The Cloud Spikks Scots Poems Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Sna: January: The Wolf Month
Aroon the dykes, blin drift furls thick an deep
Burns breenge brakk neck doon linns an icy braes
An wheels skyte sidiewyes far roads are steep

Bairns sledge an skirl, wi frostit nebs an taes
Cauld drives auld fowk inbye tae hog the fire
Bitter's the win on cranreuch winter days

Corrie an burn, in ermine hapt entire
Daizzle in skinklin pearls wi flash an sheen
Eident fermer keeps kye fed an strae-ed

Draigglit yowes staun chitterin cauld as steen
Easins o hooses hing wi ice saw-teeth
Eildritch haar like rikk wauchts ower the heath

Faimished birdies heeze roon gairden seeds
Fedders lie low, that tell o bluidy deeds

The wolf meen watches stervin breets doonfaa
That teeter on weak shanks agin the snaa

Bonnie's the snaa on peintit yuletide caird
A hard, hard sizzon on the frozen yird



The Spey-Wife
She's much socht eftir
Has ye hingin aff the edge o her wirds

She disnae sugar-coat her oracles
Disnae promise wealth

The deid live on ahin her steekit een
She feeds aff their need tae conneckt
The murned an the murner

The murned tells the spey wife facks
That anely the murned an the murner ken

Sae easy tae gae back, ower an ower
Like a junkie chasin the dragon
Like a bee foragin pollen frae the same flooer

The thin place atween the deid an the livin is a door
It opens fin the spey wife chaps

Bit it's a deid eyn. The Efter-life
Is a place o fuspers. The murned
Isnae at rest. The murner's heart consumes
The tit-bits the spey wife draps

Ootside her chaumer the road is fite wi frost
Like icicles' spit

In the wytin room nearhaun
Ither supplicants wye fur the speerit go-between
Tae wirk her pouerfu magic

A Doric Buddhist's Alphabet
I'm the aik cuttit doon bi the aixe
I'm the bumshayvelt bawdrons that killt the birdie
I'm the croo o the couthie cushie doo
I'm a dowie, drookit, deukie in the dubs
I'm the een o an eident ettercap
I'm a footery futterat that's fykie
I'm a gallivantin glekit gowk
I'm the hauf o a Heilan haddie
I'm the intimmers o an ingin
I'm the jo that likes joukerie pawkerie
I'm a kittlesome kenspeckle keelie
I'm the lauch o a lichtsome laddie
I'm a manky maggoty-heidit maister
I'm the neb on a Norlan norie
I'm an octopus's orra oxters
I'm the plooks on a pawkie parkie
I'm the quaich fur a quirky quine
I'm a richt rigwiddy randy
I'm a sleekit soople shennachie
I'm a throwither ticket in tatterwallops
I'm Uilleam, ugsome an uncanny
I'm a verra vaunty vennel
I'm a wabbit whigmaleerie
I'm the letter X in a Scottish X-Ray
I'm a yokie yalla-yeitie in the yaird
I'm a zebra zippin aboot in Embro zoo



Burns Supper
A Burns club sat doon ae nicht
Tae celebrate the bard
A touch o tartan worn bi aa
Tae show their heich regard

For him fa said ‘A man's a man
Fur aa that, 'an he meant it
Aroon the warld, he hit a nerve
Equality, representit

In myndin o the weel lued poem
Plates held a knitted moose
(For Burns in plooin up a park
Connached the craitur's hoose)

The nicht lichts glentit ower the glaiss
The drams were passed aroon
The haggis wis piped in wi flair
Played bi a skeely loon

Syne heilan dauncers shook their shanks
Their hauns help up like antlers
A hunnner fowk watched on enthralled
Sae lichtsome wir the prancers

An clarsach, fiddler, jyned the spree
As Burns's sangs wir aired
The cream o spikkers, witty, braw
Stood up, aa weel prepared

Fin toasts were said an glaisses raised
Neeps, haggis, tatties savoured
Wi Auld Lang Syne things closed the nicht
Aa favourably concluded

Lang eftir fowk hae wanneret hame
Echoes o sangs still bide
In hairt an heid, for Robbie Burns
Is lued the Warld wide


The Cloud Spikks Oot
I dinna like tae be teem
Veesitors bring colour tae ma days

Fin I fill up wi a murmuration o stirlins
I swall wi pleisur, like bein the
Host at Glastonbury

Wee fishin clachans I try tae wheech ower faist
There's naethin graceful or melodic in a shag or a skurrie
Skurries gie me migraines, an they skitter

I can be passive/aggressive in storms
I cheenge colour tae charcoal. I rummle wi thunner
Like a giant wi colic, like a gurly alcoholic

I hinna a forwirdin address. I blaw hett an cauld
Fariver the mood takks me. Whyles
I cairry a load o rain or snaa

A hyne-aff kinsman gied clouds a nesty nemme
He wis a mushroom cloud, bringer o Armageddon
He killt aathin that lay aneth him. He fed aff Daith

Norse fowk said oor ancestors wir the harns o Ymir
The Greeks said clouds wir Nephelae, sky nymphs
I'm nebulous, whyles mither o pearl, a shape shifter
Constable, Van Gogh, Caspar David Friedrich
Aa peintit me. I dominate their canvases

I wye as muckle's a jumbo jet
I gie planes turbulence.
Meeve ower, the Hindenburg

I've floatit aboot fur millennia
I hung ower the Montgolfier brithers at Versailles

The demonstration o their balloon
Wis held afore Louis XVI in the palace forecoort

At the boom o a cannon, a yowe, a dyeuk an a cock
Wir pit in the roon wicker creel aneth the balloon

They flew sax hunner metres inno the air.
Echt meenits eftir they drappt in the Wid o Vaucresson,

The yowe, the dyeuk an the cock wir caad 'heroes o the air'
They wir rewardit wi a place in the Menagerie in Versailles.

Echt meenits! I've been aroon since the stert o the warld.
Mortals are in cloud cuckoo lan, I jelouse
I'm bumbazed they didnae preen a medal on them aa


The Moose in the Cheese (a bairn rhyme)
There wis a wee moosie fa bedd in a hoosie
A hoosie made ooto cheese
On Monday he catched a dose o the cauld
That made the wee moosie sneeze

Achoo!

On Tuesday the cheese gaed aff tae skweel
In a quinie's playpiece box
Fin the moosie popped oot, she dichtit his snoot
An knittit him twa reid socks

Achoo!

On Wednesday she squeezed him a lemon
Wi hinney tae soothe his wheeze
The moose poppit oot an opened his moo
As the bees roon him did heeze

Achoo!

In her pooch she tuik the moose tae the kirk
He swapped cheese for the meenister's breid
He decidit tae bide…it wis fine an hett
An noo he sooks pandrops insteid!

Achoo!

Coull Castle
A kirk, a castle, the Tarland burn
Gin they could spikk, fit tales they'd tell!
Fit wid the ghaists o the castle say
Gin they iver brakk ooto their mossy shell?


The Neebor
A neebor's flittit in aside oor plot
An foo he deed there is nae wye tae tell
Sae he wis beeriet, bit wisnae forgot

Wis he a scunner, tea-totaller or sot?
His grave mools moultit ower oor nerra cell
Like a burst inkwell, spreidin like a blot

His flooers drappit ower oor side unsocht
Oor grave lost heicht an o a sudden, fell
We wir assured sic cheenge wid cam tae nocht
An sae it wis. The neebor's timmer shell
Sattled, an syne oor niggles did dispel
Gweed neebors keep their boundaries tae thirsel