"glamis" poems
A Lone Walker nowe Ah!
Intae Theis Murky Naycht
‘Yont Whin-Rock menacin’,
Ewry Wound bygane an’ the Scar
Freish Bluid o’ mine fuelin’,
Lang, lang, IT! the Blacklyn Howr,
Unfathomable, Unearthly,
Verra Guid Fyre wearin’,
Burnan Hye! Gore o’ mine
Awa, awa, IT owre spilled!
Soil o’ Alabaster gravin’,
An’ abön, Great Orrah! a Presence yirr,
Near-hand ay flashin’,
Rumblin’, guid tremblin’,
Lyke a Rhodium-Demon Hyear
Unco! stick-an-stowe towerin’,
An’ a Mirror-Vision ay broo!
O’ Red Gore fuil an’ pruid!
Great Rowth ragin’!
Human nae, nae IT laanger!
Heyne intae Theis Skye-Mirror,
Image o’ mine! nae, nae IT laanger!
Ma Rubye Brooch Micht, och!
Stylle haiwin',
An' wae Veins o’ Deep Lowe imbued,
Ma ain stylle! Glamis’ Orrah! Dearest!
Athwart ma Solitarye Gait
Ays a Storm-Blast fallin’,
An’ wnto me! wnto me noo, IT!
O’er an’ o’er! Carham’s Scyld-Hel Orrah!
Stylle Theis Dangerus! Verra Dangerus, IT!
Highlan’ Thwndir-Rode o’ mine
Intae Theis Guid Kintra whooshin’,
An’ the nae ****** Cauld Landis Micht,
Swaird-Wounded, stylle Ironclad Ah!
Fore’er unco! wi’in Oun Hye Fyre
Thro’ nae croud strollin’,
Ays yf frae Hye Þunor His-sel
The Lone War-Whisper Weel-Gaun!
Wae Thae Verra Woirds o’ Battle-Angyr
Lewdlie! Theis Specular Bluish Fyre o’ mine!
Thus Thwndir-Taukin’:
NUNC IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
QUIA FOCUS TEMPESTATIS MODO EST TIBI
ET VEXILLA FULMINIS PRODEUNT UNIVERSI
IN FERRO CAERULEO SANGUINEQUE
AD TE PICTORUM NOCTE TETRA
ET IN SPECULO RESULTANTE FORMA
THOR GOTHORUM UBI DESCENDET LAETO
AB ULTIMA GLITNIR MAGNO MALLEO
DEUS FLAVUS QUI ALTO FERRO SECURIQUE
TONITRUO INDIGNAM VIAM MALEDIXIT
FULMINIS IGITUR TETRA UMBRA TUA
ALTA FLAMMA CALIGINEA VEXILLAQUE
SUPREMO IGNE OVERMAN ULTOR.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:54 AM UTC
Och! Airn an' Thwndir!
An' Urquhart's Wae Verra Hel!
Great Warlike Glamis' Firey,
An' Hwmyd Loch Doon's Orrah!
Downe! Downe! tae thad howch owre miserable!
Ye a' swithe hame, hame! wae ma Airn ***
An' weile 'yont yondir Suthron!
Waefu', waefu' heyre Ah! War-Ironclad heyne Ȝell,
Wae burr-thistle’s Gowlin’ Storne Micht!
Frae ma verra, verra! Ah ageyne!
Tae the Cauld Enraged Wynde
Unco! intae Æternall Battle Scorchin'
Towardis Moorlan Chain Mail-Bosom o' mine!
O'er an' o'er IT! increasingly thro' Force returnin',
Wae ma verra Blacklyn Tartan o' War heyne,
An' Silvery Brooch, wi'in yondir Lone Sceadewe!
Unco! wae the Rubye Stane deep-shimmerin'
Naixt tae Carham's Gory Landis, an' the Targe-Hell,
Thro’ nowe Tune Martial, stick-an-stowe Ȝell!
Airn-Curse Core-Firey, Hye-Flamin' IT!
Heyne unco rychte Airn-Moorlan o'er ye a'!
Ah, bye nowe the FEUDAL OWAR-MANN!
'Yont thad Auld Whunstane Tower-Shrine
Togider wae Lang Titanium-Claymore, Airn-Dazzlin'
An' ne'er, ne'er, IT! stick-an-stowe tae wane!
Wi'in theis Bluish Fyre syne! Verra War-Swaird Rairan IT,
Intae Thae Hringiren Æternall, Thwndir-Devastatin' o' mine!
QVOAD FEODALE MEA CVM RVBRA SPATHA
ET RELVCENTE HOC SCVTO AC FVLMINE NIVEO
SCOTORVM INTRA HANC TEMPESTATEM MAGNAM
QVÆ FLOS IGNEVS EST TONITRVO NOMINE ALTO
NEMO GELIDO HOC LOCO IMPVNE ME LACESSIT.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:42 AM UTC
The day following Cawdor's capture
Was strange and grew stranger:
Relief from battle's end,
The weary ride's return.
Three witches in a fen
Pronounced Macbeth's sweet future
Named him, "King," hereafter.
Their prophecy fazed him,
I think.
Aware their source could only be the Devil,
I queried them,
"Prophesy the future to my line."
Cackled utterances gave nothing to me,
Except the fathering of kings,
A promise I can only to leave to God.
Shrieking and smoking,
The hags evaporated
Leaving us shaking,
Alone in murky thought.
I obeyed, as much as I am able,
Macbeth's command
To leave the hellish messengers'
Words hanging in that fen.
Tonight Glamis has become Cawdor;
The day has trickled down to night;
I am out upon the battlements,
Too troubled now to sleep
While Macbeth snores, content.
He leaves to see his Lady in the morning.
King Duncan follows after
To celebrate the victory of Scotland,
To honor the bravest of his heroes,
The two-named Thane.
Here above the courtyard,
I pace beneath the tent of night,
As witches' words I mutter,
"And King hereafter."
Something is not right.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
From the beginning was the Wyrrd,
and the Wyrrd was in the hands of the Norns.
These three weird sisters held men's fates .
They handled , measured and cut
the strands of fate
Some think them witches
or else the classical Fates.
These are the Norns.
They measure out our days.
Do not look
Do not dare to gaze upon
The faces of Fate
The Weird sisters
Flee, Macbeth, thane of Cawdor!
Fly Thane of Glamis
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 1:08 PM UTC
banquo - what! can the devil speak true?
macbeth - the thane of cawdor lives: who do
you dress me (as)
in borrowed robes?
angus - who was the thane, lives yet (still lives);
but under heavy judg(e)ment bears
that life, which he deserves to lose. whether he was
combined with those of norway,
or did line (assemble)
the rebel with hidden help and vantage,
or that with both
he laboured in his country's wrack,
i know not;
but treason capital, confessed and proved,
have overthrown him.
macbeth - glamis, and thane of cawdor:
the greatest is behind - thanks for your
pains. -
do you not hope your children shall be kings,
when those that gave the thane of cawdor to me
promised no less to them?
banquo - ............................................
................................................
.........................................................................
..............................
..........................................................
the instruments of darkness tell us truths.
and why wouldn't they, to begin with -
what lurks in the shadow,
isn't more than a second tier
of night?
where by night, the moon illuminates,
there also, the vacuum of a shadow,
suckling as if a reflection of a sun post-mortem,
as that, which is known to be a black hole?
but above all:
and letters are, the sole, greatest proof,
that they are what they are,
and that they are: the grandest tool of darkness.
only these these instruments may we peer
into a depth, and grandiosity of a matter
beyond the mere blutness of the mind -
deeper still, into the soul -
and even deeper still, into the heart of man;
to then say:
and by a heart you imply:
surviving on sheer luck of consequence?
i might only then ask: or is that, incompetence?
luck, the toss of dice, a thrill of the game,
the only suggestion, being
the quest of the so-called daredevil -
and then exclaim
the opposite to daring, if not cheating death?
and how many of such impromptus,
do you think, are given?
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
Thane of the Glamis Arena
Doyen of constitutionalism
Chikara che Zanu
The villager who dared to challenge,
Hope-monger, democrat,
Courageous fighter,
Patriot to the core,
Always leading from the front.
With intolerance on the rise you stood up
When incompetence grew you spoke up
When inflation turned to hyper you jumped in,
and tamed it.
When fear became the air,
you eyeballed it.
Yours is the courage of legions,
they will sing of your name for generations,
To your remembrance, they will build monuments.
I send a humble request to the heavens,
a whisper on the wings of the winds,
may the gods grant you more,
More health! More years! and More strength.
Get well soon Captain Courageous.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC
Och! Airn an’ Thundir! Great Orrah!
Ere ye a' sune an’ syne fast, verra fast ***
Wae Verra Skye-Storne Hye,
Skye-Unleashed, IT! Clitheroe's Gory Orrah!
Frae mah Burnan’ Skye-Rage,
An' unco Airn-Curse o’er ye a',
Downe, downe! owre downe!
Theis Moorlan Firey Grass flyin’,
Dinna Daur! Ah say, Dinna Daur!
Tae mah Verra Skye-Roaran’
An' Skye-Furious Bellum, Guid Orrah!
Nae tae baith nowe listen!
Nor tae set futis ageyne, Ah say!
Wae yer unco dishonorable duds,
Oan Theis Verra Nobil Glamis’ Hal’,
Kingdom o' Scotland IT, Airn-Auld,
Robert th' Bruce Micht,
Ironclad, her Ruler, wae Wois Loud!
Fore, ne’er, ne’er, Ah skye-yell;
AH UNCO WADNA!
AH UNCO WADNA!
Great Guid, Verra Guid Orrah!
Wae mah Bleezan Skye-Blade o’ War,
An’ Verra, Verra Guid Gilded Targe,
Auldfarran, juist twich ye a'!
Whene'er, an’ unco fore’er,
Intae THEIS DEEP LOCH O' RID HEL,
An' thro' yondir War-Thundir, och!
Wae mah Skye-Skean steel-fechtin’.
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 4:08 AM UTC