|224. Epistle to Hugh Parker|
IN this strange land, this uncouth clime,A land unknown to prose or rhyme;Where words ne’er cross’t the Muse’s heckles,Nor limpit in poetic shackles:A land that Prose did never view it, 5Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it;Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek,Hid in an atmosphere of reek,I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk,I hear it—for in vain I leuk. 10The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,Enhuskèd by a fog infernal:Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,I sit and count my sins by chapters;For life and spunk like ither Christians, 15I’m dwindled down to mere existence,Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies,Wi’ nae kenn’d face but Jenny Geddes,Jenny, my Pegasean pride!Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 20And aye a westlin leuk she throws,While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose!Was it for this, wi’ cannie care,Thou bure the Bard through many a shire?At howes, or hillocks never stumbled, 25And late or early never grumbled?—O had I power like inclination,I’d heeze thee up a constellation,To canter with the Sagitarre,Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; 30Or turn the pole like any arrow;Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,Down the zodiac urge the race,And cast dirt on his godship’s face;For I could lay my bread and kail 35He’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.—Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief,And sma’, sma’ prospect of relief,And nought but peat reek i’ my head,How can I write what ye can read?— 40Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June,Ye’ll find me in a better tune;But till we meet and weet our whistle,Tak this excuse for nae epistle.
Robin Red Brest
Little robin Red Brest
Deny us of our cynical feelings with your bright symbol of joy
Proof of the beauty and innocence of life
In your perfect song
We are lulled
Don’t trust us little robin
Are soft hands hide deception
For we are made of sin
A small bright sign of hope amongst the frost and mist
As wee Lure you close
Our minds of evil and twisted
Such a small fragile creature
We observe through empty desperate eyes
And store as Another reason
To continue to walk upon earth.
I cant stop writing like tapping your foot or slamming your head hard against wood.
They wouldnt say we’re “Very” poor , obesity can say for sure.
I crossed the line
I didn’t care to read the signs
disillusioned by all my rhymes
guilty of my sickly crimes.
Perhaps if I re spun the dial
waited for a little while
and through the crackling static said
go to the forth and baptize your head
with the spilled blood of the dead.
Would you rather see your taxes go
to a sick man
arise poor soul.
Or see your hard working honest gold.
Slide into a stoic MPs pocket.
Damn those civil servants too
the heartless policeman
the shitty nurse
the lawyer with a bulging purse.
I wouldn’t preach to being proud of the poor
oh for goodness sake will you shut the front door.
Your desperation has leaked all over my nice floor.
I feel guilty are words you’ve never said
My poems are all stained in red.
Surely the day will one day come
we’ll bleed our veins
for our little ones.
Oh you’ll be sorry
through the muffled silence
I think that is what he said
when your children are crying I’ll turn away my head.
And cruelly smile.
Perhaps if I re spun the dial.
Scots Wha Hae
BY ROBERT BURNS
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour;
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Chains and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave!
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’,
Let him follow me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!—
Let us do or die!
(Before I start.I would really like it if you commented and put forward your opinions on this topic)
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. No one owns art. I feel like the only accessible art form in 2020 is music and film. To most the books are left to collect dust on a high shelf’s out of reach to many and great paintings are ruined by the coffee stains of the class divide. Literature like classical music and fox hunting seems to be a possession of the higher classes. Believe it or not I don’t hate the church. The elite built me aside from school and my parents I was raised by the church. The psalms of the bible and the verses of the hymns helped me create poetry and write prose. The summer clubs helped tutor and nurture me. However I wasn’t on the same level as them. My mother dusted the pews and scrubbed the toilets whist the conservative Christians preached the pure word of God towering above us on their high podium.
At school I was always degraded siting in a third set English class I was bitter , but I made friends I will never forget despite walking along the narrow tightrope that was the poverty line. Clutching a pen for balance , one slip and I would of tumbled to my doom. Perhaps I already have. in fact I know I have. What I write is in vain , they will spit on my grave.
Survival of the fittest is interwoven into our society despite anyone taking into account the middle classes head start at the game. Yet to say this puts a black mark against your name. Artwork is too expensive to buy for many , words to extravagant to understand. , and if your a woman who tires to challenge this you may as well thump your fists against a brick wall until they are bloody and bruised , but perhaps I’m biased. No one owns art. That’s all their is to say.
There are children jumping in front of trains , and grown men throwing bricks through window panes.
An old woman drowning out her sorrow by voting for the devils of tomorrow.
There are qualified girls lining up for food , and young boys disguising their face with a hood.
Polite ladies burning up my book , whilst their dearest darlings get up to no good. Kicking the life out of a man until his lips turn to blue.
For I have seen your likes before , I have already chapped this door and ran away I never stay. In the dark I stiffly lay.
For they are you and they are me. Scotland’s shame to the highest degree.
Sentence me with immortality.
You are people in textbooks no more , which teenagers think are just a bore.
For we have slept here before.
Burns has to be my favourite poet , if not my favourite. I was sitting looking out over the forth today and this poem talked to me and touched my heart. I had to share it.
I wake screaming in the night
God’s grip around me hard and tight.
As blackie watches from the windowsill
Oh I wish, I pray I could see him still.
But I am blind and I am bitter
I sit and wait for the harsh winter.
If only he could see me now
His frown a downturned smile
oh not oh not for me
For here I sit and slowly decay.
I cough and splutter in the rain
grow restless at the passing days.
As a child, I thought you were the only one.
Oh pretty blackbird
but as I grew
I looked and knew that there were many of you.
Yet still I glance through the windowpane
Stained with dirt and grit and fingerprints of many.
I think of you
oh pretty blackbird
The true love I only knew
but then I grew.