Translating the Cooler Winds of Summer

School's out for the summer and it's such a relief. I've left June free of trips, so the kids can relax, I can catch up on appointments, studying and house stuff and we can enjoy sleeping in. Though a week in and our schedules are already turned upside down. 

We've had weeks of amazingly warm weather, unusual for Finland. But it's gotten a bit chillier, around 15C which doesn't bother me as I'm not big on extreme heat. Anything over 21C is too hot for me. The birch pollen has eased up, so I can go out and work in the garden and allotment. I've been building veg boxes, but a month without rain means the soil is rock-hard and I can't dig to clear a space for the last one. A bit of rain is always welcomed. 

The writing course I was doing in April for the GloPoWriMo is done, so I'm in the process of seeing what I can salvage and develop through editing. But I miss the excitement of prompts and trying to find a way into them every day. I've been wandering through various poets' and writers' accounts looking for something to inspire me. Even with all my free time, I'm not writing every day, but I still manage to scribble something regularly.  

Every summer I buy a pile of books when I'm travelling. I try to get through them during the rest of the year, but there are always a few that get set aside. I've seen a quote from Umberto Eco recently about not worrying about having unread books which appeals. I think it's kind of like knitters saying they can never finish all their projects or use their entire stash of yarn, it's comforting knowing there's always something I haven't read yet on my shelves. A little adventure waiting. I try to review some of the ones that really grab me. 

I recently picked up one of the books I bought last year and haven't found time to read yet. I originally heard the poet and translator Brian Holton on the Lantern Scottish Poetry podcast last summer and fell in love with his Scots translation of Chinese poets. The way he explained his decisions as a translator and poet just captivated me and the Scots versions brought the two cultures together in such an unexpected way. He drew me into his process which intrigues me with poets and I often wonder how translators work on poetry. 

So I had to buy a copy of his work, choosing Hard Roads and Cauld Hairst Winds from Taproot Press. The collection is translations of the Chinese poets Li Bai and Du Fu who I previously knew nothing about. I've only dipped in a few times, but every poem is so fun and evocative. 'Bouzin Ma Lane Ablow the Moon' is a series of four poems where the poet is drunk and considering the moon, the world around him and being alone. The Scots translation and the theme are reminiscent of Hugh MacDiarmid's poem 'Drunk Man Looks at a Thistle' or Robert Burns. With the translation of place names to Scots it's easy to forget this is a 7th-century Chinese poet who is speaking, the situation and emotion are so recognisably modern. I really loved the melding of worlds in these poems.

Publication news: I was recently published in thi wurd's anthology, Earthly Rewards, a mix of poetry, fiction and experimental writing. It's an honour to be included in such a brilliant collection of writers in such a beautiful, substantial publication.

I'm having a lovely, quiet weekend of writing and a slow working through of small jobs. I wish you some time to yourself as well. Relish it.  

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.

Burns' Night 2020

I'm recovering from a Burns' Night blast, so this will be short, but sweet. 

Bindweed has published two of my poems in their 10th online issue. Lovely issue, check it out. 

Burns' Night was so much fun. For those of you who don't know, it celebrates the poetry and life of Robert Burns, Scotland's bard. The Finnish Scottish Society here in Finland have an annual event, this year held on Suomenlinna, Finland's fortress island just off Helsinki. I was involved with the creating and cooking of the haggis from scratch and the kitchen is such a good place to be.

We had the traditional 'Address to the Haggis', bagpipers, a musician singing Burns' songs, a game where guests are invited to read selected lines of the poems, either those a bit racy, with a touch of Scottish humour or those a that might be difficult for the non-Scots speaking. It's was a great laugh and there might have been a bit of drinking. No whisky for me though. 

Sunset on Suomenlinna.

I'll leave you with a Burns song I particularly like. Here's a link to a version that explains some of the Scots words. 

A Man's A Man For A' That

Is there for honest Poverty

   That hings his head, an' a' that;

The coward slave—we pass him by,

   We dare be poor for a' that!

For a' that, an' a' that.

   Our toils obscure an' a' that,

The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

   The Man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

   Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;

   A Man's a Man for a' that:

For a' that, and a' that,

   Their tinsel show, an' a' that;

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,

   Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

   Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;

Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

   He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that, an' a' that,

   His ribband, star, an' a' that;

The man o' independent mind

   He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

   A marquis, duke, an' a' that;

But an honest man's abon his might,

   Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!

For a' that, an' a' that,

   Their dignities an' a' that;

The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,

   Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

   (As come it will for a' that,)

That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,

   Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

   It's coming yet for a' that,

That Man to Man, the world o'er,

   Shall brothers be for a' that.