Breenge
This morning, as the 372 shoogled
through Carsethorn, hirpled
wabbit past the kirk and through
dreich smirr hoyed down from
droukit braes above, I saw
a coupit yowe in a kelpit lea,
beelin-eened cuddies lean over a hazelrawed
dyke to lour at me, a fug of speugs
loup out of nowhere on
a whigmaleerie of peerie wings,
imagined I heard a lintie sing beyond
the engine’s pechin skreigh,
thought waukrife of a wattergaw,
time prismed to language’s muckle flaws
& need for a never-ending breenge,
thirlt to the whyles forfochen
adventure of it all.
Day 5: 'eldritch' - ghostly, unearthly. A short but beautifully poem by Ken Sutherland.
The Vixen
The vixen skreichs I the wuid
at the hinmaist o’ the day;
thon’s an eldritch cry
frae the day-daw o’the warld
yit souns for us this nicht.
It hauds intilt oor desires, oor hopes,
forby oor benmaist fear.
It’s you an me alane my luve
aye seekin ane the ither,
it’s dreid unchancie weird
micht thwart oor socht thegitherness.
I’ll ne’er faddom my luve for you
mair nor the tod kens his desire,
gyte for the vixen.
Day 6: Word of the Day 'dreep - to drop is how I've always heard it, as from the top of a wall, but it has many other meanings according to the DSL, including drip and drippings. Walter Wingate has a lovely poem 'A Night's Rain' which gives great imagery it.
A Night's Rain
The thunder clap may clatter –
The lichtnin’ flare awa’:
I’m listenin’ to the water,
And heed them nocht ava.
I canna think o’ sleepin’:
I canna hear eneuch,
The sang the trees are dreepin’,
The music o’ the scheugh!
And ‘neath the roof that’s drummin’
Wi’ mair than rhone can kep,
Wi’ faster fa’ is comin’
The plop upon the step.
My famished flowers are drinkin’
In ilka drookit bed:
An’ siller blabs are winkin’
On ilka cabbage bled.
And in my blankets rowin’
I think on hay an’ corn –
I maist can hear them growin’:
We’ll see an odds the morn.
Day 7: I've heard 'skoosh' used in various ways, a bottle of fizzy juice, a spray of water, but also something being very easy. Matthew Fitt's poem plays with the onomatopoetic sounds of Scots, including 'skoosh'. Matthew's a strong voice in the Scots language through Itchy Coo Press with its Scots versions of famous children's books and rhymes and through his own writing.
Fireworks aff the Castle
Fireworks aff the Castle
Goin WHEECH, WHEECH, WHEECH
Bairns in the library
Gettin WHEESHT, WHEESHT, WHEESHT
Cans o Irn Bru
Goin SKOOSHITAY, SKOOSHITAY, SKOOSH
Fitbaw in the playgroond
Gettin DOOSHITAY, DOOSHITAY, DOOSH
The snaw blaws in fae Norroway
And nips your TAES, TAES, TAES
We go skitin on wir sledges
Doon the BRAES, BRAES, BRAES
The rain comes doon in buckets
And it’s WEET, WEET, WEET
Your teeth is sair fae sweeties
And it’s GREET, GREET, GREET
You’re oot wi pals and aw the time
It’s BLETHER, BLETHER, BLETHER
But when awthin’s wrang and no goin right
Jist go and tell your MITHER
When awthin’s wrang and no goin right
Jist you coorie in wi MITHER
Day 8: 'Dreich' meaning wet, gray, miserable weather. Jackie Kay was Scotland's second Poet Laureate, our Makar. And this poem captures that sense of loss one feels after leaving a home through the lens of losing one's language.
The Old Tongue
Jackie Kay
When I was eight, I was forced south.
Not long after, when I opened
my mouth, a strange thing happened.
I lost my Scottish accent.
Words fell off my tongue:
eedyit, dreich, wabbit, crabbit
stummer, teuchter, heidbanger,
so you are, so am ur, see you, see ma ma,
shut yer geggie or I’ll gie you the malkie!
My own vowels started to stretch like my bones
and I turned my back on Scotland.
Words disappeared in the dead of night,
new words marched in: ghastly, awful,
quite dreadful, scones said like stones.
Pokey hats into ice cream cones.
Oh where did all my words go –
my old words, my lost words?
Did you ever feel sad when you lost a word,
did you ever try and call it back
like calling in the sea?
If I could have found my words wandering,
I swear I would have taken them in,
swallowed them whole, knocked them back.
Out in the English soil, my old words
buried themselves. It made my mother’s blood boil.
I cried one day with the wrong sound in my mouth.
I wanted them back; I wanted my old accent back,
my old tongue. My dour soor Scottish tongue.
Sing-songy. I wanted to gie it laldie.
Day 9: 'kail' - meaning cabbage, often used in 'kail-yaird/yard' referring to a small garden, but also to a romantic ideal of Scotland in literature, of quaint, wee villages and rural romantics. Here's a Burns poem that exemplifies this style.
There
Grows A Bonnie Brier Bush
There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard,
There grows a bonnie brier bush in
our kail-yard;
And below the bonnie brier bush
there's a lassie and a lad,
And they're busy busy courting in our
kail-yard.
We'll court nae mair below the buss
in our kail-yard,
We'll court nae mair below the buss
in our kail-yard,
We'll awa to Athole's green, and there
we'll no be seen,
Where the trees and the branches will
be our safeguard.
Will ye go to the dancin' in
Carlyle's ha';
Will ye go to the dancin' in
Carlyle's ha';
Whare Sandy and Nancy I'm sure, will
ding them a',
I winna gang to the dance in Carlyle
ha'.
What will I do for a lad, when Sandy
gangs awa?
What will I do for a lad, when Sandy
gangs awa?
I will awa to Edinburgh, and win a
penny fee,
And see an onie bonnie lad will fancy
me.
He's coming frae the north that's to
fancy me,
He's coming frae the north that's to
fancy me;
A feather in his bonnet, and a ribbon
at his knee;
He's a bonnie bonnie laddie, an yon
be he.
