I’m fu’ o’ a stickit God.That’swhat’s the maitter wi’ me,Jean has stuck sic a fork in the wa’That I row in agonie.Mary never let dab.Shewas a canny wumman.She hedna a gaw in Joseph at a’But, wow, this seecund comin’!...Narodbogonosets[10]are my folk tae,But in a sma’ way nooadays—A faitherly God wi’ a lang white beard,Or painted Jesus in a hazeO’ blue and gowd, a gird aboot his heidOr some sic thing. It’s been a sair come-doon,And the trade’s nocht to what it was.Unnatural practices are the cause.Baith bairns and Gods’ll be obsolete soon(The twaesome gang thegither), and forsoothScotland turn Eliot’s waste—the Land o’ Drouth.But even as the stane the builders rejec’Becomes the corner-stane, the time may beWhen Scotland sall find oot its destiny,And yield thevse-chelovek.[11]—At a’ events, owre Europe flaught atween,My whim (and mair than whim) it pleasesTo seek the haund o’ Russia as a freen’In workin’ oot mankind’s great synthesis....Melville[12](a Scot) kent weel hoo Christ’sCorrupted into creeds malign,Begotten strife’s pernicious broodThat claims for patron Him Divine.(The Kirk in Scotland still I cryCrooks whaur it canna crucify!)Christ, bleedin’ like the thistle’s roses,He saw—as I in similar case—Maistly, in beauty and in fear,’Ud “paralyse the nobler race,Smite or suspend, perplex, deter,And, tortured, prove the torturer.”And never mair a Scot sall tryst,Abies on Calvary, wi’ Christ,Unless, mebbe, a poem like this’llExteriorise things in a thistle,And gi’e him in this form forlornWhat Melville socht in vain frae Hawthorne....Spirit o’ strife, destroy in turnSyne this fule’s Paradise, syne that;In thee’s in Calvaries that owrecomeDaith efter Daith let me be caught,Or in the human form that haudsUs in its ignominious thrall,While on brute needs oor souls attendUntil disease and daith end all,Or in the grey deluded brain,Reflectin’ in anither fieldThe torments o’ its parent fleshIn thocht-preventin’ thocht concealed,Or still in curst impossible mould,Last thistle-shape men think to tak’,The soul, frae flesh and thocht set free,On Heaven’s strait if unseen rack.There may be heicher forms in whichWe can nae mair oor plicht define,Because the agonies involved’ll bring us their ain anodyne.Yet still we suffer and still sall,Altho’, puir fules, we mayna kentAs lang as like the thistle weIn coil and in recoil are pent.And ferrer than mankind can lookGhast shapes that free but to transfixTwine rose-crooned in their agonies,And strive agen the endless pricks.The dooble play that bigs and braksIn endless victory and defeatIs in your spikes and roses shown,And a’ my soul is haggar’d wi’t....Be like the thistle, O my soul,Heedless o’ praise and quick to tak’ affront,And growin’ like a mockery o’ a’Maist life can want or thole,And manifest forevermairContempt o’ ilka goal.O’ ilka goal—save ane alane;To be yoursel’, whatever that may be,And as contemptuous o’ that,Kennin’ nocht’s worth the ha’en,But certainty that nocht can be,And hoo that certainty to gain.For this you still maun grow and gropeIn the abyss wi’ ever-deepenin’ rootsThat croon your scunner wi’ the grueO’ hopeless hope—And gin the abyss is bottomless,Your growth’ll never stop!...What earthquake chitters ootIn the Thistle’s oorie shape,What gleids o’ central fireIn its reid heids escape,And whatna coonter forcesIn growth and ingrowth graipIn an eternal clinchIn this ootcuissen formThat winna be outcast,But triumphs at the last(Owre a’ abies itsel’As fer as we can tell,Sin’ frae the Eden o’ the worldIlka man in turn is hurled,And ilka gairden rins to wasteThat was ever to his taste?)O keep the Thistle ’yont the wa’Owre which your skeletons you’ll thraw.I, in the Thistle’s land,As you[13]in Russia whereStruggle in giant formProceeds for evermair,In my sma’ measure ’boodAddress a similar task,And for a share o’ yourAppallin’ genius ask.Wha built in revelationsWhat maist men in reserves(And only men confound!)A better gift deservesFrae ane wha like hissel(As ant-heap unto mountain)Needs bigs his life uponThe everloupin’ fountainThat frae the Dark ascendsWhaur Life begins, Thocht ends—A better gift deservesThan thae wheen yatterin’ nerves!For mine’s the clearest insichtO’ man’s facilityFor constant self-deception,And hoo his mind can beBut as a floatin’ icebergThat hides aneth the seaIts bulk: and hoo frae depthsO’ an unfaddomed floodTensions o’ nerves ariseAnd humours o’ the blood—Keethin’s nane can traceTo their original place.Hoo mony men to mak’ a manIt tak’s he kens wha kens Life’s plan.But there are flegsome deepsWhaur the soul o’ Scotland sleepsThat I to bottom needTo wauk Guid kens what deid,Play at stertle-a-stobie,Wi’ nation’s dust for hobby,Or wi’ God’s sel’ commerceFor the makin’ o’ a verse.“Melville, sea-compelling man,Before whose wand LeviathanRose hoary-white upon the Deep,”[14]What thou hast sown I fain ’ud reapO’ knowledge ’yont the human mindIn keepin’ wi’ oor Scottish kind,And, thanks to thee, may aiblins reachTo what this Russian has to teach,Closer than ony ither Scot,Closer to me than my ain thocht,Closer than my ain braith to me,As close as to the DeityApproachable in whom appearsThis Christ o’ the neist thoosand years.As frae your baggit wifeYou turned whenever able,And often when you werena,Unto the gamin’ table,And opened wide to ruinYour benmaist hert, aye brewin’A horror o’ whateverSeemed likely to deliverYou frae the senseless strifeIn which alane is life,—As Burns in EdinburghBreenged arse-owre-heid thoro’A’itcould be the spur o’To pleuch his sauted furrow,And turned frae a’ men honourTo what could only scunnerWha thinks that common-senseCan e’er be but a fenceTo keep a soul worth ha’enFrae what it s’ud be daein’—Sae I in turn maun gieMy soul to misery,Daidle diseaseUpon my knees,And welcome madnessWi’ exceedin’ gladness—Aye, open wide my hertTo a’ the thistle’s smert.And a’ the hopes o’ menSall be like wiles thenTo gar my soul betrayIts only richtfu’ way,Or as a couthie wifeThat seeks nae mair frae lifeThan domesticityE’en wi’ the likes o’ me—As gin I could be carin’For her or for her bairnWhen on my road I’m farin’—O I can spend a nichtIn ony man’s DelichtOr wi’ ony wumman born—But aye be aff the morn!In a’ the inklin’s cryptic,Then, o’ an epileptic,I ha’e been stood in youAnd droukit in their grueTill I can see richt throughIlk weakness o’ my frameAnd ilka dernin’ shame,And can employ the sameTo jouk the curse o’ fame,Lowsed frae the dominionO’ popular opinion,And risen at last abuneThe thistle like a muneThat looks serenely doonOn what queer things there areIn an inferior starThat couldna be, or see,Themsel’s, except in me.Wi’ burnt-oot hert and poxy faceI sall illumine a’ the place,And there is ne’er a fount o’ graceThat isna in a similar case.Let a’ the thistle’s growthBe as a process, then,My spirit’s gane richt through,And needna threid again,Tho’ in it sall be haud’nFor aye the feck o’ menWha’s queer contortions thereAs memories I ken,As memories o’ my ainO’ mony an ancient pain.But sin’ wha’ll e’er wun freeMaun tak’ like coorse to me,A fillip I wad gi’eTheir eccentricity,And leave the lave to dreeTheir weirdless destiny.It’s no’ withoot regretThat I maun follow yetThe road that led me pastHumanity sae fast,Yet scarce can gi’e a fateThat is at last mair fitTo them wha tak’ that gaitThan theirs wha winna ha’e’t,Seein’ that nae man can getBy ony airt or wile,A destiny quite worth whileAs fer as he can tell—Or even you yoursel’!And O! I canna tholeAye yabblin’ o’ my soul,And fain I wad be freeO’ my eternal me,Nor fare mysel’ alane—Withoot that tae be gane,And this, I ha’e nae doot,This road’ll bring aboot.The munelicht that owre clear definesThe thistle’s shrill cantankerous linesE’en noo whiles insubstantialisesIts grisly form and ’stead devisesA maze o’ licht, a siller-frame,As ’twere God’s dream frae which it came,Ne’er into bein’ coorsened yet,The essence lowin’ pure in it,As tho’ the fire owrecam’ the clay,And left its wraith in endless day.These are the moments when a’ senseLike mist is vanished and intense,Magic emerges frae the denseBody o’ bein’ and beeks immenseAs, like a ghinn oot o’ a bottle,Daith rises frae’s when oor lives crottle.These are the moments when my sangClears its white feet frae oot amangMy broken thocht, and moves as freeAs souls frae bodies when they dee.There’s naething left o’ me ava’Save a’ I’d hoped micht whiles befa’.Sic sang to men is little worth.It has nae message for the earth.Men see their warld turned tapsalteerie,Drookit in a licht owre eerie,Or sent birlin’ like a peerie—Syne it turns a’ they’ve kent till thenTo shapes they can nae langer ken.Men canna look on nakit licht.It flings them back wi’ darkened sicht,And een that canna look at it,Maun draw earth closer roond them yetOr, their sicht tint, find nocht insteadThat answers to their waefu’ need.And yet this essence frae the clayIn dooble form aye braks away,For, in addition to the licht,There is an e’er-increasin’ nicht,A nicht that is the bigger, andGangs roond licht like an airn bandThat noo and then mair tichtly grips,And snuffs it in a black eclipse,But rings it maistly as a broughThe mune, till it’s juist bricht enough—O wull I never lowse a lichtI canna dowse again in spite,Or dull to haud within my sicht?The thistle canna vanish quite.Inside a’ licht its shape maun glint,A spirit wi’ a skeleton in’tThe world, the flesh, ’ll bide in usAs in the fire the unburnt buss,Or as frae sire to son we gangAnd coontless corpses in us thrang.And e’en the glory that descendsI kenna whence onmedepends,And shapes itsel’ to what is leftWhaur I o’ me ha’e me bereft,And still the form is mine, altho’A force to which I ne’er could growIs movin’ in’t as ’twere a seaThat lang syne drooned the last o’ me—That drooned afore the warld beganA’ that could ever come frae Man.And as at sicna times am I,I wad ha’e Scotland to my eyeUntil I saw a timeless flameTak’ Auchtermuchty for a name,And kent that Ecclefechan stoodAs pairt o’ an eternal mood.Ahint the glory comes the nichtAs Maori to London’s ruins,And I’m amused to see the plichtO’ Licht as’t in the black tide droons,Yet even in the brain o’ ChaosFor Scotland I wad hain a place,And let Tighnabruaich stillBe pairt and paircel o’ its will,And Culloden, black as Hell,A knowledge it has o’ itsel’.Thou, Dostoevski, understood,Wha had your ain land in your bluid,And into it as in a mouldThe passion o’ your bein’ rolled,Inherited in turn frae HeavenOr sources fer abune it even.Sae God retracts in endless stageThrough angel, devil, age on age,Until at last his infinite natur’Walks on earth a human cratur’(Or less than human as to my eenThe people are in Aiberdeen);Sae man returns in endless growthTill God in him again has scouth.For sic a loup towards wisdom’s croonHoo fer a man maun base him doon,Hoo plunge aboot in Chaos ereHe finds his needfu’ fittin’ there,The matrix oot o’ which sublimeSerenity sall soar in time!Ha’e I the cruelty I need,Contempt and syne contempt o’ that,And still contempt in endless meedThat I may never yet be caughtIn ony satisfaction, orBird-lime that winna let me soar?Is Scotland big enough to beA symbol o’ that force in me,In wha’s divine inebrietyA sicht abune contempt I’ll see?For a’ that’s Scottish is in me,As a’ things Russian were in thee,And I in turn ’ud be an actionTo pit in a concrete abstractionMy country’s contrair qualities,And mak’ a unity o’ theseTill my love owre its history dwells,As owretone to a peal o’ bells.And in this heicher stratosphereAs bairn at giant at thee I peer....O Jean, in whom my spirit sees,Clearer than through whisky or disease,Its dernin’ nature, wad the searchin’ lichtOor union raises poor’d owre me the nicht.I’m faced wi’ aspects o’ mysel’At last wha’s portent nocht can tell,Save that sheer licht o’ life that when we’re jointLoups through me like a fire a’ else t’ aroint.Clear my lourd flesh, and let me moveIn the peculiar licht o’ love,As aiblins in Eternity men mayWhen their swack souls nae mair are clogged wi’ clay.Be thou the licht in which I standEntire, in thistle-shape, as planned,And no’ hauf-hidden and hauf-seen as hereIn munelicht, whisky, and in fleshly fear,In fear to look owre closely atThe grisly form in which I’m caught,In sic a reelin’ and imperfect lichtSprung frae incongruous elements the nicht!But wer’t by thou they were shone on,Then wad I ha’e nae dreid to conThe ugsome problems shapin’ in my soul,Or gin I hed—certes, nae fear you’d thole!Be in this fibre like an eye,And ilka turn and twist descry,Hoo here a leaf, a spine, a rose—or asThe purpose o’ the poo’er that brings ’t to pass.Syne liberate me frae this tree,As wha had there imprisoned me,The end achieved—or show me at the leastMair meanin’ in’t, and hope o’ bein’ released.I tae ha’e heard Eternity drip water(Aye water, water!), drap by drapOn the a’e nerve, like lichtnin’, I’ve become,And heard God passin’ wi’ a bobby’s feetOotby in the lang coffin o’ the street—Seen stang by chitterin’ knottit stang loup ootUncrushed by th’ echoes o’ the thunderin’ boot,Till a’ the dizzy lint-white lines o’ torture madeA monstrous thistle in the space aboot me,A symbol o’ the puzzle o’ man’s soul—And in my agony been pridefu’ I could stillTine nae least quiver or twist, watch ilka pointLike a white-het bodkin ripe my inmaist hert,And aye wi’ clearer pain that brocht nae anodyne,But rose for ever to a fer crescendoLike eagles that ootsoar wi’ skinklan’ wingsThe thieveless sun they blin’—And pridefu’ stillThat ’yont the sherp wings o’ the eagles fleein’Aboot the dowless pole o’ Space,Like leafs aboot a thistle-shank, my bluidCould still thraw roses up—And up!O rootless thistle through the warld that’s pairt o’ you,Gin you’d withstand the agonies still to come,You maun send roots doon to the deeps unkent,Fer deeper than it’s possible for ocht to gang,Savin’ the human soul,Deeper than God himsel’ has knowledge o’,Whaur lichtnin’s canna probe that cleave the warld,Whaur only in the entire dark there’s founts o’ strengthEternity’s poisoned draps can never file,And muckle roots thicken, deef to bobbies’ feet.A mony-brainchin’ candelabra fillsThe lift and’s lowin’ wi’ the stars;The Octopus Creation is is wallopin’In coontless faddoms o’ a nameless sea.I am the candelabra, and burnMy endless candles to an Unkent God.I am the mind and meanin’ o’ the octopusThat thraws its empty airms through a’ th’ Inane.And a’ the bizzin’ suns ha’e biggedTheir kaims upon the surface o’ the sea.My lips may feast for ever, but my gutsKen naething o’ the Food o’ Gods.“Let there be Licht,” said God, and there wasA little: but He lacked the poo’erTo licht up mair than pairt o’ space at aince,And there is lots o’ darkness that’s the sameAs gin He’d never spoken—Mair darkness than there’s licht,And dwarfin’t to a candle-flame,A spalin’ candle that’ll sune gang oot.—Darkness comes closer to us than the licht,And is oor natural element. We peer oot frae’tLike cat’s een bleezin’ in a goustrous nicht(Whaur there is nocht to find but starsThat look like ither cats’ een),Like cat’s een, and there is nocht to findSavin’ we turn them in upon oorsels;Cats canna.Darkness is wi’ us a’ the time, and LichtBut veesits pairt o’ us, the wee-est pairtFrae time to time on a short day atween twa nichts.Nae licht is thrawn onthemby ony licht.Licht thraws nae licht upon itsel’;But in the darkness them wha’s eenNae fleetin’ lichts ha’e dazzled and deceivedFind qualities o’ licht, keener than ony licht,Keen and abidin’;That show the nicht unto itsel’,And syne the licht,That queer extension o’ the dark,That seems a separate and a different thing,And, seemin’ sae, has lang confused the dark,And set it at cross-purposes wi’ itsel’.O little LifeIn which Daith guises and deceives itsel’,Joy that mak’s Grief a Janus,Hope that is Despair’s fause-face,And Guid and Ill that are the same,Save as the chance licht fa’s!And yet the licht is there,Whether frae within or frae withoot.The conscious Dark can use it, dazzled nor deceived.The licht is there, and th’ instinct for it,Pairt o’ the Dark and o’ the need to guise,To deceive and be deceived,But let us then be undeceivedWhen we deceive,When we deceive oorsels.Let us enjoy deceit, this instinct in us.Licht cheenges naething,And gin there is a God wha made the lichtWe are adapted to receive,Hecheenged naething,And hesna kythed Hissel!Save in this licht that fa’s whaur the Auld Nicht was,Showin’ naething that the Darkness didna hide,And gin it shows a pairt o’ thatConfoondin’ mair than it confidesEv’n in that.The epileptic thistle twitches(A trick o’ wund or mune or een—or whisky).A brain laid bare,A nervous system,The skeleton wi’ which men labourAnd bring to life in Daith—I, risen frae the deid, ha’e seenMy deid man’s eunuch offspring.—The licht frae bare banes whitening evermair,Frae twitchin’ nerves thrawn aff,Frae nakit thocht,Works in the Darkness like a fell disease,A hungry acid and a cancer,Disease o’ Daith-in-Life and Life-in-Daith.O for a root in some untroubled soil,Some cauld soil ’yont this fevered warld,That ’ud draw darkness frae a virgin source,And send it slow and easefu’ through my veins,Release the tension o’ my grisly leafs,Withdraw my endless spikes,Move coonter to the force in me that haudsMe raxed and rigid and ridiculous—And let my roses drapLike punctured ba’s that at a FairFa’ frae the loupin’ jet!—Water again!...Omsk and the Calton turn again to dust,The suns and stars fizz out with little fuss,The bobby booms away and seems to bust,And leaves the world to darkness and to us.The circles of our hungry thoughtSwing savagely from pole to pole.Death and the Raven drift aboveThe graves of Sweeney’s body and soul.My name is Norval. On the Grampian HillsIt is forgotten, and deserves to be.So are the Grampian Hills and all the peopleWho ever heard of either them or me.What’s in a name? From pole to poleOur interlinked mentality spins.I know that you are Deosil, and supposeThat therefore I am Widdershins.Do you reverse? Shall us? Then let’s.Cyclone and Anti?—how absurd!She should know better at her age.Auntie’s an ass, upon my word.This is the sort of thing they teachThe Scottish children in the school.Poetry, patriotism, manners—No wonder I am such a fool....Hoo can I graipple wi’ the thistle syne,Be intricate as it and up to a’ its moves?A’ airts its sheenin’ points are loupin’ ’yont me,Quhile still the firmament it proves.And syne it’s like a wab in which the warldSquats like a spider, quhile the mune and meAre taigled in an endless corner o’tTyauvin’ fecklessly....The wan leafs shak’ atour us like the snaw.Here is the cavaburd in which Earth’s tint.There’s naebody but Oblivion and us,Puir gangrel buddies, waunderin’ hameless in’t.The stars are larochs o’ auld cottages,And a’ Time’s glen is fu’ o’ blinnin’ stew.Nae freen’ly lozen skimmers: and the wundRises and separates even me and you.[15]I ken nae Russian and you ken nae Scots.We canna tell oor voices frae the wund.The snaw is seekin’ everywhere: oor hertsAt last like roofless ingles it has f’und,
I’m fu’ o’ a stickit God.That’swhat’s the maitter wi’ me,Jean has stuck sic a fork in the wa’That I row in agonie.Mary never let dab.Shewas a canny wumman.She hedna a gaw in Joseph at a’But, wow, this seecund comin’!...Narodbogonosets[10]are my folk tae,But in a sma’ way nooadays—A faitherly God wi’ a lang white beard,Or painted Jesus in a hazeO’ blue and gowd, a gird aboot his heidOr some sic thing. It’s been a sair come-doon,And the trade’s nocht to what it was.Unnatural practices are the cause.Baith bairns and Gods’ll be obsolete soon(The twaesome gang thegither), and forsoothScotland turn Eliot’s waste—the Land o’ Drouth.But even as the stane the builders rejec’Becomes the corner-stane, the time may beWhen Scotland sall find oot its destiny,And yield thevse-chelovek.[11]—At a’ events, owre Europe flaught atween,My whim (and mair than whim) it pleasesTo seek the haund o’ Russia as a freen’In workin’ oot mankind’s great synthesis....Melville[12](a Scot) kent weel hoo Christ’sCorrupted into creeds malign,Begotten strife’s pernicious broodThat claims for patron Him Divine.(The Kirk in Scotland still I cryCrooks whaur it canna crucify!)Christ, bleedin’ like the thistle’s roses,He saw—as I in similar case—Maistly, in beauty and in fear,’Ud “paralyse the nobler race,Smite or suspend, perplex, deter,And, tortured, prove the torturer.”And never mair a Scot sall tryst,Abies on Calvary, wi’ Christ,Unless, mebbe, a poem like this’llExteriorise things in a thistle,And gi’e him in this form forlornWhat Melville socht in vain frae Hawthorne....Spirit o’ strife, destroy in turnSyne this fule’s Paradise, syne that;In thee’s in Calvaries that owrecomeDaith efter Daith let me be caught,Or in the human form that haudsUs in its ignominious thrall,While on brute needs oor souls attendUntil disease and daith end all,Or in the grey deluded brain,Reflectin’ in anither fieldThe torments o’ its parent fleshIn thocht-preventin’ thocht concealed,Or still in curst impossible mould,Last thistle-shape men think to tak’,The soul, frae flesh and thocht set free,On Heaven’s strait if unseen rack.There may be heicher forms in whichWe can nae mair oor plicht define,Because the agonies involved’ll bring us their ain anodyne.Yet still we suffer and still sall,Altho’, puir fules, we mayna kentAs lang as like the thistle weIn coil and in recoil are pent.And ferrer than mankind can lookGhast shapes that free but to transfixTwine rose-crooned in their agonies,And strive agen the endless pricks.The dooble play that bigs and braksIn endless victory and defeatIs in your spikes and roses shown,And a’ my soul is haggar’d wi’t....Be like the thistle, O my soul,Heedless o’ praise and quick to tak’ affront,And growin’ like a mockery o’ a’Maist life can want or thole,And manifest forevermairContempt o’ ilka goal.O’ ilka goal—save ane alane;To be yoursel’, whatever that may be,And as contemptuous o’ that,Kennin’ nocht’s worth the ha’en,But certainty that nocht can be,And hoo that certainty to gain.For this you still maun grow and gropeIn the abyss wi’ ever-deepenin’ rootsThat croon your scunner wi’ the grueO’ hopeless hope—And gin the abyss is bottomless,Your growth’ll never stop!...What earthquake chitters ootIn the Thistle’s oorie shape,What gleids o’ central fireIn its reid heids escape,And whatna coonter forcesIn growth and ingrowth graipIn an eternal clinchIn this ootcuissen formThat winna be outcast,But triumphs at the last(Owre a’ abies itsel’As fer as we can tell,Sin’ frae the Eden o’ the worldIlka man in turn is hurled,And ilka gairden rins to wasteThat was ever to his taste?)O keep the Thistle ’yont the wa’Owre which your skeletons you’ll thraw.I, in the Thistle’s land,As you[13]in Russia whereStruggle in giant formProceeds for evermair,In my sma’ measure ’boodAddress a similar task,And for a share o’ yourAppallin’ genius ask.Wha built in revelationsWhat maist men in reserves(And only men confound!)A better gift deservesFrae ane wha like hissel(As ant-heap unto mountain)Needs bigs his life uponThe everloupin’ fountainThat frae the Dark ascendsWhaur Life begins, Thocht ends—A better gift deservesThan thae wheen yatterin’ nerves!For mine’s the clearest insichtO’ man’s facilityFor constant self-deception,And hoo his mind can beBut as a floatin’ icebergThat hides aneth the seaIts bulk: and hoo frae depthsO’ an unfaddomed floodTensions o’ nerves ariseAnd humours o’ the blood—Keethin’s nane can traceTo their original place.Hoo mony men to mak’ a manIt tak’s he kens wha kens Life’s plan.But there are flegsome deepsWhaur the soul o’ Scotland sleepsThat I to bottom needTo wauk Guid kens what deid,Play at stertle-a-stobie,Wi’ nation’s dust for hobby,Or wi’ God’s sel’ commerceFor the makin’ o’ a verse.“Melville, sea-compelling man,Before whose wand LeviathanRose hoary-white upon the Deep,”[14]What thou hast sown I fain ’ud reapO’ knowledge ’yont the human mindIn keepin’ wi’ oor Scottish kind,And, thanks to thee, may aiblins reachTo what this Russian has to teach,Closer than ony ither Scot,Closer to me than my ain thocht,Closer than my ain braith to me,As close as to the DeityApproachable in whom appearsThis Christ o’ the neist thoosand years.As frae your baggit wifeYou turned whenever able,And often when you werena,Unto the gamin’ table,And opened wide to ruinYour benmaist hert, aye brewin’A horror o’ whateverSeemed likely to deliverYou frae the senseless strifeIn which alane is life,—As Burns in EdinburghBreenged arse-owre-heid thoro’A’itcould be the spur o’To pleuch his sauted furrow,And turned frae a’ men honourTo what could only scunnerWha thinks that common-senseCan e’er be but a fenceTo keep a soul worth ha’enFrae what it s’ud be daein’—Sae I in turn maun gieMy soul to misery,Daidle diseaseUpon my knees,And welcome madnessWi’ exceedin’ gladness—Aye, open wide my hertTo a’ the thistle’s smert.And a’ the hopes o’ menSall be like wiles thenTo gar my soul betrayIts only richtfu’ way,Or as a couthie wifeThat seeks nae mair frae lifeThan domesticityE’en wi’ the likes o’ me—As gin I could be carin’For her or for her bairnWhen on my road I’m farin’—O I can spend a nichtIn ony man’s DelichtOr wi’ ony wumman born—But aye be aff the morn!In a’ the inklin’s cryptic,Then, o’ an epileptic,I ha’e been stood in youAnd droukit in their grueTill I can see richt throughIlk weakness o’ my frameAnd ilka dernin’ shame,And can employ the sameTo jouk the curse o’ fame,Lowsed frae the dominionO’ popular opinion,And risen at last abuneThe thistle like a muneThat looks serenely doonOn what queer things there areIn an inferior starThat couldna be, or see,Themsel’s, except in me.Wi’ burnt-oot hert and poxy faceI sall illumine a’ the place,And there is ne’er a fount o’ graceThat isna in a similar case.Let a’ the thistle’s growthBe as a process, then,My spirit’s gane richt through,And needna threid again,Tho’ in it sall be haud’nFor aye the feck o’ menWha’s queer contortions thereAs memories I ken,As memories o’ my ainO’ mony an ancient pain.But sin’ wha’ll e’er wun freeMaun tak’ like coorse to me,A fillip I wad gi’eTheir eccentricity,And leave the lave to dreeTheir weirdless destiny.It’s no’ withoot regretThat I maun follow yetThe road that led me pastHumanity sae fast,Yet scarce can gi’e a fateThat is at last mair fitTo them wha tak’ that gaitThan theirs wha winna ha’e’t,Seein’ that nae man can getBy ony airt or wile,A destiny quite worth whileAs fer as he can tell—Or even you yoursel’!And O! I canna tholeAye yabblin’ o’ my soul,And fain I wad be freeO’ my eternal me,Nor fare mysel’ alane—Withoot that tae be gane,And this, I ha’e nae doot,This road’ll bring aboot.The munelicht that owre clear definesThe thistle’s shrill cantankerous linesE’en noo whiles insubstantialisesIts grisly form and ’stead devisesA maze o’ licht, a siller-frame,As ’twere God’s dream frae which it came,Ne’er into bein’ coorsened yet,The essence lowin’ pure in it,As tho’ the fire owrecam’ the clay,And left its wraith in endless day.These are the moments when a’ senseLike mist is vanished and intense,Magic emerges frae the denseBody o’ bein’ and beeks immenseAs, like a ghinn oot o’ a bottle,Daith rises frae’s when oor lives crottle.These are the moments when my sangClears its white feet frae oot amangMy broken thocht, and moves as freeAs souls frae bodies when they dee.There’s naething left o’ me ava’Save a’ I’d hoped micht whiles befa’.Sic sang to men is little worth.It has nae message for the earth.Men see their warld turned tapsalteerie,Drookit in a licht owre eerie,Or sent birlin’ like a peerie—Syne it turns a’ they’ve kent till thenTo shapes they can nae langer ken.Men canna look on nakit licht.It flings them back wi’ darkened sicht,And een that canna look at it,Maun draw earth closer roond them yetOr, their sicht tint, find nocht insteadThat answers to their waefu’ need.And yet this essence frae the clayIn dooble form aye braks away,For, in addition to the licht,There is an e’er-increasin’ nicht,A nicht that is the bigger, andGangs roond licht like an airn bandThat noo and then mair tichtly grips,And snuffs it in a black eclipse,But rings it maistly as a broughThe mune, till it’s juist bricht enough—O wull I never lowse a lichtI canna dowse again in spite,Or dull to haud within my sicht?The thistle canna vanish quite.Inside a’ licht its shape maun glint,A spirit wi’ a skeleton in’tThe world, the flesh, ’ll bide in usAs in the fire the unburnt buss,Or as frae sire to son we gangAnd coontless corpses in us thrang.And e’en the glory that descendsI kenna whence onmedepends,And shapes itsel’ to what is leftWhaur I o’ me ha’e me bereft,And still the form is mine, altho’A force to which I ne’er could growIs movin’ in’t as ’twere a seaThat lang syne drooned the last o’ me—That drooned afore the warld beganA’ that could ever come frae Man.And as at sicna times am I,I wad ha’e Scotland to my eyeUntil I saw a timeless flameTak’ Auchtermuchty for a name,And kent that Ecclefechan stoodAs pairt o’ an eternal mood.Ahint the glory comes the nichtAs Maori to London’s ruins,And I’m amused to see the plichtO’ Licht as’t in the black tide droons,Yet even in the brain o’ ChaosFor Scotland I wad hain a place,And let Tighnabruaich stillBe pairt and paircel o’ its will,And Culloden, black as Hell,A knowledge it has o’ itsel’.Thou, Dostoevski, understood,Wha had your ain land in your bluid,And into it as in a mouldThe passion o’ your bein’ rolled,Inherited in turn frae HeavenOr sources fer abune it even.Sae God retracts in endless stageThrough angel, devil, age on age,Until at last his infinite natur’Walks on earth a human cratur’(Or less than human as to my eenThe people are in Aiberdeen);Sae man returns in endless growthTill God in him again has scouth.For sic a loup towards wisdom’s croonHoo fer a man maun base him doon,Hoo plunge aboot in Chaos ereHe finds his needfu’ fittin’ there,The matrix oot o’ which sublimeSerenity sall soar in time!Ha’e I the cruelty I need,Contempt and syne contempt o’ that,And still contempt in endless meedThat I may never yet be caughtIn ony satisfaction, orBird-lime that winna let me soar?Is Scotland big enough to beA symbol o’ that force in me,In wha’s divine inebrietyA sicht abune contempt I’ll see?For a’ that’s Scottish is in me,As a’ things Russian were in thee,And I in turn ’ud be an actionTo pit in a concrete abstractionMy country’s contrair qualities,And mak’ a unity o’ theseTill my love owre its history dwells,As owretone to a peal o’ bells.And in this heicher stratosphereAs bairn at giant at thee I peer....O Jean, in whom my spirit sees,Clearer than through whisky or disease,Its dernin’ nature, wad the searchin’ lichtOor union raises poor’d owre me the nicht.I’m faced wi’ aspects o’ mysel’At last wha’s portent nocht can tell,Save that sheer licht o’ life that when we’re jointLoups through me like a fire a’ else t’ aroint.Clear my lourd flesh, and let me moveIn the peculiar licht o’ love,As aiblins in Eternity men mayWhen their swack souls nae mair are clogged wi’ clay.Be thou the licht in which I standEntire, in thistle-shape, as planned,And no’ hauf-hidden and hauf-seen as hereIn munelicht, whisky, and in fleshly fear,In fear to look owre closely atThe grisly form in which I’m caught,In sic a reelin’ and imperfect lichtSprung frae incongruous elements the nicht!But wer’t by thou they were shone on,Then wad I ha’e nae dreid to conThe ugsome problems shapin’ in my soul,Or gin I hed—certes, nae fear you’d thole!Be in this fibre like an eye,And ilka turn and twist descry,Hoo here a leaf, a spine, a rose—or asThe purpose o’ the poo’er that brings ’t to pass.Syne liberate me frae this tree,As wha had there imprisoned me,The end achieved—or show me at the leastMair meanin’ in’t, and hope o’ bein’ released.I tae ha’e heard Eternity drip water(Aye water, water!), drap by drapOn the a’e nerve, like lichtnin’, I’ve become,And heard God passin’ wi’ a bobby’s feetOotby in the lang coffin o’ the street—Seen stang by chitterin’ knottit stang loup ootUncrushed by th’ echoes o’ the thunderin’ boot,Till a’ the dizzy lint-white lines o’ torture madeA monstrous thistle in the space aboot me,A symbol o’ the puzzle o’ man’s soul—And in my agony been pridefu’ I could stillTine nae least quiver or twist, watch ilka pointLike a white-het bodkin ripe my inmaist hert,And aye wi’ clearer pain that brocht nae anodyne,But rose for ever to a fer crescendoLike eagles that ootsoar wi’ skinklan’ wingsThe thieveless sun they blin’—And pridefu’ stillThat ’yont the sherp wings o’ the eagles fleein’Aboot the dowless pole o’ Space,Like leafs aboot a thistle-shank, my bluidCould still thraw roses up—And up!O rootless thistle through the warld that’s pairt o’ you,Gin you’d withstand the agonies still to come,You maun send roots doon to the deeps unkent,Fer deeper than it’s possible for ocht to gang,Savin’ the human soul,Deeper than God himsel’ has knowledge o’,Whaur lichtnin’s canna probe that cleave the warld,Whaur only in the entire dark there’s founts o’ strengthEternity’s poisoned draps can never file,And muckle roots thicken, deef to bobbies’ feet.A mony-brainchin’ candelabra fillsThe lift and’s lowin’ wi’ the stars;The Octopus Creation is is wallopin’In coontless faddoms o’ a nameless sea.I am the candelabra, and burnMy endless candles to an Unkent God.I am the mind and meanin’ o’ the octopusThat thraws its empty airms through a’ th’ Inane.And a’ the bizzin’ suns ha’e biggedTheir kaims upon the surface o’ the sea.My lips may feast for ever, but my gutsKen naething o’ the Food o’ Gods.“Let there be Licht,” said God, and there wasA little: but He lacked the poo’erTo licht up mair than pairt o’ space at aince,And there is lots o’ darkness that’s the sameAs gin He’d never spoken—Mair darkness than there’s licht,And dwarfin’t to a candle-flame,A spalin’ candle that’ll sune gang oot.—Darkness comes closer to us than the licht,And is oor natural element. We peer oot frae’tLike cat’s een bleezin’ in a goustrous nicht(Whaur there is nocht to find but starsThat look like ither cats’ een),Like cat’s een, and there is nocht to findSavin’ we turn them in upon oorsels;Cats canna.Darkness is wi’ us a’ the time, and LichtBut veesits pairt o’ us, the wee-est pairtFrae time to time on a short day atween twa nichts.Nae licht is thrawn onthemby ony licht.Licht thraws nae licht upon itsel’;But in the darkness them wha’s eenNae fleetin’ lichts ha’e dazzled and deceivedFind qualities o’ licht, keener than ony licht,Keen and abidin’;That show the nicht unto itsel’,And syne the licht,That queer extension o’ the dark,That seems a separate and a different thing,And, seemin’ sae, has lang confused the dark,And set it at cross-purposes wi’ itsel’.O little LifeIn which Daith guises and deceives itsel’,Joy that mak’s Grief a Janus,Hope that is Despair’s fause-face,And Guid and Ill that are the same,Save as the chance licht fa’s!And yet the licht is there,Whether frae within or frae withoot.The conscious Dark can use it, dazzled nor deceived.The licht is there, and th’ instinct for it,Pairt o’ the Dark and o’ the need to guise,To deceive and be deceived,But let us then be undeceivedWhen we deceive,When we deceive oorsels.Let us enjoy deceit, this instinct in us.Licht cheenges naething,And gin there is a God wha made the lichtWe are adapted to receive,Hecheenged naething,And hesna kythed Hissel!Save in this licht that fa’s whaur the Auld Nicht was,Showin’ naething that the Darkness didna hide,And gin it shows a pairt o’ thatConfoondin’ mair than it confidesEv’n in that.The epileptic thistle twitches(A trick o’ wund or mune or een—or whisky).A brain laid bare,A nervous system,The skeleton wi’ which men labourAnd bring to life in Daith—I, risen frae the deid, ha’e seenMy deid man’s eunuch offspring.—The licht frae bare banes whitening evermair,Frae twitchin’ nerves thrawn aff,Frae nakit thocht,Works in the Darkness like a fell disease,A hungry acid and a cancer,Disease o’ Daith-in-Life and Life-in-Daith.O for a root in some untroubled soil,Some cauld soil ’yont this fevered warld,That ’ud draw darkness frae a virgin source,And send it slow and easefu’ through my veins,Release the tension o’ my grisly leafs,Withdraw my endless spikes,Move coonter to the force in me that haudsMe raxed and rigid and ridiculous—And let my roses drapLike punctured ba’s that at a FairFa’ frae the loupin’ jet!—Water again!...Omsk and the Calton turn again to dust,The suns and stars fizz out with little fuss,The bobby booms away and seems to bust,And leaves the world to darkness and to us.The circles of our hungry thoughtSwing savagely from pole to pole.Death and the Raven drift aboveThe graves of Sweeney’s body and soul.My name is Norval. On the Grampian HillsIt is forgotten, and deserves to be.So are the Grampian Hills and all the peopleWho ever heard of either them or me.What’s in a name? From pole to poleOur interlinked mentality spins.I know that you are Deosil, and supposeThat therefore I am Widdershins.Do you reverse? Shall us? Then let’s.Cyclone and Anti?—how absurd!She should know better at her age.Auntie’s an ass, upon my word.This is the sort of thing they teachThe Scottish children in the school.Poetry, patriotism, manners—No wonder I am such a fool....Hoo can I graipple wi’ the thistle syne,Be intricate as it and up to a’ its moves?A’ airts its sheenin’ points are loupin’ ’yont me,Quhile still the firmament it proves.And syne it’s like a wab in which the warldSquats like a spider, quhile the mune and meAre taigled in an endless corner o’tTyauvin’ fecklessly....The wan leafs shak’ atour us like the snaw.Here is the cavaburd in which Earth’s tint.There’s naebody but Oblivion and us,Puir gangrel buddies, waunderin’ hameless in’t.The stars are larochs o’ auld cottages,And a’ Time’s glen is fu’ o’ blinnin’ stew.Nae freen’ly lozen skimmers: and the wundRises and separates even me and you.[15]I ken nae Russian and you ken nae Scots.We canna tell oor voices frae the wund.The snaw is seekin’ everywhere: oor hertsAt last like roofless ingles it has f’und,
I’m fu’ o’ a stickit God.That’swhat’s the maitter wi’ me,Jean has stuck sic a fork in the wa’That I row in agonie.
I’m fu’ o’ a stickit God.
That’swhat’s the maitter wi’ me,
Jean has stuck sic a fork in the wa’
That I row in agonie.
Mary never let dab.Shewas a canny wumman.She hedna a gaw in Joseph at a’But, wow, this seecund comin’!...
Mary never let dab.
Shewas a canny wumman.
She hedna a gaw in Joseph at a’
But, wow, this seecund comin’!...
Narodbogonosets[10]are my folk tae,But in a sma’ way nooadays—A faitherly God wi’ a lang white beard,Or painted Jesus in a hazeO’ blue and gowd, a gird aboot his heidOr some sic thing. It’s been a sair come-doon,And the trade’s nocht to what it was.Unnatural practices are the cause.Baith bairns and Gods’ll be obsolete soon(The twaesome gang thegither), and forsoothScotland turn Eliot’s waste—the Land o’ Drouth.
Narodbogonosets[10]are my folk tae,
But in a sma’ way nooadays—
A faitherly God wi’ a lang white beard,
Or painted Jesus in a haze
O’ blue and gowd, a gird aboot his heid
Or some sic thing. It’s been a sair come-doon,
And the trade’s nocht to what it was.
Unnatural practices are the cause.
Baith bairns and Gods’ll be obsolete soon
(The twaesome gang thegither), and forsooth
Scotland turn Eliot’s waste—the Land o’ Drouth.
But even as the stane the builders rejec’Becomes the corner-stane, the time may beWhen Scotland sall find oot its destiny,And yield thevse-chelovek.[11]—At a’ events, owre Europe flaught atween,My whim (and mair than whim) it pleasesTo seek the haund o’ Russia as a freen’In workin’ oot mankind’s great synthesis....
But even as the stane the builders rejec’
Becomes the corner-stane, the time may be
When Scotland sall find oot its destiny,
And yield thevse-chelovek.[11]
—At a’ events, owre Europe flaught atween,
My whim (and mair than whim) it pleases
To seek the haund o’ Russia as a freen’
In workin’ oot mankind’s great synthesis....
Melville[12](a Scot) kent weel hoo Christ’sCorrupted into creeds malign,Begotten strife’s pernicious broodThat claims for patron Him Divine.(The Kirk in Scotland still I cryCrooks whaur it canna crucify!)
Melville[12](a Scot) kent weel hoo Christ’s
Corrupted into creeds malign,
Begotten strife’s pernicious brood
That claims for patron Him Divine.
(The Kirk in Scotland still I cry
Crooks whaur it canna crucify!)
Christ, bleedin’ like the thistle’s roses,He saw—as I in similar case—Maistly, in beauty and in fear,’Ud “paralyse the nobler race,Smite or suspend, perplex, deter,And, tortured, prove the torturer.”
Christ, bleedin’ like the thistle’s roses,
He saw—as I in similar case—
Maistly, in beauty and in fear,
’Ud “paralyse the nobler race,
Smite or suspend, perplex, deter,
And, tortured, prove the torturer.”
And never mair a Scot sall tryst,Abies on Calvary, wi’ Christ,Unless, mebbe, a poem like this’llExteriorise things in a thistle,And gi’e him in this form forlornWhat Melville socht in vain frae Hawthorne....
And never mair a Scot sall tryst,
Abies on Calvary, wi’ Christ,
Unless, mebbe, a poem like this’ll
Exteriorise things in a thistle,
And gi’e him in this form forlorn
What Melville socht in vain frae Hawthorne....
Spirit o’ strife, destroy in turnSyne this fule’s Paradise, syne that;In thee’s in Calvaries that owrecomeDaith efter Daith let me be caught,
Spirit o’ strife, destroy in turn
Syne this fule’s Paradise, syne that;
In thee’s in Calvaries that owrecome
Daith efter Daith let me be caught,
Or in the human form that haudsUs in its ignominious thrall,While on brute needs oor souls attendUntil disease and daith end all,
Or in the human form that hauds
Us in its ignominious thrall,
While on brute needs oor souls attend
Until disease and daith end all,
Or in the grey deluded brain,Reflectin’ in anither fieldThe torments o’ its parent fleshIn thocht-preventin’ thocht concealed,
Or in the grey deluded brain,
Reflectin’ in anither field
The torments o’ its parent flesh
In thocht-preventin’ thocht concealed,
Or still in curst impossible mould,Last thistle-shape men think to tak’,The soul, frae flesh and thocht set free,On Heaven’s strait if unseen rack.
Or still in curst impossible mould,
Last thistle-shape men think to tak’,
The soul, frae flesh and thocht set free,
On Heaven’s strait if unseen rack.
There may be heicher forms in whichWe can nae mair oor plicht define,Because the agonies involved’ll bring us their ain anodyne.
There may be heicher forms in which
We can nae mair oor plicht define,
Because the agonies involved
’ll bring us their ain anodyne.
Yet still we suffer and still sall,Altho’, puir fules, we mayna kentAs lang as like the thistle weIn coil and in recoil are pent.
Yet still we suffer and still sall,
Altho’, puir fules, we mayna kent
As lang as like the thistle we
In coil and in recoil are pent.
And ferrer than mankind can lookGhast shapes that free but to transfixTwine rose-crooned in their agonies,And strive agen the endless pricks.
And ferrer than mankind can look
Ghast shapes that free but to transfix
Twine rose-crooned in their agonies,
And strive agen the endless pricks.
The dooble play that bigs and braksIn endless victory and defeatIs in your spikes and roses shown,And a’ my soul is haggar’d wi’t....
The dooble play that bigs and braks
In endless victory and defeat
Is in your spikes and roses shown,
And a’ my soul is haggar’d wi’t....
Be like the thistle, O my soul,Heedless o’ praise and quick to tak’ affront,And growin’ like a mockery o’ a’Maist life can want or thole,And manifest forevermairContempt o’ ilka goal.
Be like the thistle, O my soul,
Heedless o’ praise and quick to tak’ affront,
And growin’ like a mockery o’ a’
Maist life can want or thole,
And manifest forevermair
Contempt o’ ilka goal.
O’ ilka goal—save ane alane;To be yoursel’, whatever that may be,And as contemptuous o’ that,Kennin’ nocht’s worth the ha’en,But certainty that nocht can be,And hoo that certainty to gain.
O’ ilka goal—save ane alane;
To be yoursel’, whatever that may be,
And as contemptuous o’ that,
Kennin’ nocht’s worth the ha’en,
But certainty that nocht can be,
And hoo that certainty to gain.
For this you still maun grow and gropeIn the abyss wi’ ever-deepenin’ rootsThat croon your scunner wi’ the grueO’ hopeless hope—And gin the abyss is bottomless,Your growth’ll never stop!...
For this you still maun grow and grope
In the abyss wi’ ever-deepenin’ roots
That croon your scunner wi’ the grue
O’ hopeless hope
—And gin the abyss is bottomless,
Your growth’ll never stop!...
What earthquake chitters ootIn the Thistle’s oorie shape,What gleids o’ central fireIn its reid heids escape,And whatna coonter forcesIn growth and ingrowth graipIn an eternal clinchIn this ootcuissen formThat winna be outcast,But triumphs at the last(Owre a’ abies itsel’As fer as we can tell,Sin’ frae the Eden o’ the worldIlka man in turn is hurled,And ilka gairden rins to wasteThat was ever to his taste?)
What earthquake chitters oot
In the Thistle’s oorie shape,
What gleids o’ central fire
In its reid heids escape,
And whatna coonter forces
In growth and ingrowth graip
In an eternal clinch
In this ootcuissen form
That winna be outcast,
But triumphs at the last
(Owre a’ abies itsel’
As fer as we can tell,
Sin’ frae the Eden o’ the world
Ilka man in turn is hurled,
And ilka gairden rins to waste
That was ever to his taste?)
O keep the Thistle ’yont the wa’Owre which your skeletons you’ll thraw.
O keep the Thistle ’yont the wa’
Owre which your skeletons you’ll thraw.
I, in the Thistle’s land,As you[13]in Russia whereStruggle in giant formProceeds for evermair,In my sma’ measure ’boodAddress a similar task,And for a share o’ yourAppallin’ genius ask.
I, in the Thistle’s land,
As you[13]in Russia where
Struggle in giant form
Proceeds for evermair,
In my sma’ measure ’bood
Address a similar task,
And for a share o’ your
Appallin’ genius ask.
Wha built in revelationsWhat maist men in reserves(And only men confound!)A better gift deservesFrae ane wha like hissel(As ant-heap unto mountain)Needs bigs his life uponThe everloupin’ fountainThat frae the Dark ascendsWhaur Life begins, Thocht ends—A better gift deservesThan thae wheen yatterin’ nerves!
Wha built in revelations
What maist men in reserves
(And only men confound!)
A better gift deserves
Frae ane wha like hissel
(As ant-heap unto mountain)
Needs bigs his life upon
The everloupin’ fountain
That frae the Dark ascends
Whaur Life begins, Thocht ends
—A better gift deserves
Than thae wheen yatterin’ nerves!
For mine’s the clearest insichtO’ man’s facilityFor constant self-deception,And hoo his mind can beBut as a floatin’ icebergThat hides aneth the seaIts bulk: and hoo frae depthsO’ an unfaddomed floodTensions o’ nerves ariseAnd humours o’ the blood—Keethin’s nane can traceTo their original place.
For mine’s the clearest insicht
O’ man’s facility
For constant self-deception,
And hoo his mind can be
But as a floatin’ iceberg
That hides aneth the sea
Its bulk: and hoo frae depths
O’ an unfaddomed flood
Tensions o’ nerves arise
And humours o’ the blood
—Keethin’s nane can trace
To their original place.
Hoo mony men to mak’ a manIt tak’s he kens wha kens Life’s plan.
Hoo mony men to mak’ a man
It tak’s he kens wha kens Life’s plan.
But there are flegsome deepsWhaur the soul o’ Scotland sleepsThat I to bottom needTo wauk Guid kens what deid,Play at stertle-a-stobie,Wi’ nation’s dust for hobby,Or wi’ God’s sel’ commerceFor the makin’ o’ a verse.
But there are flegsome deeps
Whaur the soul o’ Scotland sleeps
That I to bottom need
To wauk Guid kens what deid,
Play at stertle-a-stobie,
Wi’ nation’s dust for hobby,
Or wi’ God’s sel’ commerce
For the makin’ o’ a verse.
“Melville, sea-compelling man,Before whose wand LeviathanRose hoary-white upon the Deep,”[14]What thou hast sown I fain ’ud reapO’ knowledge ’yont the human mindIn keepin’ wi’ oor Scottish kind,And, thanks to thee, may aiblins reachTo what this Russian has to teach,Closer than ony ither Scot,Closer to me than my ain thocht,Closer than my ain braith to me,As close as to the DeityApproachable in whom appearsThis Christ o’ the neist thoosand years.
“Melville, sea-compelling man,
Before whose wand Leviathan
Rose hoary-white upon the Deep,”[14]
What thou hast sown I fain ’ud reap
O’ knowledge ’yont the human mind
In keepin’ wi’ oor Scottish kind,
And, thanks to thee, may aiblins reach
To what this Russian has to teach,
Closer than ony ither Scot,
Closer to me than my ain thocht,
Closer than my ain braith to me,
As close as to the Deity
Approachable in whom appears
This Christ o’ the neist thoosand years.
As frae your baggit wifeYou turned whenever able,And often when you werena,Unto the gamin’ table,And opened wide to ruinYour benmaist hert, aye brewin’A horror o’ whateverSeemed likely to deliverYou frae the senseless strifeIn which alane is life,—As Burns in EdinburghBreenged arse-owre-heid thoro’A’itcould be the spur o’To pleuch his sauted furrow,And turned frae a’ men honourTo what could only scunnerWha thinks that common-senseCan e’er be but a fenceTo keep a soul worth ha’enFrae what it s’ud be daein’—Sae I in turn maun gieMy soul to misery,Daidle diseaseUpon my knees,And welcome madnessWi’ exceedin’ gladness—Aye, open wide my hertTo a’ the thistle’s smert.
As frae your baggit wife
You turned whenever able,
And often when you werena,
Unto the gamin’ table,
And opened wide to ruin
Your benmaist hert, aye brewin’
A horror o’ whatever
Seemed likely to deliver
You frae the senseless strife
In which alane is life,
—As Burns in Edinburgh
Breenged arse-owre-heid thoro’
A’itcould be the spur o’
To pleuch his sauted furrow,
And turned frae a’ men honour
To what could only scunner
Wha thinks that common-sense
Can e’er be but a fence
To keep a soul worth ha’en
Frae what it s’ud be daein’
—Sae I in turn maun gie
My soul to misery,
Daidle disease
Upon my knees,
And welcome madness
Wi’ exceedin’ gladness
—Aye, open wide my hert
To a’ the thistle’s smert.
And a’ the hopes o’ menSall be like wiles thenTo gar my soul betrayIts only richtfu’ way,Or as a couthie wifeThat seeks nae mair frae lifeThan domesticityE’en wi’ the likes o’ me—As gin I could be carin’For her or for her bairnWhen on my road I’m farin’—O I can spend a nichtIn ony man’s DelichtOr wi’ ony wumman born—But aye be aff the morn!
And a’ the hopes o’ men
Sall be like wiles then
To gar my soul betray
Its only richtfu’ way,
Or as a couthie wife
That seeks nae mair frae life
Than domesticity
E’en wi’ the likes o’ me—
As gin I could be carin’
For her or for her bairn
When on my road I’m farin’
—O I can spend a nicht
In ony man’s Delicht
Or wi’ ony wumman born
—But aye be aff the morn!
In a’ the inklin’s cryptic,Then, o’ an epileptic,I ha’e been stood in youAnd droukit in their grueTill I can see richt throughIlk weakness o’ my frameAnd ilka dernin’ shame,And can employ the sameTo jouk the curse o’ fame,Lowsed frae the dominionO’ popular opinion,And risen at last abuneThe thistle like a muneThat looks serenely doonOn what queer things there areIn an inferior starThat couldna be, or see,Themsel’s, except in me.
In a’ the inklin’s cryptic,
Then, o’ an epileptic,
I ha’e been stood in you
And droukit in their grue
Till I can see richt through
Ilk weakness o’ my frame
And ilka dernin’ shame,
And can employ the same
To jouk the curse o’ fame,
Lowsed frae the dominion
O’ popular opinion,
And risen at last abune
The thistle like a mune
That looks serenely doon
On what queer things there are
In an inferior star
That couldna be, or see,
Themsel’s, except in me.
Wi’ burnt-oot hert and poxy faceI sall illumine a’ the place,And there is ne’er a fount o’ graceThat isna in a similar case.
Wi’ burnt-oot hert and poxy face
I sall illumine a’ the place,
And there is ne’er a fount o’ grace
That isna in a similar case.
Let a’ the thistle’s growthBe as a process, then,My spirit’s gane richt through,And needna threid again,Tho’ in it sall be haud’nFor aye the feck o’ menWha’s queer contortions thereAs memories I ken,As memories o’ my ainO’ mony an ancient pain.But sin’ wha’ll e’er wun freeMaun tak’ like coorse to me,A fillip I wad gi’eTheir eccentricity,And leave the lave to dreeTheir weirdless destiny.
Let a’ the thistle’s growth
Be as a process, then,
My spirit’s gane richt through,
And needna threid again,
Tho’ in it sall be haud’n
For aye the feck o’ men
Wha’s queer contortions there
As memories I ken,
As memories o’ my ain
O’ mony an ancient pain.
But sin’ wha’ll e’er wun free
Maun tak’ like coorse to me,
A fillip I wad gi’e
Their eccentricity,
And leave the lave to dree
Their weirdless destiny.
It’s no’ withoot regretThat I maun follow yetThe road that led me pastHumanity sae fast,Yet scarce can gi’e a fateThat is at last mair fitTo them wha tak’ that gaitThan theirs wha winna ha’e’t,Seein’ that nae man can getBy ony airt or wile,A destiny quite worth whileAs fer as he can tell—Or even you yoursel’!
It’s no’ withoot regret
That I maun follow yet
The road that led me past
Humanity sae fast,
Yet scarce can gi’e a fate
That is at last mair fit
To them wha tak’ that gait
Than theirs wha winna ha’e’t,
Seein’ that nae man can get
By ony airt or wile,
A destiny quite worth while
As fer as he can tell
—Or even you yoursel’!
And O! I canna tholeAye yabblin’ o’ my soul,And fain I wad be freeO’ my eternal me,Nor fare mysel’ alane—Withoot that tae be gane,And this, I ha’e nae doot,This road’ll bring aboot.
And O! I canna thole
Aye yabblin’ o’ my soul,
And fain I wad be free
O’ my eternal me,
Nor fare mysel’ alane
—Withoot that tae be gane,
And this, I ha’e nae doot,
This road’ll bring aboot.
The munelicht that owre clear definesThe thistle’s shrill cantankerous linesE’en noo whiles insubstantialisesIts grisly form and ’stead devisesA maze o’ licht, a siller-frame,As ’twere God’s dream frae which it came,Ne’er into bein’ coorsened yet,The essence lowin’ pure in it,As tho’ the fire owrecam’ the clay,And left its wraith in endless day.
The munelicht that owre clear defines
The thistle’s shrill cantankerous lines
E’en noo whiles insubstantialises
Its grisly form and ’stead devises
A maze o’ licht, a siller-frame,
As ’twere God’s dream frae which it came,
Ne’er into bein’ coorsened yet,
The essence lowin’ pure in it,
As tho’ the fire owrecam’ the clay,
And left its wraith in endless day.
These are the moments when a’ senseLike mist is vanished and intense,Magic emerges frae the denseBody o’ bein’ and beeks immenseAs, like a ghinn oot o’ a bottle,Daith rises frae’s when oor lives crottle.
These are the moments when a’ sense
Like mist is vanished and intense,
Magic emerges frae the dense
Body o’ bein’ and beeks immense
As, like a ghinn oot o’ a bottle,
Daith rises frae’s when oor lives crottle.
These are the moments when my sangClears its white feet frae oot amangMy broken thocht, and moves as freeAs souls frae bodies when they dee.There’s naething left o’ me ava’Save a’ I’d hoped micht whiles befa’.
These are the moments when my sang
Clears its white feet frae oot amang
My broken thocht, and moves as free
As souls frae bodies when they dee.
There’s naething left o’ me ava’
Save a’ I’d hoped micht whiles befa’.
Sic sang to men is little worth.It has nae message for the earth.Men see their warld turned tapsalteerie,Drookit in a licht owre eerie,Or sent birlin’ like a peerie—Syne it turns a’ they’ve kent till thenTo shapes they can nae langer ken.
Sic sang to men is little worth.
It has nae message for the earth.
Men see their warld turned tapsalteerie,
Drookit in a licht owre eerie,
Or sent birlin’ like a peerie—
Syne it turns a’ they’ve kent till then
To shapes they can nae langer ken.
Men canna look on nakit licht.It flings them back wi’ darkened sicht,And een that canna look at it,Maun draw earth closer roond them yetOr, their sicht tint, find nocht insteadThat answers to their waefu’ need.
Men canna look on nakit licht.
It flings them back wi’ darkened sicht,
And een that canna look at it,
Maun draw earth closer roond them yet
Or, their sicht tint, find nocht instead
That answers to their waefu’ need.
And yet this essence frae the clayIn dooble form aye braks away,For, in addition to the licht,There is an e’er-increasin’ nicht,A nicht that is the bigger, andGangs roond licht like an airn bandThat noo and then mair tichtly grips,And snuffs it in a black eclipse,But rings it maistly as a broughThe mune, till it’s juist bricht enough—O wull I never lowse a lichtI canna dowse again in spite,Or dull to haud within my sicht?
And yet this essence frae the clay
In dooble form aye braks away,
For, in addition to the licht,
There is an e’er-increasin’ nicht,
A nicht that is the bigger, and
Gangs roond licht like an airn band
That noo and then mair tichtly grips,
And snuffs it in a black eclipse,
But rings it maistly as a brough
The mune, till it’s juist bricht enough—
O wull I never lowse a licht
I canna dowse again in spite,
Or dull to haud within my sicht?
The thistle canna vanish quite.Inside a’ licht its shape maun glint,A spirit wi’ a skeleton in’t
The thistle canna vanish quite.
Inside a’ licht its shape maun glint,
A spirit wi’ a skeleton in’t
The world, the flesh, ’ll bide in usAs in the fire the unburnt buss,Or as frae sire to son we gangAnd coontless corpses in us thrang.
The world, the flesh, ’ll bide in us
As in the fire the unburnt buss,
Or as frae sire to son we gang
And coontless corpses in us thrang.
And e’en the glory that descendsI kenna whence onmedepends,And shapes itsel’ to what is leftWhaur I o’ me ha’e me bereft,And still the form is mine, altho’A force to which I ne’er could growIs movin’ in’t as ’twere a seaThat lang syne drooned the last o’ me—That drooned afore the warld beganA’ that could ever come frae Man.
And e’en the glory that descends
I kenna whence onmedepends,
And shapes itsel’ to what is left
Whaur I o’ me ha’e me bereft,
And still the form is mine, altho’
A force to which I ne’er could grow
Is movin’ in’t as ’twere a sea
That lang syne drooned the last o’ me
—That drooned afore the warld began
A’ that could ever come frae Man.
And as at sicna times am I,I wad ha’e Scotland to my eyeUntil I saw a timeless flameTak’ Auchtermuchty for a name,And kent that Ecclefechan stoodAs pairt o’ an eternal mood.
And as at sicna times am I,
I wad ha’e Scotland to my eye
Until I saw a timeless flame
Tak’ Auchtermuchty for a name,
And kent that Ecclefechan stood
As pairt o’ an eternal mood.
Ahint the glory comes the nichtAs Maori to London’s ruins,And I’m amused to see the plichtO’ Licht as’t in the black tide droons,Yet even in the brain o’ ChaosFor Scotland I wad hain a place,And let Tighnabruaich stillBe pairt and paircel o’ its will,And Culloden, black as Hell,A knowledge it has o’ itsel’.
Ahint the glory comes the nicht
As Maori to London’s ruins,
And I’m amused to see the plicht
O’ Licht as’t in the black tide droons,
Yet even in the brain o’ Chaos
For Scotland I wad hain a place,
And let Tighnabruaich still
Be pairt and paircel o’ its will,
And Culloden, black as Hell,
A knowledge it has o’ itsel’.
Thou, Dostoevski, understood,Wha had your ain land in your bluid,And into it as in a mouldThe passion o’ your bein’ rolled,Inherited in turn frae HeavenOr sources fer abune it even.
Thou, Dostoevski, understood,
Wha had your ain land in your bluid,
And into it as in a mould
The passion o’ your bein’ rolled,
Inherited in turn frae Heaven
Or sources fer abune it even.
Sae God retracts in endless stageThrough angel, devil, age on age,Until at last his infinite natur’Walks on earth a human cratur’(Or less than human as to my eenThe people are in Aiberdeen);Sae man returns in endless growthTill God in him again has scouth.
Sae God retracts in endless stage
Through angel, devil, age on age,
Until at last his infinite natur’
Walks on earth a human cratur’
(Or less than human as to my een
The people are in Aiberdeen);
Sae man returns in endless growth
Till God in him again has scouth.
For sic a loup towards wisdom’s croonHoo fer a man maun base him doon,Hoo plunge aboot in Chaos ereHe finds his needfu’ fittin’ there,The matrix oot o’ which sublimeSerenity sall soar in time!
For sic a loup towards wisdom’s croon
Hoo fer a man maun base him doon,
Hoo plunge aboot in Chaos ere
He finds his needfu’ fittin’ there,
The matrix oot o’ which sublime
Serenity sall soar in time!
Ha’e I the cruelty I need,Contempt and syne contempt o’ that,And still contempt in endless meedThat I may never yet be caughtIn ony satisfaction, orBird-lime that winna let me soar?
Ha’e I the cruelty I need,
Contempt and syne contempt o’ that,
And still contempt in endless meed
That I may never yet be caught
In ony satisfaction, or
Bird-lime that winna let me soar?
Is Scotland big enough to beA symbol o’ that force in me,In wha’s divine inebrietyA sicht abune contempt I’ll see?
Is Scotland big enough to be
A symbol o’ that force in me,
In wha’s divine inebriety
A sicht abune contempt I’ll see?
For a’ that’s Scottish is in me,As a’ things Russian were in thee,And I in turn ’ud be an actionTo pit in a concrete abstractionMy country’s contrair qualities,And mak’ a unity o’ theseTill my love owre its history dwells,As owretone to a peal o’ bells.
For a’ that’s Scottish is in me,
As a’ things Russian were in thee,
And I in turn ’ud be an action
To pit in a concrete abstraction
My country’s contrair qualities,
And mak’ a unity o’ these
Till my love owre its history dwells,
As owretone to a peal o’ bells.
And in this heicher stratosphereAs bairn at giant at thee I peer....
And in this heicher stratosphere
As bairn at giant at thee I peer....
O Jean, in whom my spirit sees,Clearer than through whisky or disease,Its dernin’ nature, wad the searchin’ lichtOor union raises poor’d owre me the nicht.
O Jean, in whom my spirit sees,
Clearer than through whisky or disease,
Its dernin’ nature, wad the searchin’ licht
Oor union raises poor’d owre me the nicht.
I’m faced wi’ aspects o’ mysel’At last wha’s portent nocht can tell,Save that sheer licht o’ life that when we’re jointLoups through me like a fire a’ else t’ aroint.
I’m faced wi’ aspects o’ mysel’
At last wha’s portent nocht can tell,
Save that sheer licht o’ life that when we’re joint
Loups through me like a fire a’ else t’ aroint.
Clear my lourd flesh, and let me moveIn the peculiar licht o’ love,As aiblins in Eternity men mayWhen their swack souls nae mair are clogged wi’ clay.
Clear my lourd flesh, and let me move
In the peculiar licht o’ love,
As aiblins in Eternity men may
When their swack souls nae mair are clogged wi’ clay.
Be thou the licht in which I standEntire, in thistle-shape, as planned,And no’ hauf-hidden and hauf-seen as hereIn munelicht, whisky, and in fleshly fear,
Be thou the licht in which I stand
Entire, in thistle-shape, as planned,
And no’ hauf-hidden and hauf-seen as here
In munelicht, whisky, and in fleshly fear,
In fear to look owre closely atThe grisly form in which I’m caught,In sic a reelin’ and imperfect lichtSprung frae incongruous elements the nicht!
In fear to look owre closely at
The grisly form in which I’m caught,
In sic a reelin’ and imperfect licht
Sprung frae incongruous elements the nicht!
But wer’t by thou they were shone on,Then wad I ha’e nae dreid to conThe ugsome problems shapin’ in my soul,Or gin I hed—certes, nae fear you’d thole!
But wer’t by thou they were shone on,
Then wad I ha’e nae dreid to con
The ugsome problems shapin’ in my soul,
Or gin I hed—certes, nae fear you’d thole!
Be in this fibre like an eye,And ilka turn and twist descry,Hoo here a leaf, a spine, a rose—or asThe purpose o’ the poo’er that brings ’t to pass.
Be in this fibre like an eye,
And ilka turn and twist descry,
Hoo here a leaf, a spine, a rose—or as
The purpose o’ the poo’er that brings ’t to pass.
Syne liberate me frae this tree,As wha had there imprisoned me,The end achieved—or show me at the leastMair meanin’ in’t, and hope o’ bein’ released.
Syne liberate me frae this tree,
As wha had there imprisoned me,
The end achieved—or show me at the least
Mair meanin’ in’t, and hope o’ bein’ released.
I tae ha’e heard Eternity drip water(Aye water, water!), drap by drapOn the a’e nerve, like lichtnin’, I’ve become,And heard God passin’ wi’ a bobby’s feetOotby in the lang coffin o’ the street—Seen stang by chitterin’ knottit stang loup ootUncrushed by th’ echoes o’ the thunderin’ boot,Till a’ the dizzy lint-white lines o’ torture madeA monstrous thistle in the space aboot me,A symbol o’ the puzzle o’ man’s soul—And in my agony been pridefu’ I could stillTine nae least quiver or twist, watch ilka pointLike a white-het bodkin ripe my inmaist hert,And aye wi’ clearer pain that brocht nae anodyne,But rose for ever to a fer crescendoLike eagles that ootsoar wi’ skinklan’ wingsThe thieveless sun they blin’—And pridefu’ stillThat ’yont the sherp wings o’ the eagles fleein’Aboot the dowless pole o’ Space,Like leafs aboot a thistle-shank, my bluidCould still thraw roses up—And up!
I tae ha’e heard Eternity drip water
(Aye water, water!), drap by drap
On the a’e nerve, like lichtnin’, I’ve become,
And heard God passin’ wi’ a bobby’s feet
Ootby in the lang coffin o’ the street
—Seen stang by chitterin’ knottit stang loup oot
Uncrushed by th’ echoes o’ the thunderin’ boot,
Till a’ the dizzy lint-white lines o’ torture made
A monstrous thistle in the space aboot me,
A symbol o’ the puzzle o’ man’s soul
—And in my agony been pridefu’ I could still
Tine nae least quiver or twist, watch ilka point
Like a white-het bodkin ripe my inmaist hert,
And aye wi’ clearer pain that brocht nae anodyne,
But rose for ever to a fer crescendo
Like eagles that ootsoar wi’ skinklan’ wings
The thieveless sun they blin’
—And pridefu’ still
That ’yont the sherp wings o’ the eagles fleein’
Aboot the dowless pole o’ Space,
Like leafs aboot a thistle-shank, my bluid
Could still thraw roses up
—And up!
O rootless thistle through the warld that’s pairt o’ you,Gin you’d withstand the agonies still to come,You maun send roots doon to the deeps unkent,Fer deeper than it’s possible for ocht to gang,Savin’ the human soul,Deeper than God himsel’ has knowledge o’,Whaur lichtnin’s canna probe that cleave the warld,Whaur only in the entire dark there’s founts o’ strengthEternity’s poisoned draps can never file,And muckle roots thicken, deef to bobbies’ feet.
O rootless thistle through the warld that’s pairt o’ you,
Gin you’d withstand the agonies still to come,
You maun send roots doon to the deeps unkent,
Fer deeper than it’s possible for ocht to gang,
Savin’ the human soul,
Deeper than God himsel’ has knowledge o’,
Whaur lichtnin’s canna probe that cleave the warld,
Whaur only in the entire dark there’s founts o’ strength
Eternity’s poisoned draps can never file,
And muckle roots thicken, deef to bobbies’ feet.
A mony-brainchin’ candelabra fillsThe lift and’s lowin’ wi’ the stars;The Octopus Creation is is wallopin’In coontless faddoms o’ a nameless sea.I am the candelabra, and burnMy endless candles to an Unkent God.I am the mind and meanin’ o’ the octopusThat thraws its empty airms through a’ th’ Inane.
A mony-brainchin’ candelabra fills
The lift and’s lowin’ wi’ the stars;
The Octopus Creation is is wallopin’
In coontless faddoms o’ a nameless sea.
I am the candelabra, and burn
My endless candles to an Unkent God.
I am the mind and meanin’ o’ the octopus
That thraws its empty airms through a’ th’ Inane.
And a’ the bizzin’ suns ha’e biggedTheir kaims upon the surface o’ the sea.My lips may feast for ever, but my gutsKen naething o’ the Food o’ Gods.
And a’ the bizzin’ suns ha’e bigged
Their kaims upon the surface o’ the sea.
My lips may feast for ever, but my guts
Ken naething o’ the Food o’ Gods.
“Let there be Licht,” said God, and there wasA little: but He lacked the poo’erTo licht up mair than pairt o’ space at aince,And there is lots o’ darkness that’s the sameAs gin He’d never spoken—Mair darkness than there’s licht,And dwarfin’t to a candle-flame,A spalin’ candle that’ll sune gang oot.—Darkness comes closer to us than the licht,And is oor natural element. We peer oot frae’tLike cat’s een bleezin’ in a goustrous nicht(Whaur there is nocht to find but starsThat look like ither cats’ een),Like cat’s een, and there is nocht to findSavin’ we turn them in upon oorsels;Cats canna.Darkness is wi’ us a’ the time, and LichtBut veesits pairt o’ us, the wee-est pairtFrae time to time on a short day atween twa nichts.Nae licht is thrawn onthemby ony licht.Licht thraws nae licht upon itsel’;But in the darkness them wha’s eenNae fleetin’ lichts ha’e dazzled and deceivedFind qualities o’ licht, keener than ony licht,Keen and abidin’;That show the nicht unto itsel’,And syne the licht,That queer extension o’ the dark,That seems a separate and a different thing,And, seemin’ sae, has lang confused the dark,And set it at cross-purposes wi’ itsel’.
“Let there be Licht,” said God, and there was
A little: but He lacked the poo’er
To licht up mair than pairt o’ space at aince,
And there is lots o’ darkness that’s the same
As gin He’d never spoken
—Mair darkness than there’s licht,
And dwarfin’t to a candle-flame,
A spalin’ candle that’ll sune gang oot.
—Darkness comes closer to us than the licht,
And is oor natural element. We peer oot frae’t
Like cat’s een bleezin’ in a goustrous nicht
(Whaur there is nocht to find but stars
That look like ither cats’ een),
Like cat’s een, and there is nocht to find
Savin’ we turn them in upon oorsels;
Cats canna.
Darkness is wi’ us a’ the time, and Licht
But veesits pairt o’ us, the wee-est pairt
Frae time to time on a short day atween twa nichts.
Nae licht is thrawn onthemby ony licht.
Licht thraws nae licht upon itsel’;
But in the darkness them wha’s een
Nae fleetin’ lichts ha’e dazzled and deceived
Find qualities o’ licht, keener than ony licht,
Keen and abidin’;
That show the nicht unto itsel’,
And syne the licht,
That queer extension o’ the dark,
That seems a separate and a different thing,
And, seemin’ sae, has lang confused the dark,
And set it at cross-purposes wi’ itsel’.
O little LifeIn which Daith guises and deceives itsel’,Joy that mak’s Grief a Janus,Hope that is Despair’s fause-face,And Guid and Ill that are the same,Save as the chance licht fa’s!
O little Life
In which Daith guises and deceives itsel’,
Joy that mak’s Grief a Janus,
Hope that is Despair’s fause-face,
And Guid and Ill that are the same,
Save as the chance licht fa’s!
And yet the licht is there,Whether frae within or frae withoot.The conscious Dark can use it, dazzled nor deceived.The licht is there, and th’ instinct for it,Pairt o’ the Dark and o’ the need to guise,To deceive and be deceived,But let us then be undeceivedWhen we deceive,When we deceive oorsels.Let us enjoy deceit, this instinct in us.Licht cheenges naething,And gin there is a God wha made the lichtWe are adapted to receive,Hecheenged naething,And hesna kythed Hissel!Save in this licht that fa’s whaur the Auld Nicht was,Showin’ naething that the Darkness didna hide,And gin it shows a pairt o’ thatConfoondin’ mair than it confidesEv’n in that.
And yet the licht is there,
Whether frae within or frae withoot.
The conscious Dark can use it, dazzled nor deceived.
The licht is there, and th’ instinct for it,
Pairt o’ the Dark and o’ the need to guise,
To deceive and be deceived,
But let us then be undeceived
When we deceive,
When we deceive oorsels.
Let us enjoy deceit, this instinct in us.
Licht cheenges naething,
And gin there is a God wha made the licht
We are adapted to receive,
Hecheenged naething,
And hesna kythed Hissel!
Save in this licht that fa’s whaur the Auld Nicht was,
Showin’ naething that the Darkness didna hide,
And gin it shows a pairt o’ that
Confoondin’ mair than it confides
Ev’n in that.
The epileptic thistle twitches(A trick o’ wund or mune or een—or whisky).A brain laid bare,A nervous system,The skeleton wi’ which men labourAnd bring to life in Daith—I, risen frae the deid, ha’e seenMy deid man’s eunuch offspring.—The licht frae bare banes whitening evermair,Frae twitchin’ nerves thrawn aff,Frae nakit thocht,Works in the Darkness like a fell disease,A hungry acid and a cancer,Disease o’ Daith-in-Life and Life-in-Daith.
The epileptic thistle twitches
(A trick o’ wund or mune or een—or whisky).
A brain laid bare,
A nervous system,
The skeleton wi’ which men labour
And bring to life in Daith
—I, risen frae the deid, ha’e seen
My deid man’s eunuch offspring.
—The licht frae bare banes whitening evermair,
Frae twitchin’ nerves thrawn aff,
Frae nakit thocht,
Works in the Darkness like a fell disease,
A hungry acid and a cancer,
Disease o’ Daith-in-Life and Life-in-Daith.
O for a root in some untroubled soil,Some cauld soil ’yont this fevered warld,That ’ud draw darkness frae a virgin source,And send it slow and easefu’ through my veins,Release the tension o’ my grisly leafs,Withdraw my endless spikes,Move coonter to the force in me that haudsMe raxed and rigid and ridiculous—And let my roses drapLike punctured ba’s that at a FairFa’ frae the loupin’ jet!—Water again!...
O for a root in some untroubled soil,
Some cauld soil ’yont this fevered warld,
That ’ud draw darkness frae a virgin source,
And send it slow and easefu’ through my veins,
Release the tension o’ my grisly leafs,
Withdraw my endless spikes,
Move coonter to the force in me that hauds
Me raxed and rigid and ridiculous
—And let my roses drap
Like punctured ba’s that at a Fair
Fa’ frae the loupin’ jet!
—Water again!...
Omsk and the Calton turn again to dust,The suns and stars fizz out with little fuss,The bobby booms away and seems to bust,And leaves the world to darkness and to us.
Omsk and the Calton turn again to dust,
The suns and stars fizz out with little fuss,
The bobby booms away and seems to bust,
And leaves the world to darkness and to us.
The circles of our hungry thoughtSwing savagely from pole to pole.Death and the Raven drift aboveThe graves of Sweeney’s body and soul.
The circles of our hungry thought
Swing savagely from pole to pole.
Death and the Raven drift above
The graves of Sweeney’s body and soul.
My name is Norval. On the Grampian HillsIt is forgotten, and deserves to be.So are the Grampian Hills and all the peopleWho ever heard of either them or me.
My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills
It is forgotten, and deserves to be.
So are the Grampian Hills and all the people
Who ever heard of either them or me.
What’s in a name? From pole to poleOur interlinked mentality spins.I know that you are Deosil, and supposeThat therefore I am Widdershins.
What’s in a name? From pole to pole
Our interlinked mentality spins.
I know that you are Deosil, and suppose
That therefore I am Widdershins.
Do you reverse? Shall us? Then let’s.Cyclone and Anti?—how absurd!She should know better at her age.Auntie’s an ass, upon my word.
Do you reverse? Shall us? Then let’s.
Cyclone and Anti?—how absurd!
She should know better at her age.
Auntie’s an ass, upon my word.
This is the sort of thing they teachThe Scottish children in the school.Poetry, patriotism, manners—No wonder I am such a fool....
This is the sort of thing they teach
The Scottish children in the school.
Poetry, patriotism, manners—
No wonder I am such a fool....
Hoo can I graipple wi’ the thistle syne,Be intricate as it and up to a’ its moves?A’ airts its sheenin’ points are loupin’ ’yont me,Quhile still the firmament it proves.
Hoo can I graipple wi’ the thistle syne,
Be intricate as it and up to a’ its moves?
A’ airts its sheenin’ points are loupin’ ’yont me,
Quhile still the firmament it proves.
And syne it’s like a wab in which the warldSquats like a spider, quhile the mune and meAre taigled in an endless corner o’tTyauvin’ fecklessly....
And syne it’s like a wab in which the warld
Squats like a spider, quhile the mune and me
Are taigled in an endless corner o’t
Tyauvin’ fecklessly....
The wan leafs shak’ atour us like the snaw.Here is the cavaburd in which Earth’s tint.There’s naebody but Oblivion and us,Puir gangrel buddies, waunderin’ hameless in’t.
The wan leafs shak’ atour us like the snaw.
Here is the cavaburd in which Earth’s tint.
There’s naebody but Oblivion and us,
Puir gangrel buddies, waunderin’ hameless in’t.
The stars are larochs o’ auld cottages,And a’ Time’s glen is fu’ o’ blinnin’ stew.Nae freen’ly lozen skimmers: and the wundRises and separates even me and you.[15]
The stars are larochs o’ auld cottages,
And a’ Time’s glen is fu’ o’ blinnin’ stew.
Nae freen’ly lozen skimmers: and the wund
Rises and separates even me and you.[15]
I ken nae Russian and you ken nae Scots.We canna tell oor voices frae the wund.The snaw is seekin’ everywhere: oor hertsAt last like roofless ingles it has f’und,
I ken nae Russian and you ken nae Scots.
We canna tell oor voices frae the wund.
The snaw is seekin’ everywhere: oor herts
At last like roofless ingles it has f’und,