Sunday, 16 June 2019

crocodile frack

Country rock weeps through fractured veins
deep in the mantle and, still, nobody gains, 
except those whose need for treasure
is no natural force: liquid under pressure,
breaking surface like a sweat of fear….

Nothing, but nothing, to be seen here…

Thursday, 13 June 2019


throu the fog a bou-hocht carl an his bull
gang slow in the back-en dag ‘at haps
the sair-aff black-affrontit cottar-touns

an gangin doon the orraman sings
a luv-sang o illtricket luv
‘at spiks o a ring an the hairt it braks

och, the year’s back has struck the simmer deid
an the haar rowes up but twa grim shaddas passin

From ‘Automne' (1913) by Guillaume Apollinaire. after a translation into Scots by Paul Malgrati – see over
© BH, 2019

Paul Malgrati offered a translation into Scots of the above. I couldn’t resist an attempt at translation. Like before, the result is different again. That’s the way with language, minds and poetic form in general.

I got the thumbs up on it from Paul, so all’s well. Plenty room for expression.

You can read Paul’s original (and Apollinaire’s)  here…