Poetry Corner: Time fir wurk, Inch, An ode tae wurr Irn Bru, and What amma sayin?
A collection of poems created in our Scots Language Writig Group over the course of 10 weeks, and some from scriever’s published elsewhere. From dragging yourself out the door, to battling languages, good auld Irn Bru, and the feeling of tenseness – these poems reflected each participants response to Scots and Scots language.
Illustrations by Rachel Mills
Scots is mare than joost a dialect. It is a landscape ae specific emotions and sharp observations. Much like Poet Sydney Goodsir Smith’s influence on the fluidity of oor language, these works reflect a modern Scots that refuses to stay in one lane.
Maist were developed in oor Scots scrievin workshops – these four poets explore everything fae the highs ae music, tae the struggles ae addiction and, and the shifts in oor daily identity. These urney joost 'scrawled thoughts', they are Scots wurds used tae define the specific weight ae being alive today.
What amma sayin? by Karmjit Badesha
Come on the noo
that’s an easy one, innit?
Its English, of course!
Is it, though?
It’s definitely not Gaelic. Only chookters speak that.
And Scots? Find me onybody can tell me whit tha means these days.
Alas poor Doric, I never you knew at all!
So it hus to be Glaswegian?
Aye, that feels more like it.
But that’s no a language? Or a dialect?
And where yer fae ye bam
makes all the difference. Big Time!
Thing is, I don’t even speak like my pals or family.
At home I was told I cannae speak bloody slang,
that wasn’t going to get me a good job.
Outside, all my pals wanted to hear my mad Punjabi.
‘Hanji. Okay. But only the swear words?’
And everybody was okay with swearing!?
Fuck me, it got tricky
keeping all those tongues in my mouth.
At Uni I had to slow. Down. For. My. International. Friends.
While call centres loved the Scots accent.
I kinda had it figured out
then I got married to this Irish gal.
Grand! But man I had to up my craic quota.
Quit the bank when I couldn’t swallow anymore
APRs, KPIs, 121s, no i in team…
Aye but there’s a fuck ton of U in
CUNT!
Began working with kids.
Lost all my cred dropping in cool, awesome and dude, bruh!
Thanx goodness for 🙂 and 👍
Says it all. Every time.
Awla this used ta do ma head in.
Now, all the patter rolls of my tongue,
any misunderstandings fixed with a quick
‘Whit ye sayin pal?’
Inch by Andrew Conlin
In my chest
there’s a tension
my feet know
the well
trodden paths
of my tongue
like the backs but—
my hands are cut
and withered by
the effort. The effort
of drawing oot the song.
The knife of rote
has carved its rut
intae the ways
ae ma brain
I am saddled and bagged
ah saddle an drag
ma plough over paper
this wee black ball
scratches an tears an
struggles against ma margins
cragfast hands at the punched holes
—outwith and within
that selfsame pressure
ae “the right way”—
swallowing my shame, gulping doon ma tongue,
doon the sleekit tumble of ma throat unravelin,
bendin twistin scrievin an scramblin
as the words begin tae teem and flow
soakin the page an liftin ma weight til ma yoke flings aff;
an there’s an inch between me an the ground.
Here ah can sing, here ah can dally,
on the clean new ways
ae ma hands.
Time fir wurk by Alastair Callander
Open ma groggy red eyes
A wont be anither capitalist soldier on the ground
Fuck yir orders of “ach this is how it is”
Use yir head n tell me wit yiv found
Education shid bring critical hinking ti the masses
Bit its controlled by wealth and money
So dont be critical a the upper classes
A canny be bought cos al do this for free
Tell me on paper am no ready
Bit yi dont understand, this isnae abit me
Scratchin our heads, is money jist a story a fiction
Take out the needle
It’s time ti kick this addiction
Its plain as the nose on your face
This isnt working for people
Of “lower” class, gender and race
Take a deep breath n gather ma thoughts
Grab ma keys n head oot the door
Dae the job, jist coz.
An ode tae wurr Irn Bru by Cat Cochrane
There's only wan nation oan sweet Mother Earth
where yon Coca-Cola isnae tap dug mirth
Can, boattle, draught, it really doesnae maiter,
past the gullet yer like honey
through a gold carburetor
Flat and warm, a fritter roll oan the side,
like absolute nectar doon ma throat dae ye glide
Serotonin, dopamine, fair ginger whizz,
Gaviscon handy fur yer acid and fizz
Yer dulcet taste makes aw ae a quiver,
dinnae dare ask whit yer daein tae ma liver
Come oot tae play wae ma girders ya wee fanny,
Ah’ll dowse ye in Creamola Foam,
wae measurements akin tae Oppenheimer
we'll make oor ain atomic boam
Noo, there’s certain things that don’t compliment thee, like Vodka, Malibu, ice cream ur kimchi
And if Ah had a penny fur every morn
that ye’ve saved me,
made ma work cos in the fridge door
the night afore Ah had lain ye
Doon a ditch a month Ah know Ah’d survive
wae only ma Irn Bru chews tae keep me alive
See Ah’ve got the gift of tele-CAN-asis,
can spot ye abroad
in among aw the masses
Oh tae find a can of Bru in Spain
a fiver a pop is the only shame
Ah've quaffed, Ah’ve guzzled,
wolfed ye doon aw ma life,
never a day hiv ye gied me trouble nor strife
And blessed be the moment came true
when fae a can machine fur a pun
fell oot two ae you
Ribbed, clear glaze and blue metal tap
yer Girders dae rock in every last drap
Aye its fair plain tae see
yer goin naewhere the noo,
cos we’ve got the gift tae see us
forever in wurr Irn Bru
The publisher acknowledges receipt of the Scottish Government’s Scots Language Publication Grant towards this publication.
