Two Autumn Poems

September 13^th 2011

Swifts are dashing into the wind the wild west wind and in streams of sun;

they cry as they fly ‘goodbye goodbye’; this our last day; see you next May’

and gulls and geese are drying their feathers sedately patching the green of the grass and they watch the swifts in their whirl and whisk

and they sigh and nod and continue to stand and stalk and stake their claims to the park;

red leaves for me the wind and the sun now here now gone

October 13^th 2011

Swifts have flown over the hill and far away;

sunlight tries to stay strong and is weaker each day

for as the earth turned at the equinox I too was reversed

and now walk like a tiger, step by stealth, breathing in and out

and chant my way into winter

Tessa Ransford

Two Poems for the Shortening Days

SALAH

My God

Lord of a heaven far away from me there

near to me here

I pray to you there, pray to you here.

Five decades ago there

it was tuneful Azan rang in my right ear

and eight years ago here

I chanted the same Azan

in my new-born baby’s right ear

and showered his cheeks with tears -

one stranger here comforts another.

Mother watches behind a curtain of tears and feels pity for us here

and an astonished midwife with an open mouth gasps:

What on earth are they doing here?

What is he mumbling in the baby’s ear?

dawn, noon, afternoon

sunset and night

each time I pray to the Lord who granted us love, grace and blessing

and poured the light and sap of life into our bodies.

I pray for tranquillity to overwhelm my soul

for the right guidance to flow over all the people in the world.

I pray for mercy to fill my heart

for happiness to rise from my eyes.

There

I returned to the neighbourhood mosque

and recognised some faces that bid farewell to me years ago

and my father’s wasn’t amongst them;

but a corner where he used to pray, perfumed with his breath,

invited me.

I knelt down low and repeatedly pressed my forehead

on what fell from his spirit there

and offered him my tears

and recited the opening verse of the Holy Quran by his grave

for a long time.

I cried for him and also cried for my mourning soul.

Here

in the mosques of the land of frost

I met people who came from all over the world.

Like a rug of a thousand colours

We’ve been unfolded behind the Imam,

a flower from each garden, each has their own tongue

But there is only one language for prayer.

Glorify, saying God is great

for the nation praying to the Lord

who sat on the throne of heaven there

and who sits on the throne of heaven here.

Iyad Hayatleh

‘Prayer’ translated by Iyad Hayatleh with Tessa Ransford.


* * * * * *

The Three Crows

I could recall a nursery rhyme

for one of those,

but not for the three that swooped

between red sandstone tenements

like harbingers.

Magpies are simple:

one for sorrow, two for joy

three for…a crow times three is

darkness threescore:

one for simply being

two for an accomplice, and

three for three’s a crowd.

But in that dip and dive

like the invisible curve of lives

that moves through time’s memory game,

comes a flash of colour:

the rainbow’s elusive sheen on feathers,

something to grasp

before the light changes.

Nalini Paul

Readings and Rounds

Sandy Hutchison,

Morelle Smith, and

Lesley Harrison [below]

read at St. John's church

cafe.

Below, Joe Proskauer [right] teaches the audience a new round, helped by Roland Stiven

Followed by William Hershaw's appropriately titled Gowden Thrieds

Gowden Threids

An auld carl chappit on our door,

“Yearly, I cairry this kist:

green silk tae sow

a lown coat for spring,

bricht cramson cloth -

a dress tae dance at Lammas,

blae yarn tae knit

a scarf frae autumn’s souch,

white wool at Yuill

tae hap a shawl or shroud.

Thir gowden threids'

tae stitch the seasouns roun

William Hershaw

Golden Thread Poets read at Wordpower Bookshop in the Edinburgh Book Fringe

Chrys Salt (left) and Tessa Ransford (below) along with Pauline Prior-Pitt, also read at Wordpower Bookshop as part of the Edinburgh Bookfringe, in August 2011.

(Photographs courtesy of Mike Knowles)

Uncle Bert

Uncle Bert could fold a hanky

and make a mouse run up his arm.

One flick of his forefinger,

it vaulted his sailor tattoos

and ran up to his shoulder

Uncle Bert could make a penny disappear

then re-appear behind your ear

And whichever card you picked from the pack

he always knew which one it was

even if you changed your mind and put

the one you first thought of

back.

We’d bet all our pocket money on which cup

Aunti Cis’s thimble was under. Concentrate like hawks

as he switched them on the shiny table-top.

We always lost, however hard we watched

When Uncle Bert ran out of tricks he’d joke

‘Bet you’ll be glad to see the back of me’

Then with one stunning magic masterstroke

He gave his skin the slip and ceased to be.

Where had he gone? I couldn’t understand

Gone from the room without his coat

A slick and shocking sleight of hand.

Now you see him. Now you don’t.

Chrys Salt

A Topical Poem

What Kind of God?

The toy plane comes out of the blue
And zaps the tower as it would do
In comics or cartoon, but this is true.

A hundred storeys up, stick people
Wave little banners of forlorn humanity,
Already fatally diminished
To their gawping fellow-kind
Before the crumbling hell engulfs them.

It’s said the terrorists’ god,
Unfazed by death of innocents,
Will take his fanatics to unending bliss.
What kind of god is this?

Lesley Duncan

Two Poems in Scots from St John's readings

Thistles for my Dearie

He was the first to live I’d borne

he was my only laddie

the girls I liked them well enough

but he, he was my dearie

here’s heart’s ease for your ailing lung

here’s flax-weed for safe passage

He sprouted like a sapling, strong

his body lean and leery

for he could hunt and he could run

so fleet, so quick, my dearie

here’s barley for your aching bones

here’s hawthorn for your splinter

The redcoats came when he was grown

and wooed him with their shilling

I blessed him with a grudging tongue

for he was young and willing

here’s dove’s foot for your belly’s worms

here’s primrose for your darkness

In desert lands he rose and shone

an ear of corn, my laddie

a stalk of corn they scythed him down

beside the road, my dearie

here’s ivy for your callow luck

here’s roses for your choler

And now my laddie’s dead and gone

no more to run beside me

in desert lands he lies alone

and I’ve grown old and weary

here’s poppies for your watchful night

here’s thistles for my dearie

Patricia Ace (2010) First published in The Rialto

*

Ye Dinna Ken

Ye dinna ken wha ye walk amangst.

Ye canna judge them by whit they say.

Ye micht no hear their malicious tongues.

Ye canna see sowels¹ by nicht or day.

They can shack yer haun, say How are ye?

It’s meant tae say they’re a braw-like bunch

yet ye canna check or test whit’s true.

Ye dinna ken wha ye walk amangst.

They micht bide a while; meet yir mither,

but for a’ ye ken they’ll soon betray,

words spoken intimately to ane anither.

Ye canna judge them by whit they say.

Ye cud share dreams; hae a guid crack,

but they’ll ne’er gie the slightest nudge

on how they’ll act if the chips are stacked.

Ye micht no hear their malicious tongues.

An’ I hope ye ne’er hae tae discover,

fir ye’ll only ken in war or tragedy -

Wha is true and wha will run fir cover.

Ye canna see sowels by nicht or day.

But I’d bet ye noo - the ane ye least expect,

wud staun up first - ne’r flinch nor flee,

dumfoond thaimsel alang wi you, an’ fecht

tae be the best a human being can be, but

ye dinna ken.

1. Sowel, Soul

Hazel Buchan Cameron

(photographs by Mike Knowles)

'Roses in December' by Freda Stobo

The Golden Thread Of Poetry held six readings in St John's Church Hall during the Festival. Who could have imagined, in the midst of a busy café, that poetry readings would actually be heard above the buzz of activity? In fact, the choice of venue proved to be a great success, because there was a lovely ambience in the café. It felt very civilised to be there, cup of tea in hand, listening to original poetry and song, from people who were gifting their talents for free. How privileged was that?

As soon as each reader began, the silence was awesome. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. At this point, I should also mention that, on several of the days, we were fortunate to be serenaded by a gifted young man -Toby Mottershead – singer, songwriter, musician - who sang from the heart. I love the timbre of his voice, the integrity of his music, his phrasing and his own ‘way with words’. How clever to combine all three talents! I felt a great surge of excitement to think that such wonderful poetry and song was happening right in the heart of the city, in the market-place, as it were... poetry and song, for the people… in a kitchen! How fabulous was that?

In sharing their original poems, we experienced the passion each poet felt for the succinct use of words and the appropriateness of words. We tuned in to the pace and rhythm of their own individuality. We heard the all-important silences punctuating the ebb and flow of their songs. The inner-voices which inspired them to write, were now, in turn, tugging at our heart-strings. Wonderful lyrical poems on the beauty of nature; acute observations on travelling to places of interest; passionate feelings on personal faith; heart-felt memories - forever seered in the mind - of never-to-be-forgotten loved-ones; all this as we listened to the sound and intonation of the beauty of their own individual voices, their own accents, the out-pouring of their hearts.

It was a great privilege to hear such a variety of contemporary poetry and songs, much of which resonated with my own experience of life. We were afforded glimpses into the rich tapestry of each poet’s life and their cornucopia of delights brought music to our ears. After my purchases from the Cornerstone Bookshop, my winter evenings will be enriched as I read for myself many of the poems I heard, thus bringing me ‘Roses in December.’

My heart-felt thanks to all the poets, especially Tessa, who organised the readings. I felt it would be unfair to name individuals in case I missed someone out. But, I hope each poet will recognise themselves and their work from my description of the content of the poetry.

Lastly, those who braved the stormy winds and rain to come to Rosslyn Chapel on Sunday 28 August, to hear the last two poetry readings, were not disappointed. The Service was meditative, with spells of quiet contemplation. I found the whole experience a breath of fresh air, very freeing, very uplifting to the mind and heart and soul. Candle-lit, in a beauteous setting, with music played on a clarsach, Tessa and Jila read poems interspersed by short periods of silence. The theme was angels, as in the sense of mediators. Profound thought, simplicity of truth and beauty, where brevity was all. I came away with feelings of calmness and an inner peace, which I rarely experience after being in church. The poetry read was a true transport of delight.

Freda Stobo