s warmthI mynd on yeAt the reeshlin o the leaves an the brawness o AutumnI mynd on yeAt the stertin o the year an in its eyndinI mynd on yeAs lang as I live, ye’ll liveFor noo ye are a pairt o meFin I’m trauchelt an short o smeddumI mynd on yeFin I’m sick an sair-hairtitI mynd on yeFin I’ve teuch decisions tae makkI mynd on yeFin I hae blitheness I’d yearn tae shareI mynd on yeFur as lang as I live, ye’ll liveFur noo ye are a pairt o meForiver an ay, my son

Owersett intae Scots o The Jackfruit by Ho Xuan HuongI’m like a jackfruit on the tree.Tae taste, ye maun plug me quick, while fresh: the skin roch, the pulp thick, aye, bit oh, I warn ye agin touchin – the rich juice will poor oot stainin yer hauns

Owersett intae Scots o ‘Spring Watching Pavilion; by Ho Xuan HuongDoucely Spring gloamin cams tae the pavilion, Unclouded in the least bi warldly sins.Three times the temple’s bell rowes like a waveUnsettlin the puil far lift an watter mell.I’ faith, the sea o Luve canna be teemedAn the burnie o Grace flows easy aawye.Noo, far, far is Nirvana? Nirvana’s here, nine pairts in ten.

Scots Owersett o Weaving At Night – by Ho Xuan HuongLicht’s wick turned up, the chaumer glows fite.The loom meeves easy aa nicht lang

As feet wirk an push aneth.Glegly the shuttle flees in an oot,

Braid or nerra, muckle or wee, skytin in snug.Lang or short, it glides oot smeethly.

Quines fa dae it richt, let it steep. The claith colour winna dwine afore three hale years.

Scots Owersett o On Sharing A Husband – by Ho Xuan HuongBe damned the weird that gars ye share a man.Ane kinoodles aneth cotton blankets; t’ither’s cauld.

Iklie noo an then, weel, mebbe or mebbe nae, Aince or twice a month, och, it’s like naethin.

Ye tyyaave tae stick tae it like a flee on riceBit the rice is blichtit. Ye slave like the skiffy,

Bit wioot pye. If I’d kent foo things wid beI think I’d hae bidden alane.

Scots Owersett o Autumn Landscape by Ho Xuan HuongDrap bi drap rain skelps the banana leaves.Praise faiver sketched this dowie scene:

The lush, derk canopies o the wizzent trees, The lang, lang river, slidderin smeeth an fite.

I heist ma wine glaiss, drunk wi rivers an Bens.Ma pyoke, breathin meenlicht, stappit wi poems.

Luik, an lue aabody.Faiver sees this landscape is bumbazed.

Scots Owersett of If You Forget Me – by Pablo NerudaI wint ye tae ken ae thing. Ye ken foo this is: Gin I keek at the crystal meen, at the reid branch O the slaw autumn at ma windae, Gin I touch near the lowe the shadda-like aisse Or the wrunkled corp o the log, Aathin cairries me tae ye, As if aathin that lives, Guffs, licht, metals, Wir wee boaties That sail Tae thon isles o yours that wyte for me.

Weel, noo, if bittie bi bittie ye stop lovin me I’ll stop lovin you bittie by bittie. Gin o a suddenty ye forget me Dinna luik for me, Fur I’ll already hae forgotten ye. Gin ye think it lang an wud, The win o banners that blaws ben ma life, An ye decide tae leave me at the shore O the hairt far I hae reets, Takk tentThat on thon day, at thon oor, I shall heist ma airms An ma reets will set aff Tae seek anither lan.

Bit gin ilkie day, ilkie oor, Ye feel that yer weird lies wi me Wi unyieldin douceness, Gin ilkie day a flooer Clims up tae yer lips tae seek me, Ah ma luve, ah ma ain, In me aa that lowe is rekinnlit, In me naethin is stamped oot or forgotten, Ma luve feeds on yer love, ma dearie, And as lang as ye live it’ll be in yer airms Withoot leavin mine.

From: Sheena Blackhall