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Poems

R Dickson Jan 2015
Ken a' these auld Scots words,
The wans that we've forgot,
Why are we no using them,
It's because we wernae taught,

At hame wi' mither an fathir,
Speaking all and proper,
First day at school,
Speech becomes a cropper,

All yir mates at school,
Coming oot wi' words like bowff,
Saying them in the hoose,
Yir fathir says watch yir mouth,

Rax me oor the poorie,
As ma grama said to me,
Asking her whit she meant,
Gies the milk jug fir ma tea,

Fab technology today,
Smert phones and iPad,
They missed oot wan thing,
The language o' my grandad,

Skype, that's a new word,
Sounds a bit like Scottish,
Was it tae clip you round the ear hole,
That word should be abolished,

If yir no Scottish,
Rabbie's words are a' daft,
All the words that came out o' him,
That was the man's craft,

Whit aboot these well kent lines,
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Sorry aboot that Rabbie,
Stealing that was totally misplaced,

Oot o' bed on wi' ma baffies,
Tae pit them on I need tae sit doon
Sittin' on the chair wi' ma bahookie,
Missed the chair fawing like a loon,

When yir oot daein the gowf,
And yir breeks are a' in a runkle,
Dinnae be a feart tae tac them aff,
If you've got them in a fankle,

Deekin oot the windae,
Stramash on the doon the road,
Some folk getting a doin',
Ithers getting a carry code,

Polis got there quick enough,
Must have a been a hunner,
Saw the big yin there,
He was the heid ******,

The rammy wi the radges
Was just oot side the offie,
Jings crivvens help ma boab,
Some went ben the bothy,

We're all **** Tamson's bairns,
We a' just want tae learn,
We can do it wi' the Scots,
It's a language that we yearn.
Chik J Duncan Jan 2015
Wee cosy, tranquil Gatehouse Library
Ah come in quite a lot tay see yi,
Tay read yir books and use yir wifi
                An' chat tay Joannie,
Sae noo Ah'm goannie sing yir praises,
                Ah'm pure dead goannie.

Ye're sic' a cultural oasis,
Wan o' ma favourite learnin' places,
Yir books can form the verra basis
                O' Scottish brain power,
Enrichin' minds an' cheeky faces
                O' Scottish wean power.

So let us pray they never close yi
Tay those who would, we will oppose yi.
We'll be the storm an ill wind blows yi
                At sic' a crunch time.
The only closin' we'll allow
                Is Joannie's lunch time.
Over the last year or so of visiting Gatehouse Of Fleet for short breaks I've got to know the librarian, Joan. I was there during Book Week Scotland 2014 and saw a few "love letters to your local library" on the walls.  When I mentioned it to Joan she immediately said, "You could write one too."
"I don't have my laptop or any paper," I said, making a pathetic attempt at an excuse.
"I'll give you some paper," comes the reply.
And so instead of spending the planned hour and a half catching up on some reading, I spent it writing this.
Hadrian Veska Dec 2016
Ever have they dwelled in that sickly city,
That even the flowing ice avoided
As it crept down from the heights,
Devourving all in its path.

Among evil shadows,
Did they practice their craft.
In the primordial conurbation
Of forsaken Yir.

Since time immemorial
They have met in silence.
Beneath Yir's dark obelisks
And the backdrop of jagged mountains.

Many believe them necromancers.
It is even said in myth ,
That they were the ones to create man
In order to spite the gods .

But such memories ,
If ever there were any,
Have long since passed
From the revelries of thought.

None have seen these sorcerers
Or that sable city of Yir
Since the ice had receeded
In more recent ages.

In fact, not even the location
Of that monsterous place
Can be agreed upon anymore,
Which many count as a blessing.

For though the city is lost,
And unseen by the eye,
The meer mention of it
Disturbs and unsettles the mind.

As if it's raven spell,
Was never truely lifted.