St Andrew's Day 2025

Things have been rattling on. Winter is upon us, but luckily it's been mostly rain which I can cope with. I don't mind the darkness if I'm not shovelling snow three times a day just to be able to get out my front door. 

With returning to school, I just haven't had the energy to write this blog. To be honest, I haven't felt like I've done much on the writing front to write about. I still write as regularly as I can, mostly on the weekends, but I haven't really been submitting or trying to get published. I've lost my enthusiasm for that. I can't seem to get a book published, so I just cherry-pick the magazines I want to try for and even that I barely look into. 

I missed Scotstober where I usually try to use a Scots word a day to write some poetry. I have the list of words on a post-it, but haven't even tried to use them. I need to on days when I pull them out on days when can't think of how to start my writing practice. 

The highlight of my writing year has been this week and has nothing to do with my own writing. I was invited to the St Andrew's Day Ceilidh hosted by the Scottish Government's Nordic Office, a well-kept little secret. I was invited through my connection with the Finnish Scottish Society who I help out every year with their annual Burns Supper and a ceilidh. We had no idea of what to expect, but it was the most amazing night. The guest stars were former Scotland Makar Jackie Kay and current Edinburgh Makar Michael Pedersen and the presenter and cultural commentator Ally Heather. I thought it might be a formal affair but it was far from that. 

It was introduced as a Highland lock-in with music and poetry and tons and tons of whisky which is exactly what it felt like. Ally welcomed us in and spent the evening wandering around topping up everyone's glasses. All three were delightful to talk to. The musicians and poets on stage kept it casual and fun and joined in with the drinking and chat off. My mate even had to eject a too-drunk Finn during the first session by Scotland's 2025 Young Traditional Musician Ellie Beaton. Had to happen at a Scottish event. Michael and Jackie's performance were fun and full of energy. I've read books by them both this year including Michael's amazing Muckle Flugga which is a rollercoaster of a read. And listening to him perform you understand why. I wish I had taken photos, but to be honest, I was a bit star-struck. Luckily, my friend was thinking on his feet. 

Unfortunately, the lock-in didn't happen, but we decanted to another pub down the road. I couldn't stay as long as I'd like as I had work in the morning and kids waiting at home, but it was an absolute blast. It really made me miss the Scottish literary scene I used to dip my toes into. The mild hangover I took to school the next morning was totally worth it.

The Finnish Scottish Society are my Scottish lifeline here and I was so happy to be able to actually spend some time in a drunken blether with them rather than running around peeling neeps and making pies during an event that we never get to enjoy. We need more events like this that we aren't organising.

On the publication side I've only a few publications since the summer. My poem 'Explode the Monstrous' has been published in The Storms and I read the poem for the accompanying poetry podcast Eat the Storms with many of the other talented contributors. And I'm very excited to have my poems included on Sixty Odd Poets which is such a fun site to explore. 

I can't promise to be any more regular with keeping this blog up during term time, but hopefully I'll manage a new post during the Christmas break. I just need to do something interesting again. 

I hope your winter isn't too dark and cold. 

Scottish Book Tour: Scotland Ten Years On

My attempt at Substack didn't work, so I'll stick to notes there and my blog here. 

The sun's back. Two weeks ago I had solar panels installed and then Finland went into autumn mode with mists and overcast darkness. It's good to have this burst of sunlight to make the huge cost seem worthwhile. The cats and I have been recharging our batteries in pools of light, though the throw blanket has found it's way back to the couch. I'm not ready to turn the heat on yet. 

The trees are just starting to turn, hints of gold and red around the edges. We're about a month behind season-wise. I have pictures of the kids from past years, knee-deep in piles of leaves. Gold birch coins and mushrooms are just starting to sprinkle the lawn. 

My pictures also show the Scottish Independence Referendum from ten years ago, September 18. My social media is full of people remembering, many mourning the loss. It's still a blow, especially after Brexit and the recent mess in the Scottish Government. The possibility of independence seems further away than ever before. 

Speaking of Scottish, I'm still trying to work my way through the pile of books I bought this summer in Scotland. I picked up a few older books that I had never read, including Jackie Kay's Trumpet and some George Mackay Brown titles. 

I also tried John Burnside's Dumb House. I haven't been able to get through it. It reminds me a lot of The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks which I love. Burnside was a poet, novelist and editor who recently died and I had never read any of his work. But I couldn't get into this book, the main character is messed up. The book starts with him just saying that he's fed a set of twins poison, similar to Banks' character Frank announcing he'd killed three people so far in the opening scene. I couldn't find anything redeemable in the main character, even though the book tries to show the loss that led to his horrible actions. I may go back to it as it's impelling to find out about the twins, but I just can build up any sympathy for the main character. 

Trumpet, however, really builds empathy for the characters, Millie and Colman, the wife and son of a famous trumpeter Joss Moody who has just died. Joss's secret is out and his family are left to deal with the aftermath of the explosion left between them, Millie by hiding herself away and Colman by exploring his father's past with a journalist. Here the backstory doesn't truly explain Joss' choices but lays a foundation for the person he becomes. The writing is beautiful and quite raw with emotion, beautifully done.

And beautiful isn't quite the right adjective for George Mackay Brown's seminal novel Greenvoe. Wrapped in myth, landscape, history and humour, Greenvoe is a village full of character and characters set on an imaginary Orcadian island. Their secrets are all laid bare and knit into the village's spirit, Alice has seven children all named after the men she had affairs with, guileless Timmy buys his meths for his Tilley lamp, but everyone knows he drinks it himself and the school teacher impotently lusts after the ferryman who has his eye set on a bigger prize. Mackay Brown builds up a close-knit community that doesn't always have each others' best interests at heart. When modern incursions of an secret industry called Dark Star threaten the island, the villagers have little choice, but to accept their own natures. The writing is poetic, woven with sea and island culture. This is no surprise as Mackay Brown is also a brilliant poet. An absolute gem and I'm looking forward to my next book by Mackay Brown. 

It's been over ten years since I left Scotland and almost twenty since I completed my Masters in Scottish Literature and there's still so much to explore in its literature. 

No real news in my own writing. Moving forward slowly. 

If anyone is interested in Scots language, the Dictionary of the Scots Language has their own version of Wordle - https://www.macwordle.co.uk/ which is quite fun. 

Scotstober - Days 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9

More Scotstober words and poems. I've found most of my poems through the Scottish Poetry Library, a great resource of all Scottish poetry. I hope you're enjoying this taste of Scots as much as I am finding these poems, many of which I've never come across before. 

Word of the Day 4: shoogle - to sway or wobble. Stuart A Paterson uses the word and lots of other physical and perfectly descriptive words in this whimsical, but recognisable moment. 

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.

Scattershot

I've been lucky enough to be asked by poet Paul Brooks to take part in his poet interview series on his blog site, Wombwell Rainbow. Check it out, he's putting up new interviews every day. He's also looking for poets to interview in the future, so contact him via the website if you're interested.

His questions about the inspiration and motivation behind my reading and writing really got me thinking and were strangely echoed in my Finnish language tutorial this week where I had to discuss why reading is important and how it inspires us. Trying to verbalise this in a second language was just marginally harder than for the interview. That's when you learn you don't know the Finnish for inspire, explore and adventure (inspiroi, tutkea ja mielikuvitus). But I didn't even know the Finnish for vocabulary - sanavarasto, a stock or warehouse of words, so I still have a long way to go.

I love breaking words apart, especially words in foreign languages, and learning their etymology and usage. The idea of having a word warehouse in my head feels like the perfect analogy, the words all stored in various boxes and filing cabinents. I'm sure the organisation is an absolute mess, like most of my real-life storage, items organised by need, use and more random connections rather than some systematic method. When I lived with my parents I kept my library card in a laundry basket in the basement. If someone moved it, I could never think where it should sensibly be, but I could always find it with my way. Our own systems work.

So when I look for the word 'door' in Finnish, I know I'd be shuffling through files of Scottish Gaelic to find it. I was just watching a video of the Scottish Poet Laureate/ Makar Jackie Kay reciting her poem 'Threshold' to the opening of the Scottish Parliament in 2016. She mentioned that in Gaelic they say 'dùin an doras' for 'shut the door' and that took me back to learning Gaelic in Glasgow, so many years ago. 'Open the door' was also one of the first phrases I learned in Finnish when my son shouted it over and over at nursery when it was time for me leave. These memories pile up on top of the word 'door' in a wonderful scrapbook.

It's also how my writing works, I start with a prompt, specific or more general and I just follow it where it leads me, jumping from one image or connection to the next. I might look at crafting a poem from the idea of shutting the door in several languages just from writing that paragraph. My poems have begun to cross over into Finnish and other languages more and more as I shuffle through the collected images and memories in my brain while I write. 

My brain is a bit scattershot today. It doesn't help that we're on the last week of our ten-week summer holidays and I'm tired of having the kids home, of having to organise things for them, they're tired of all their friends being away, of having so much unstructured free time. We're sick of each other's faces, but they also want me to be involved in everything. I can't sit and write for longer than 2 minutes without someone asking me how to pour melted white chocolate into a straw to make a fake pen or for money to buy a can of spray whipped cream for the waffles they must have for dinner even though it's lunch-time.

I know I'll regret losing this time when they go back to school and we have to wake up and go to sleep and do everything to a schedule. When I have to pull out my calendar to slot everything in, even time to write. So I'm trying to enjoy these last unstructured days with them and with my writing by starting another poem-a-day course for August on the theme of summer. 

Best wishes for your summer.