Culture

Poetry Corner

TAE A FART –

Oh whit a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
Jist as ye sit doon among yer kin
There sterts tae stir an enormous win’
The neeps ‘n’ tatties ‘n’ mushy peas
Stert workin’ like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin’ wi’ the sauncie face
Will hae ye blawin’ a’ ower the place
Nae maiter whit the hell ye dae
A’bodys gonnae hiv tae pay
Even if ye try tae stifle
It’s like a bullet oot a rifle
Hawd yer bum ticht tae the chair
Tae try an’ stop the leakin’ air
Shify yersel fae cheek tae cheek
Prae tae God it disnae reek
But aw yer efforts go assunder
Oot it comes like a clap o’ thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me a sonic boom
God almichty it fairly reeks
Hope a huvnae s**t ma breeks
Tae the bog a better scurry
Aw whit the hell, it’s no ma worry
A’body roon aboot me chokin
Wan or twa are nearly bokin
A’ll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile
Wis him! A shout wi’ accusin glower
Alas too late, he’s jist keeled ower
Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare
A dinnae feel welcome ony mair
Where e’er ye be let yer wind gang free
Sounds like jist the job fur me
Whit a fuss at Rabbie’s party
Ower the sake o’ wan wee farty

Rabbie Burns tribute

 

madhatters.me.uk      Duncanr

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Categories: Culture

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2 replies »

  1. Is it really National Big Wind Day? Or is this another bit of ‘Orkney News’ kidology?
    Very fitting for the weather here today.
    For if it is NBWD – here’s something

    After years of faffing about – or that could be farting about, we had a small multi-fuel stove installed. We love it, for many reasons, but one big reason is………it’s a real thing. It’s solid, iron. It works by moving some knobs about. There’s a knob to ‘riddle’ the ashes so they drop into the tray. There’s a knob to open the flue to the chimney, there’s another knob to regulate the flow of air through to the fire itself. It doesn’t rely on batteries or electricity. And….we have to use our senses, and our minds to make it work. We don’t just flick a switch, and get instant heat, light, etc. The stove means that a person has to pay attention, set it properly, regulate the flow, keep an eye on it.
    In a world of ever-increasing gadgets which mean that folk don’t need to use their minds or their senses because everything is done for them, this little stove makes you work a bit for what you want.
    On the decorative side – the chimney reflects things, it reflects light, either artificial or sunlight, and reflects the things on the wall behind it. The whole thing looks cosy even when it’s not lit.
    And, The Wind People cavort in the chimney – we can hear them, and if I put my hand on the side of the chimney, I can feel them moving about in there.
    The hearth is made of local stone, smoothed and oiled, and when the sun shines on it, you can still see the patterns in the stone.
    So, that’s our stove – a real thing in an increasingly un-real world.
    And here’s a poem to The Wind People, by Fred Turner of the University of Dallas – he’s google-able.

    The Wind People by Fred Turner

    Their faces are the skeins of air that we
    sometimes perceive to finger across a flag or sheet;
    their bodies, that which fills a tree
    when it is wrought by their possession, throws
    about its limbs as if distraught.

    And they are like the catspaws of the fire,
    and they are simple-minded in their time;
    often their quarrels by coincidence
    catch in the splinters of a human fate
    and pull us willy-nilly to the grave or flame.

    Lovers, quite often, capture by mistake
    within a kiss, a wind-person by the hem
    and then the breath that each one breathes
    is the trapped and unknowing spirit of another being.
    It’s this that scares a lover oftentime.

    The wind people inhabit wars and shores.
    It’s they who form the whistle of the shell,
    for they are fascinated by all forms of spirals
    and love to lie along the horns of shells.
    They’re angered, though, by bangs and bells.

    Especially in Fall the wind people come by.
    They think that we are only swifter forms of trees. To them
    the tender flesh of thigh and breast is hard as stone.
    In these last months
    I’ve become not much different from they.

    A year ago I felt a ticking in my eye
    whenever wind was round.
    Investigating this phenomenon I found
    A veil of colors in the air so faint it was
    Not so much sight as sound.

    At first I could not tell the boundary
    Between one windperson and another. Now
    I’ve even named them, though their names are secret.
    I wondered whether they had anything to do with prayer:
    But they come neither out of heaven nor hell.

    –And now I know their shapes in whirling sand;
    I’ve grown to recognize their smell
    (like hills of bitter snow) and see
    in turns of my own madness their many-fingered hand
    weaving their versions of eternity.

    Like

  2. It really is National big wind day Bernie, however I doubt it was referring to the type of wind the poem was about. It is also apparently National Licorice day also. Thank you for the poem, i love reading peoples take on their environment.

    Like

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