The Sunday Posts 2017/Mince and Tatties.

Mince and Tatties

I dinna like hail tatties
Pit on my plate o mince
For when I tak my denner
I eat them baith at yince.

Sae mash and mix the tatties
Wi mince into the mashin,
And sic a tasty denner
Will aye be voted ‘Smashin!’

J. K. Annand

No Promises, No Demands.

                                 

Hullo, ma wee blog,



Well, it's been a while and, as I sit wondering what the heck I might write here, the lines of an old song by {I think} Pat Benatar come to mind. Yes, I really am that old I'm sad to say! It's been a long time -years - since I've interacted with this blog in any meaningful way. I kept it running for a couple of years after I'd hit the wall by posting a weekly poem, partly hoping that I would get things back on track, partly because the blog, and the people who it had connected me to through writing, had been incredibly important, positive and helpful at a particular time in my life and partly because I felt guilty and wasn't ready to admit I'd run out of steam. But reality has a way of overriding such obfuscations and the blog stuttered and stumbled on for a while until it effectively died of neglect until now, a few years later things are where they are.

Our lives no doubt have moved on and evolved in myriad ways, some unforeseen, some predictable, some fortuitous and some less welcome. All the while this wee blog has been sitting dormant until now. I've been without a computer for some time. We've been in a building site of a house with no wifi and my laptop had developed a problem some time back that hadn't been dealt with, then the realities of building a major extension on a limited budget, compounded by some health niggles and unfortunately  having engaged what proved to be a cowboy builder brought problems galore that sucked the life out of me and pushed mere internet into the long grass for, well, far, far too long.

Now The Lovely G and I have a house that is habitable but less than finished, some furniture still in storage and lots of work to do {and pay for} to get the place to where we want it. But these things will come to pass in their own good time no doubt. Meanwhile, life bumbles on and lo and behold, the internet has been restored. Even my old laptop has been able to be resurrected after much head scratching and some luck and flaw on my part. It's not been near a repair shop that's for sure. I can't afford that yet by a long chalk. Now I can engage with all the wonders {ha} of the modern world once again even if it is only by plugging directly into the router and I feel connected. Just being able to surf the internet in something other than a phone in a free wifi area and in a finally clean and comfortable environment has brought a level of normality back that has been missing so long it feels almost alien.

The wonder of raising this old laptop from the dead also brought me back to places and content I hadn't thought of for some time. Old friends neglected for far too long. All my blogging favourites still saved, the blog admin suite and many others. In a quiet moment I began to track back through some favourite places and found myself reading some of the old blog posts and that raised a hankering to do spend more time, perhaps diverting from some uncomfortable reality, perhaps reclaiming something that was 'just me' again. I always valued the solitary element of blogging, of taking time to gather a though and having the help of getting it down somewhere as a means of sorting through stuff, or of focussing on bits of life that are more important. The stuff that should be celebrated or better considered, the bits that should be vented and those that should be held up for some healthy ridicule. No doubt there are also elements of going back to a happy place, to get away from some of the daily rubbish that pervades our lives.

Anyway, I think I'm going to be blogging again. It won't be in the same regularity as before, it'll be more sporadic in all likelihood. Who knows? Not me for sure, but if it brings me some of the fun and satisfaction it did once then that will be just grand and a welcome addition and some antidote to the present frustrations. In many ways, I wish I'd never given up on the blog but I did.

Let's give this another go and see how it develops.

                                              No promises. No demands.

Listening to 'Love is a battlefield' by Pat Benatar.

The Sunday Posts 2018/Covering Two Years

This nothingness that feeds upon itself:
Pencils that turn to water in the hand,
Parts of a sentence, hanging in the air,
Thoughts breaking in the mind like glass,
Blank sheets of paper that reflect the world
Whitened the world that I was silenced by.

There were two years of that. Slowly,
Whatever splits, dissevers, cuts, cracks, ravels, or divides
To bring me to that diet of corrosion, burned
And flickered to its terminal. - Now in an older hand
I write my name. Now with a voice grown unfamiliar,
I speak to silences of altered rooms,
Shaken by knowledge of recurrence and return.

Weldon Kees.
Photo by Alistair

The Sunday Posts 2017/ Hush Hush

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Once, our valleys were ringin'
with sounds of our children singin',
but now, sheep bleat 'til the evenin'
and shielings stand empty and broken.


Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Where stands our proud Highland mettle?
Our men, once sae feared in battle
now stand, cowed, huddled like cattle,
and soon tae be shipped o'er the ocean.

Oh, we stood with our heads bowed in prayer
while Factors laid our cottages bare.
The flames fired the clear mountain air,
and many were dead in the mornin'.

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Nae use greetin' or prayin' now.
Gone. Gone, all hopes of stayin',
sae hush, now. The anchor's a-weighin'.
Don't cry in your sleep, bonny baby.

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

The Sunday Posts 2017/ Breaking News

We interrupt this poem to bring you reports
of an explosion

of wild untruths and other signs that the news
is broken.

Early indications from those who were first
on the scene

have led to widespread fears of another Sweden
or Bowling Green

and that peace might erupt at any moment
in other places.

It is believed that amongst the rubble of reality
were found traces

of humanity and an understanding that stretches
beyond borders.

Many experts predict this will lead to a new wave
of presidential orders

for such trumped-up charges form part of
a familiar pattern.

But back to the poem: we’ll bring you more news
as it doesn’t happen.

Brian Bilston

The Sunday Posts 2017/ As I Grow Old I Will March Not Shuffle

As I grow old
I will not shuffle to the beat
of self-interest
and make that slow retreat
​​​to the right.

I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist
marching with the kids. I shall sing
‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing
homemade placards that proclaim
‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING’.

I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,
and build unscalable barricades
from bottles of flat lemonade,
tartan blankets and chicken wire.
I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.

I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,
armed with a ballpoint pen
and a hand that shakes with rage not age
at politicians’ latest crimes,
in strongly-worded letters to The Times.

I will be a centenarian centurion
and allow injustice no admittance.
I will stage longstanding sit-ins.
My mobility scooter and I
will move for no-one.

And when I die
I will be the scattered ashes
that attach themselves to the lashes
and blind the eyes
of racists and fascists.

Brian Bilston

The Sunday posts 2017/ Brexit In Pursuit Of A Bear

Please look out for this bear. Thank you.
He's been getting ideas above his station.
If found please hand him in to the Home Office.
Section: UK Visas and Immigration.

He is wearing a blue duffel coat,
Red wellies and a wide brimmed hat
in an attempt to look like one of us
but do not be fooled by that.

He's one of those funny foreign types,
who try to come here nowadays
to take our homes and steal our jobs
and eat our Great Nation's marmalade.

It is thought he may have terrorist connections
and may be planning to do us harm
so please beware of his hard stare
not to mention his right to bear arms.

Also reported in this area.
Illegal economic migrant
Great Uncle Bulgaria.

Brian Bilston

The Sunday Posts 2016/ Da Night at Christ wis Boarn

A lass, wis gaen ta cry,
ta Bethlehem cam, weary an makkin maen,
an fan dey wir nae wye
ta lay her doon, for aa da beds wis taen.

Da lodgin-mistress said
da byre wid hae ta du dem, till da moarn:
dere, twa clean windlins spread
athin an empty stall, Goad’s Bairn wis boarn.

 

A peerie whaig, wi a starn
athin her broo, wis tied apo da waak,
an, inbye i da barn,
wi sleepy peesters, hens upo da baak.

Whin aa wis ower an düne
da Midder’s een droopit in sweet relief;
Joseph sat winderin on
dis marvel at wis nearly past belief.

 

Dan suddenly, da lift
wis filled wi light an singin fae abüne! –
as Pretty Dancers shift,
sae moved da singers o da heevenly tüne,

an whin dey aa wir geen,
doon da lang hilly gait da shepherds cam,
winderin what hit might mean –
an ane wis kerryin a ting o lamb.

 

Dey cam in trow, an bent
afore da Infant in a glüd o light:
intae demsels, withoot a doot dey kent
hunders o years wid hear aboot dis night.

 

Stella Sutherland.

Photo Cathar Memorial, Minerve, Languedoc.

By Alistair.

 

     

 

In Memoriam. One Hundred Years On

Written For Private D. Sutherland
killed in action in the German trench,
and the others who died

So you were David’s father,

And he was your only son,

And the new-cut peats are rotting

And the work is left undone,

Because of an old man weeping,

Just an old man in pain,

For David, his son David,

That will not come again.

Oh, the letters he wrote you,

And I can see them still,

Not a word of the fighting,

But just the sheep on the hill

And how you should get the crops in

Ere the year get stormier,
And the Bosches have got his body,

And I was his officer.

You were only David’s father,

But I had fifty sons

When we went up in the evening

Under the arch of the guns,

And we came back at twilight - 

O God! I heard them call

To me for help and pity

That could not help at all.

Oh, never will I forget you,

My men that trusted me,

More my sons than your fathers’,
For they could only see

The little helpless babies 

And the young men in their pride.
They could not see you dying,

And hold you while you died.

Happy and young and gallant,

They saw their first-born go,

But not the strong limbs broken

And the beautiful men brought low,

The piteous writhing bodies,

The screamed ‘Don’t leave me, Sir’,

For they were only your fathers

But I was your officer.

E. Alan Mackintosh

The Sunday Posts 2016/ Galaxy Song

Whenever life gets you down, Mrs.Brown
And things seem hard or tough
And people are stupid, obnoxious or daft
And you feel that you've had quite enough

Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving
And revolving at nine hundred miles an hour
That's orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it's reckoned
A sun that is the source of all our power

The sun and you and me and all the stars that we can see
Are moving at a million miles a day
In an outer spiral arm, at forty thousand miles an hour
Of the galaxy we call the 'milky way'

Our galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars
It's a hundred thousand light years side to side
It bulges in the middle, sixteen thousand light years thick
But out by us, it's just three thousand light years wide

We're thirty thousand light years from galactic central point
We go 'round every two hundred million years
And our galaxy is only one of millions of billions
In this amazing and expanding universe

The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding
In all of the directions it can whizz
As fast as it can go, the speed of light, you know
Twelve million miles a minute and that's the fastest speed there is

So remember, when you're feeling very small and insecure
How amazingly unlikely is your birth
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space
'Cause there's bugger all down here on Earth

Eric Idle.

The Sunday Posts 2016/ You've Got A Friend

When you're down and troubled,
And you need some love and care,
And nothing, nothing is going right
Close your eyes and think of me,
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night.

You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I'll come running to see you again
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I'll be there
You've got a friend

If the sky above you grows dark and full of clouds
And that old north wind begins to blow
Keep your head together and call my name out loud
Soon you'll hear me knocking at your door


You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I'll come running to see you again
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I'll be there
You've got a friend

Carole King
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2015/In an Artist's Studio

 One face looks out from all his canvasses,
   One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
   We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
   A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
   A saint, an angel;--every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
   And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyfull as the light;
   Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
   Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

Christina Rossetti

The Sunday Posts 2016/ Accountancy Song

It's fun to charter an accountant
And sail the wide accountancy,
To find, explore the funds offshore
And skirt the shoals of bankruptcy!

It can be manly in insurance.
We'll up your premium semi-annually.
It's all tax deductible.
We're fairly incorruptible,
We're sailing on the wide accountancy!

Centenary Of The First Day, Battle of the Somme 1916

To the 51st Division

High Wood, July-August 1916

Oh gay were we in spirit
In the hours of the night
When we lay at rest at Albert
And waited for the fight;
Gay and gallant were we
On the day that we set forth,
But broken, broken, broken
Is the valour of the North.

The wild warpipes were calling,
Our hearts were blithe and free
When we went up the valley
To the death we could not see.
Clear lay the wood before us
In the clear summer weather,
But broken, broken, broken
Are the sons of the heather.

In the cold of the morning,
In the burning of the day,
The thin lines stumbled forward,
The dead and dying lay.
By the unseen death that caught us
By the bullets’ raging hail
Broken, broken, broken
Is the pride of the Gael.

E. Alan Mackintosh

The Sunday Posts 2016/ For Orlando

England is a cup of tea
France, a wheel of ripened Brie
Greece a short,squat olive tree
America is a gun.

Brazil is football in the sand
Argentina, Madonna's hand
Germany is an Oompah band
America is a gun.

Holland is a wooden shoe
Hungary, a goulash stew
Australia, a kangaroo
America is a gun.

Japan is a thermal spring
Scotland, a highland fling
Oh, better to be anything
Than America as a gun.

Brian Bilston
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2015/ Culloden Moor - seen in Autumn rain

Full of grief, the low winds sweep
O'er the sorrow-haunted ground;
Dark the woods where night rains weep,
Dark the hills that watch around.

Tell me, can the joys of spring
Ever make this sadness flee,
Make the woods with music ring,
And the streamlet laugh for glee?

When the summer moor is lit
With the pale fire of the broom,
And through green the shadows flit,
Still shall mirth give place to gloom?

Sad shall it be, though sun be shed
Golden bright on field and flood;
E'en the heather's crimson red
Holds the memory of blood.

Here that broken, weary band
Met the ruthless foe's array,
Where those moss-grown boulders stand,
On that dark and fatal day.

Like a phantom hope had fled,
Love to death was all in vain,
Vain, though heroes' blood was shed,
And though hearts were broke in twain.

Many a voice has cursed the name
Time has into darkness thrust,
Cruelty his only fame
In forgetfulness and dust.

Noble dead that sleep below,
We your valour ne'er forget;
Soft the heroes' rest who know
Hearts like theirs are beating yet.

Alice McDonnell of Keppoch
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2016/ The Messengers

Arriving late sometimes and never
Quite expected, still they come,
Bringing a folded meaning home
Between the lines, inside the letter.

As a scarecrow in the harvest
Turns an innocent field to grief
These tattered hints are dumb and deaf,
But bring the matter to a crisis.

They are the messengers who run
Onstage to us who try to doubt them,
Fetching our fate to hand; without them
What would Sophocles have done?

Muriel Spark
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2016/Helen Keller

She,
In the dark,
Found light
Brighter than many ever see.
She,
Within herself,
Found loveliness,
Through the soul's own mastery.
And now the world receives
From her dower:
The message of the strength
Of inner power.   

By Langston Hughes

The Sunday Posts 2016/Emeralds and Black Diamonds

Lie down lass, lie down, in sage green meadows
Your blouse flouncing open, in the teasing breeze
The meadows, feel so cotton, this time of season
Come lay beside me lass, and sense th' softness

Open field, sweet honeysuckle....arouses my yen
Shamrock blades in sparkle by th' mid-noon sun
No clouds abide our scape of choice, to pleasure
Again i ask you lass......come lay you down by me

Come close my love...these hungry emerald eyes
Beg to stare into your warm, black diamond eyes
Take my hand in bond, lov', and let me asure you
That Emeralds and diamonds....never fade away

Frank James Ryan.
Photo By Alistair.     

The Sunday Posts 2016/ Sleep Weel.

Sleep weel, my bairnie, sleep.
The lang, lang shadows creep,
The fairies play on the munelicht brae
An' the stars are on the deep.

The auld wife sits her lane
Ayont the cauld hearth-stane,
An' the win' comes doon wi' an eerie croon
To hush my bonny wean.

The bogie man's awa',
The dancers rise an fa'
An' the howlet's cry frae the bour-tree high
Comes through the mossy shaw.

Sleep weel, my bairnie, sleep.
The lang, lang shadows creep,
The fairies play on the munelicht brae
An' the stars are on the deep.

Murdoch McLean

Meaning of unusual words:
bairnie=child
munelicht brae=moonlit hillside
her lane=alone
Ayont=beyond
croon=wailing song
bogie man=ghost
howlet=owl
bour-tree=elder tree
shaw=flat ground at the foot of a hill