#scottish poetry

[artemlegere]

Celadon and Amelia

Artist: William Hamilton (English, 1751-1801)

Date: 1793

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, MI, United States

Description

Hamilton chose an English nature poem, "The Seasons," as the subject of this romantic painting. In the section on Summer, the poem tells of the young lovers Celadon and Amelia, a perfect couple who were caught in a summer storm. Amelia was overcome by the powerful force of the tempest and died in the arms of her horrified and distraught lover.

[poem-today]

A poem by Robert Burns (for Burns Night)

Oh Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee: Or did misfortune’s bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desart were a Paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi thee to reign, wi thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Glossary

lea = meadow airt = the direction, or quarter, of the wind blaw = blow bield = shelter

Note: Robert Burns composed this song in honour of Jessie Lewars (1778-1855), a friend of the family, who nursed him during his final illness and, from January 1796, helped his wife, Jean Armour, with their many children. As he was rarely able to leave his room, Jessy rendered invaluable services in helping Mrs. Burns nurse her husband. The poet could not repay her kindness in money so he asked what her favourite song was. She sang a song which was popular at the time and which told of a wren describing how he would never let the robin stay out in the cold if he had “an auld clout” to wrap him in. Burns wrote these new words to the same tune.

Image: "O, wert thou in the cauld blast" by the Scottish sculptor Ronald Rae is located in front of the Milton Keynes central railway station.

[kmbgpoetry]

| Whorticulture | KMBG |

9-10 August 2024

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[flaxmanlow]

Tim Robertson, illustration for Grimoire by Robin Robertson

I remember the girl

with the hare-lip

down by Clachan Bridge,

cutting up fish

to see how they worked;

from By Clachan Bridge by Robin Robertson

[petty-d4bblr]

It's Burns' Night here in Scotland, I am celebrating by listening to Robert Carlyle recite some of Robert Burns' poems. Won't you join me?

Thank you, Zsuzsanna Uhlik, for these YT videos.

[the-hearth-and-the-wild]

Of Muthadh / Mutability

This book is for the taken: for all those feart of the glamour, the skaith of the evil eye - weird-set, ill-minted or only wildering - their bodies in motion, flowing or full-flown, rapt with heart-hunger.

Grass twists up through my hair now and my mouth is full of stones. Tell my mother and father I am coming, tell them I have not grown old.

Robin Robertson, from Grimoire

[victusinveritas]

Hamish Henderson (1919–2002) was born on this day in 1919, 11 November. He was a hugely important and influential figure in Scottish culture, and beyond effective summary.

Elegies for the Dead in Cyrenaica:

First Elegy

Hamish Henderson

Published in From the Line: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945 (ASLS, 2014)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

[mahgnib]

Scottish poet William Dunbar (1460-1520}; language modernized somewhat by Michael Burch

[apoemadaykeepsthehoesaway]

Song (Ae Fond Kiss)

- Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

Ae fareweel, and then for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. —

*

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,

While the star of hope she leaves him:

Me, nae chearful twinkle lights me;

Dark despair around benights me. —

*

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,

Naething could resist my Nancy:

But to see her, was to love her;

Love but her, and love for ever. —

*

Had we never lov’d sae kindly,

Had we never lov’d sae blindly!

Never met — or never parted,

We had ne’er been broken-hearted. —

*

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!

Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!

Thine be ilka joy and treasure,

Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! —

*

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!

Ae fareweel, Alas, for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. —

[pasdetrois]

David Kinloch, Greengown

[artemlegere]

Edwin from James Beattie's 'The Minstrel'

Artist: Richard Westall, RA (English, 1765-1836)

Date: 1798 (exh at RA) - 1806 (exh at RA)

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: National Trust Collections, United Kingdom

Description

A youth reclined on a rock, turned to the left, gazing to the right dressed in a white shirt and shorts, with bare legs and feet, looking upward with a rock and a torrent in the background on the right. James Beattie (1735-1803), Scottish poet, published anonymously the first book of The Minstrel, in 1771 and the second book in 1774 and was notorious for the line: "And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy", under which this picture was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1798 and/or 1802.

[poem-today]

A poem by Dorothy Lawrenson

September

This far north, the harvest happens late. Rooks go clattering over the sycamores whose shadows yawn after them, down to the river. Uncut wheat staggers under its own weight.

Summer is leaving too, exchanging its gold for brass and copper. It is not so strange to feel nostalgia for the present; already this September evening is as old

as a photograph of itself. The light, the shadows on the field, are sepia, as if this were some other evening in September, some other harvest that went ungathered years ago.

Dorothy Lawrenson

Dorothy Lawrenson writes: Landscape is the ostensible subject-matter for a lot of my work, whether visual art or poetry. For some time I had been wanting to write about that end-of-summer-but-not-quite-autumn time of year. So when my weekly poetry class was given the task of writing something using the passive voice, without the use of the word ‘I’, the subject was to hand and this poem was ready to be written.

[kmbgpoetry]

| burst bubbles | KMBG |

10 August 2024

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[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"Batman's aff his nut / Have you seen the way he cuts aboot / Dressed up as a mad fuckin bat / Batterin guys..."

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[edlboetie]

"To a Mouse" by Robert Burns

[forestempty]

I've lost count of how many times you've apologised. You cradle my head and tell me you're sorry again and it doesn't mean a thing. I look at you and feel completely empty.

We stand in the cold and inch away from one another. If I am to change then perhaps I am also to grow away from you. It confuses me that I can feel so alone when I am loved so much.

A new season begins. A crow eats the seeds I left for her on the windowsill. She turns to speak to me but I don’t understand. I ask her name and she only stares.