I also am owned by a cat named Smokey so how could I resist this one! The lead-in is from the site where I found this poem.
This poem appeals to me on two counts. Firstly, I used to be owned by a cat c...I also am owned by a cat named Smokey so how could I resist this one! The lead-in is from the site where I found this poem.
This poem appeals to me on two counts. Firstly, I used to be owned by a cat called Smokey (anyone who owns a cat will know what I mean). Secondly, because of the story of "Towser" the former distillery cat at Glenturret Distillery near Crieff. She lived in the distillery for almost 24 years and during that time caught 28,899 mice. While it is well known that the barley stores in a distillery attract mice like bees to a honeypot, that's an average of over three a day. I'm not sure how the numbers of mice were measured so accurately, but Towser is now in the Guiness Book of Records as a result of her feat!
The poem below is by Robin Laing.
Smokey the Cat
Smokey the cat came from nowhere;
Just whisped in under some door;
Sniffed quietly around
And knew that she'd found
The best place to stay in Bowmore.
She'd arrived at Bowmore distillery
Where the finest malt whisky is made.
There was no welcome mat
For Smokey the cat
But she liked the place - so she stayed.
They say cats have more than one life
With re-incarnation and that.
Whether it's true
All that cat deja vu,
Smokey's a born again cat.
There's something about her that takes you
Back to the Lords of the Isles
When the cats of Finlaggan
Would go scallywaggin'
For miles and miles and miles.
It's the way she melts into the shadows
Or suddenly creeps up on folk
She'll always find you
Slinking behind you
The cat who was named after smoke.
She sits on the sill of the maltings
On days when the weather is nice
And while one eye sleeps
The other one keeps
A lookout for small birds and mice.
Small birds and mice eat the barley
So Smokey confronts them foursquare
But she pulls in her claws
And quietly ignores
The Angels who come for their share.
Felines don't care for whisky
Everyone understands that
But that peaty odour
Beneath the pagoda
Owes something to Smokey the cat.
On Islay people made whisky
Long before it was chic.
The cat from Bowmore
Is nothing more
Than the ghost of the island's peat-reek.
Meaning of unusual words:
The Angels who come for their share=When whisky is maturing, a small percentage evaporates - that's the "Angel's share"
"Pride comes before a fall" is a constant theme in Scots poetry (and life) and that comes through in this poem about Mrs Purdie's apple tart by an anonymous writer.
Mrs Purdie's Aipple Tart
The ba..."Pride comes before a fall" is a constant theme in Scots poetry (and life) and that comes through in this poem about Mrs Purdie's apple tart by an anonymous writer.
Mrs Purdie's Aipple Tart
The bakin' at oor village show's the best ye've ivver seen.
Fowk come frae far an' near, frae ilka airt.
But listen till I tell ye a' aboot ma guid aul' freen,
An' the tale o' Mrs Purdie's aipple tert.
Pair Mrs Purdie took it as an unco fashious slight
That her pastry nivver seemed tae mak' the grade.
For the judges didna even cut a slice tae hae a bite
O' the aipple tert that Mrs Purdie made.
It wis in an' oot the freezer wis Mrs Purdie's pie,
Sma' wunner that ma freen wis losin' hert.
It nivver won a mention an' the judges passed it by.
Whit could be wrang wi' Mrs Purdie's tert?
'I doot,' said Mrs Thomson, ' that the judges must hae kent
Her d'oyley' (upon which the tert wis laid).
For in ivvery flooer show roon aboot, the plate wis evident
Wi' the aipple tert that Mrs Purdie made.
Last spring the frost had nipped the blossom: aipples there were nane.
Dame Nature cam' tae Mrs Purdie's aid.
For naebody had ony fruit, an' so it stood alane,
The aipple tert that Mrs Purdie made.
Her aipple tert wis nae the best, nor wis it yet the worst.
But by itssel' an' in a class apairt.
Sae the judges had nae option an' they had tae pit it first
And gie the prize tae Mrs Purdie's tert.
She wis a happy wumman: she wis quite puffed up wi' pride.
Ower the triumph that pit ithers in the shade.
She'd be mentioned in the paper, tellin' fowk the coonty wide
O' the aipple tert that Mrs Purdie made.
The show wis ower: she picked it up and went tae tak' it hame.
'We'll hae this tae oor Sunday tea,' she said.
An' she proodly gethered up the winnin' ticket wi' her name
Aside the tert that Mrs Purdie made.
Bit then, pride aften gangs afore a fa', o' that I'm shair.
She drapt the plate, an' crash! Awa' it gaed.
It lay in near a hunner wee bit pieces on the flair,
The aipple tert that Mrs Purdie made.
Meaning of unusual words:
frae ilka airt=from every part
unco fashious=very vexacious
d'oyley=a small round piece of linen or paper placed under a dish or bowl
aside=beside
gaed=went
The Wild Geese
by Violet Jacob (1863-1946)
“O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin’ norlan’ Wind,
As ye cam’ blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind?
My fee...The Wild Geese
by Violet Jacob (1863-1946)
“O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin’ norlan’ Wind,
As ye cam’ blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind?
My feet they traivel England, but I’m dee’in for the north.”
“My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o’ Forth.”
“Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa’ an’ rise,
And fain I’d feel the creepin’ mist on yonder shore that lies,
But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?”
“My man, I rocked the rovin’ gulls that sail abune the Tay.”
“But saw ye naething, leein’ Wind, afore ye cam’ to Fife?
There’s muckle lyin’ ‘yont the Tay that’s mair to me nor life.”
“My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hae’na trod for years.”
“O Wind, forgi’e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!”
“And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o’ beatin’ wings, wi’ their heids towards the sea,
And aye their cryin’ voices trailed ahint them on the air–”
“O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!”
I always enjoyed studying the works of George Mackay Brown, an Orcadian writer, when I was at school. For some reason this poem in particular stayed with me.
A Warped Boat
As one would say, lighting an ...I always enjoyed studying the works of George Mackay Brown, an Orcadian writer, when I was at school. For some reason this poem in particular stayed with me.
A Warped Boat
As one would say, lighting an evening pipe
At a banked fire,
'Barley will soon be ripe.
Ale should be sweet in the mouth this year
With all that rain in May, though the seedtime was dry'...
So Willag, before the Merle turned over
Rose from the rowlocks
And remarked to the open mouths on the shore,
'Drive old Bess, that fence-breaker, from the oats
Back to her patch of clover.
Yes, Breck can have my horse for his five groats.
And Jeannie is wrong again.
She raged by all that was holy I'd drown and die
In steepings of malt.
A fine evening it was for going to the sillocks.
But men,
It's a coarse drink at the end of a day, this salt.'
His sea boots filled, and Willag said no more.
Number 5 on the all-time list from BBC Radio Scotland...
by Alastair Reid (b. 1926)
Scotland
It was a day peculiar to this piece of the planet,
when larks rose on long thin s...Number 5 on the all-time list from BBC Radio Scotland...
by Alastair Reid (b. 1926)
Scotland
It was a day peculiar to this piece of the planet,
when larks rose on long thin strings of singing
and the air shifted with the shimmer of actual angels.
Greenness entered the body. The grasses
shivered with presences, and sunlight
stayed like a halo on hair and heather and hills.
Walking into town, I saw, in a radiant raincoat,
the woman from the fish-shop. ‘What a day it is!’
cried I, like a sunstruck madman.
And what did she have to say for it?
Her brow grew bleak, her ancestors raged in their graves
and she spoke with their ancient misery:
‘We’ll pay for it, we’ll pay for it, we’ll pay for it.’
That's just to start you off... more to come!
From Best Scottish Poems of 2007 http://www.spl.org.uk/best-poems/006.htm
The Big Mistake by Jim Carruth
The Big Mistake
the shepherd on the train told me
is to clip hill milking ewes too soon
I put my ...From Best Scottish Poems of 2007 http://www.spl.org.uk/best-poems/006.htm
The Big Mistake by Jim Carruth
The Big Mistake
the shepherd on the train told me
is to clip hill milking ewes too soon
I put my newspaper down;
he'd got my attention.
Nothing puts the milk off them quicker
than just a day like last Wednesday.
And when it goes off at this time of year,
it never comes back.
His warning continues
They never get so rough in the backend,
and have less protection
against the storms and the winter chill.
He glances up,
checks his crook in the luggage rack
And another thing
is that the wool neither weighs so heavy
nor looks so well. It's the new growth
that brings down the scales.
A fleece from a ewe that's near
hasn't the same feel as one from a ewe
that has plenty of rise and a good strong stoan.
In the beginning of July the new wool on a thin ewe
will grow more in one week under the fleece
than it will do in three with the fleece clipped off.
He summarised his argument for me
Experienced flock masters never clip hill stocks
before the second week of July.
In terms of the sheep's sufferings
a strong sun is little less severe than a cold rain.
He stopped there
looked out the window at the passing fields
then fell asleep to Waverley
content that a stranger in a suit
had listened to his wisdom
this wisdom I now share with you.
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