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

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 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.

 

     

 

The Sunday Posts 2015/ This Bitter Earth

This bitter earth
What fruit it bears
What good is love
That no one shares?
And if my life is like the dust
That hides the glow of a rose
What good am I?
Heaven only knows

This bitter earth
Can it be so cold?
Today you're young
Too soon your old
But while a voice
Within me cries
I'm sure someone
May answer my call
And this bitter earth
May not be so bitter after all

Deborah Cox
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2015/ If I could

If I could write words
Like leaves on an autumn forest floor,
What a bonfire my letters would make.

If I could speak words of water,
You would drown when I said
"I love you."

Spike Milligan
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2015/To the Moon

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,—
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Percy Bysshe Shelley
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts2014/Embro Toun

Salt on yer tail – she’s a hotterin stew
O the kent, the fremmit, the auld, the new
The cassie-claik o the Embro hoors
Rikkin an rerr as Turkish flooers
Fur coat frills on a bare bumbee,
Is the show a stoater? Pye an see!
Clinkin thochts are a chinkin glaiss
Wit is gowd, an pretension’s braisse
Dour an dozent, or sherp’s a gleg
Are they takkin the rise? Are they pullin yer leg?
In howf, or close, or a wee stairheid
Bards in the makkin, bards lang deid
Shak doon wirds like a watter spoot
Idée fixe’s a cloot wrung oot
Haive yer havers heich on the pyre
Gin ye’ll nae thole heat – bide ooto the fire
Embro toun – yer a blacksmith’s haimmer
Scotia’s anvil – strike ye limmer!

Sheena Blackhall

The Sunday Posts 2014/ The Spirit Of D-Day.

As I watched the service of commemoration the other day one of the commentators said "As these events will soon pass from living memory as these men are lost, we shall perhaps never see their like again."

 That may be true.

 I pray the world never needs their like again.

The Sunday Posts 2014/I know why the caged bird sings

Maya Angelou 1928 - 2014

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Poem: Maya Angelou

The Sunday Posts 2014/ Expect Nothing.

Expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enough
Stop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.

Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold
Make of it a parka
For your soul.

Discover the reason why
So tiny human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.       

Alice Walker
Photo By Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2014/ Prows O Reekie

O wad this braw hie-heapit toun
Sail aff like an enchanted ship,
Drift owre the warld's seas up and doun,
And kiss wi' Venice lip to lip,
Or anchor into Naples' Bay
A misty island far astray
Or set her rock to Athens' wa',
Pillar to pillar, stane to stane,
The cruikit spell o' her backbane,
Yon shadow-mile o' spire and vane,
Wad ding them a', wad ding them a'!
Cadiz wad tine the admiralty
O' yonder emerod fair sea,
Gibraltar frown for frown exchange
Wi' Nigel's crags at elbuck-range,
The rose-red banks o' Lisbon make
Mair room in Tagus for her sake.
A hoose is but a puppet-box
To keep life's images frae knocks,
But mannikins scrieve oot their sauls
Upon its craw-steps and its walls;
Whaur hae they writ them mair sublime
Than on yon gable-ends o' time?

Lewis Spence
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts2014.OCD

This week something a little different. The poem is therefore a video. I hope you like it as much as I did.

The Sunday Posts 2014/Forever Young

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

Bob Dylan
Photo by Alistair

The Sunday Posts2014/Always marry an April girl.

 27/4/1991

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true --
I love April, I love you.

Ogden Nash
Photo by Alistair.

Happy Anniversary Sweetheart.

the Sunday Posts 2014/The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange —
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled and shared it with Robert and Dave —
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.

Wendy Cope.
Photo By Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2014/ The Phoenix

Just because the leaves are falling, doesn't mean the tree is dying,
It only means it's time to cast tired things to the earth,
The sun may have got weaker but there will be another summer,
We have to die a little to get ready for rebirth.

The moon wanes before it waxes,
The stars don't fall from heaven,
The sea recedes so far and then returns to shore,
Don't mock the weary soldier for behind him is an army,
Who may have lost the battle but intend to win the war.

The flame's reduced to smoulder and smoke obscures the mirror,
Very darkly, through it I can see some fearful things,
But regeneration is coming and out of dust is growing,
Like the phoenix rising from the ash beneath its wings.

Cher Cassini.
Photo by Alistair.
{Thanks to local poet Cher for permission to use this poem}

The sunday Posts 2014/ Dragon of Grindly Grun.

I'm the Dragon of Grindly Grun,
I breathe fire as hot as the sun.
When a knight comes to fight
I just toast him on sight,
Like a hot crispy cinnamon bun.
When I see a fair damsel go by,
I just sigh a fiery sigh,
And she'd baked like a 'tater-
I think of her later
With a romantic tear in my eye.
I'm the Dragon of Grindly Grun,
But my lunches aren't very much fun,
For I like my damsels medium rare,
and they always come out well done.

Shel Silverstein.
Photo by Alistair

The Sunday Posts 2014/ Canis Major

The great Overdog
That heavenly beast
With a star in one eye
Gives a leap in the east.
He dances upright
All the way to the west
And never once drops
On his forefeet to rest.
I'm a poor underdog,
But to-night I will bark
With the great Overdog
That romps through the dark.

Robert Frost.
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts/ On The Idle Hill Of Summer

On the idle hill of summer,
Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.

Far and near and low and louder
On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
Soldiers marching, all to die.

East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.

Far the calling bugles hollo,
High the screaming fife replies,
Gay the files of scarlet follow:
Woman bore me, I will rise.

AE Houseman.
Photo by Alistair

The Sunday Posts 2014/ Is a dove a doo Dad

Is a dove a doo Dad
Is a doo a dove
Is a cow a coo Dad
A sparrow jist a spyug
And is a wall a waw Dad
Is a dog a dug
She's gonnae warm ma ear Dad
Instead o' skelp ma lug.

Ma teacher's awfy posh Dad
She changes aw oor names
Wee Shuggie now is Hugh Dad
And Jimmy's ayeways James
Ah'm scunnered wi' it aw Dad
The way she shoogles words
Ah must be glaickit no 'tae ken
That feathered friends are burds.

Ye learnt me aw wrong Dad
Ye cawd a ball a baw
Your wife is now my Mother
You said it wis ma Maw
Ah'm no share hoo tae spell Dad
Ah'll niver pass ma test
Whit is this ah'm wearin' Dad
A simmet or a vest?

Ah gave ma nose a dicht Dad
When it began tae dreep
She gave me sich a fricht Dad
Ah near fall aff ma seat
Haven't you a handkerchief
She roared as if in pain
No, ah jist yase ma sleeve, Miss
And wiped ma nose again.

Ah cawd a mouse a moose Dad
Ah shid hiv held ma tongue
That's manure oan yir bits Dad
Nae longer is it dung
It's turnips and potatoes
No tatties noo and neeps
She said I've ripped my trousers
When ah'd only torn ma breeks.

There's twa words fir awthin' Dad
They're jumbled in ma heed
Hoo kin I be well bred Dad
When ah keep sayin' breed
Now is a crow a craw Dad
Is a bull a bull
A'll try tae get it richt Dad
I will, I will, ah wull

Jim Douglas 

photo by Alistair