The Glen is silent, almost to a deadly halt.
You can hear your own breath and your heart beating in your chest.
It’s eerie and you’re feeling afraid.
You don’t know why?
The haar is closing in and dulling any sound even more.
You start to panic and go to turn on your heel.
As you pace yourself to move you look behind you and hear the most awful noise.
“Mum, I’ve lost my shoe in the bog!”
Instant the command
As decisions
In labouring the fields
A civil war of family's avoiding
Yet the enactments mimic
As bond as surety
In financing burdens
One wishes not to carry
Carriage as stable
Nightingales lost fables
Ferry in twist
Smirking gentle and smits
To the good Friday of Ireland
I couldn't give a toss for the caber
cromach bagpipes sporran or kilt
(a fling's the thing)
and you can stick your dirk in your haggis
up to its bog-wood hilt
yet I'd like to hike through the heather
on happy Sassenach holidays
see the scenery admire the view
along Scottish hilly highways and byways
to pick a pink-purple thistle or two
and should I come upon a hairy Highland cow
on the hoof in a friendly farmer's flink fold
(for protection from the cold)
in no uncertain terms I would declare
"I say to you, hoo noo broon coo?"
och aye no sooner said than done
than perchance from the Caledonian bovine one
the reply too true in a Scots burr would come...
'Moo!'
The heather weeps, a purple bruise,
Across the glens, the chilling news.
No bagpipes drone a mournful sound,
But sirens wail on hallowed ground.
A thistle bleeds, its prickling crown,
As innocence is stricken down.
Young eyes, once bright with Highland fire,
Now gleam with something dark and dire.
The steel they flash, a twisted boast,
A stolen childhood, dearly lost.
Each shadowed lane, a whispered fear,
Of blades that gleam and futures near,
Consumed by rage, a hollow pride,
Where youthful dreams have gone to hide.
Parents clutch, with hearts ablaze,
Afraid to loose in this iron maze.
The ancient stones, they stand and stare,
At broken vows and whispered prayer.
Can Scotland rise, her spirit mend,
And teach these children how to bend,
The steel to craft, the hands to heal,
And learn the wounds are truly real?
To trade the blade for open hand,
And reclaim peace within the land.
When it rains in Scotland,
It reminds me of home.
I see the scattered raindrops
making their way down the
window, if it were home, they
would graciously enter in.
When it rains in Scotland,
It takes me back to that
August afternoon 3 years back,
the raindrops danced at the tune
of love, it wasn’t home but it
felt like one.
When it rains in Scotland,
It reminds me of that cold
cold February 1436 km
between us. We usually have
distance but this time our hearts
felt apart.
When it rains in Scotland,
I find myself deep in thought,
thoughts of you, us; when we
were together. I find myself
singing about you, us; now that
we are 3200 km apart.
When it rains in Scotland,
I often go back to the time
I sat in the cafeteria, trying to
eat my feelings. I go back to
him, he sat next to me, helped
me gulp down my sorrows.
When it rains in Scotland,
I look back perturbed and
find an unrecognizable version
of my desolate self – staring in
the abyss.
When it rains in Scotland,
I am reminded that even in the
Coldest of the weather, there
Is a warm heart, beating, enduring,
Resisting; living.
Scotland, My Home
Scotland, my home, where I was born and bred
Where the saltire flies high above my head
Where the bagpipes sound and the kilts are worn
Where the haggis tastes and the whisky warms
Scotland, my home, where the history runs deep
Where the brave and the bold their freedom did keep
Where the clans and the kings their stories did weave
Where the legends and the lore their magic did leave
Scotland, my home, where the culture thrives
Where the poetry and the music their spirit revives
Where the humour and the wit their charm displays
Where the friendship and the kindness their heart conveys
Scotland, my home, where the beauty shines
Where the mountains and the valleys their splendour define
Where the lakes and the islands their serenity show
Where the flowers and the wildlife their colours glow
Scotland, my home, where I belong and love
Ye are the treasure of my life, and the gift from above
I cherish thee more than words can say, and I'll always be loyal to thee
Scotland, my home, ye are the best of me
King Duncan wouldn't allow it
Chin sweat and air conditioning
Sending me into a linguistic shaming spiral
Flavoursome mints and sparkling water
Won't fix this wet nightmare
Telling the steps to SHUT UP
Sock sniffer
Chemical bomb leather shoes
Armpits oceaning
Give me Nigeria
Or the jungle
Where the birds don't sing
My wife has been reading The Return of the Native for ten years
But does owning an AK-47 count as knowledge?
To the bat cave
A bonnie wee place, Drummore.
Just aff the Galloway Shore.
A stoat and a fish.
Their signature dish.
A bonnie wee place Drummore.
Alexander Grey 'SCOTLAND
__________^
| \\ // ||
| \\ // ||
| .\\ // ||
| // \\ ||
| // \\ ||
|// \\ ||
------------- ||
||
. ||
||
||
¶
¶ ¶
¶
¶ =
\ =
= \ |
\ = =
\ | /
\ | /
----
( )
---
== - /
"Despair is generally defined as a loss of hope. In existentialism, it is more specifically a loss of hope in reaction to a breakdown in one or more of the defining qualities of one's self or identity." Søren Kierkegaard
St. Kilda is a World Heritage Site.
Birds persevere;
rock houses
empty
now.
Last
count topped
one million
resident birds.
Sheer numbers endanger other species.
Humans have not lived on St. Kilda for
nine long decades.
mind-boggling
man's choice -
move
Man
fought the
elements
two thousand years.
Wind, water, weather and wildlife won out.
April 27, 2023
Sponsor Constance La France
Contest Name Writing Challenge - Words with 'X' -
St. Kilda is a remote archipelago off the coast of Scotland.
The remaining 36 residents chose finally to leave
an environment which had become unsustainable. Imagine
their despair in leaving - displaced, adjusting to a new existence.
The grey skies shift to blue, and now a breeze
is heralding a longed-for transformation.
With rainbow colours Mother Earth is blessed
and all the islands of the west caressed, reborn.
Sweet Summer knows no storm.
Have pity on the Scott’s ruled
By the Brexit voting sassenach
Who don’t seem to understand
We too want out country back.
Arbroath Smokies for breakfast
Porridge seasoned with salt
Kedgeree, Haggis, neaps and tastes
With wee drams of single Malt.
Pints of Heavy Friday nights
The working weeks end
Words of wisdom swapped
With true and blethered friend.
Fish and taties frae the chippie,
Deep fried Mars Bar to follow
Just to round off the night
A sweet delight to swallow.
Then the planning to drive
The Sassenachs from our soil,
Take back all our fish and
What’s left of North Sea oil.
Home Rule For Scotland
Restore our law and Order
Keep those thieving Brits
To their side of the border.
We'll gladly offer asylum
To those few of sound mind
Who want to up sticks and leave
Those heathen Tories far behind.
Let them keep their wee King
They’re always asking God to save
We’ll have the massed pipe bands
Loudly playing Scotland the Brave
Goodbye United Kingdom
Land of thieving Tory
Living on faded memories
Of Passed hope and glory.
Scotland the Brave
Scotland the free
Goodbye puny England
We’re all so well shot of thee
The Watergaw
by Hugh MacDiarmid
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
One wet forenight in the sheep-shearing season
I saw the uncanniest thing—
a watergaw with its wavering light
shining beyond the wild downpour of rain ...
and I thought of the last wild look that you gave
when you knew you were destined for the grave.
There was no light in the skylark's nest
that night—no—nor any in mine;
but now often I've thought of that foolish light
and of these irrational hearts of men ...
and I think that, perhaps, at last I ken
what your look meant then.
Hugh MacDiarmid wrote "The Watergaw" in a Scots dialect. I have translated or "modernized" the poem into modern English to make it easier to read and understand.
Keywords/Tags: Scotland, Scot, Scottish, Scots dialect, night, nightfall, rain, grave, death, death of a friend, light, lights, watergaw, heart, heartache, heartbroken, broken heart, heart song
Watching the ripples of the clear water of the Spey
Setting sun lighting field and trees of the strath
Salmon jumping clear to catch a fly
A sob as water runs from my eye.
Doon tae the firth o moray runs the water
Taking my thochts and dreams far away
Ne,er again tae be born a new
Loast forever in the melee o life
On on fast running Spey taking all hopes and despair
Wi me sleeping and floating in yer watter clear
Oan ma back spotting a hawk hover in azure sky
Lids closing tight oan ma blearie eye.
Music o the water soothing
boxful of Scotland souvenirs at a car boot sale
a life’s possessions
in thirty or so boxes
from the back of a white Transit
knick-knacks from Scotland
a wee man with ginger hair
tam o’shanter
and a corkscrew
a picture of Ben Nevis
with all the red vibrancy
sucked out of it
by years of rising suns
through flat windows
a toilet roll holder
from Edinburgh
cartoon spider and an inscription
taken straight from Robert Bruce
“if at first you don’t succeed,
try, try again”
an empty whisky bottle
shaped like a hand bell
a small bundle of colourised postcards
in brown, green and purple
of the Scottish Highlands
a tea towel with a stubborn brown stain
of the Isle of Skye
a pint glass with a colour scene
lettered Aberd—n
and a dried bunch of heather
bound by a tartan ribbon
from the banks of Loch Ness
that bunch of heather,
forty six years picked
owned from honeymoon to death
thirty or so boxes
of worthless detritus
to rummage and ransack
on a summer Sunday morning
a life lived
in one of thirty boxes.
6.6.2011
revised 6.6.2022 6:45am
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.