Images: colour and monochrome. Text: English and/or Scots.
Gable-end murals on tenements have been a prominent form of public art in Glasgow since they first appeared in the 1970s. This one in Govan, entitled Georgie, is the work of Australian-born artist Smug (Sam Bates) and was unveiled in 2022. From 122 years earlier, a contrasting example of public art: St Mungo as the … Continue reading Georgie and Mungo – Public Art in Glasgow
As long as it’s not scorching.The Scots language/the Scots leid:Sae lang as it’s no scaudie.
It can be a bumpy ride through life, but we keep going – for all that our heads, hearts and backsides are throbbing.The Scots language/the Scots leid:It can be a dirdie hurl throu life, but we haud gaun – fur aw that wir heids, herts an behoochies is lowpin.
The twilight, when it’s late in the day and we’re holding on our way to midnight and first light.The Scots language/the Scots leid:The gloamin, whan it’s faur i the day an we’r haudin the gate tae the howe o the nicht an the gray o the mornin.
The Scots language/the Scots leid:Girse, lichts an leddy.
Jeez,you’rethebee’skneesdon’tfreezegetoffyourkneesandeasethekeysfromtheman’shandsplease.
News and weather and a little rugby in 1978. And no autocue for Margaret Pritchard.The Scots language/the Scots leid:Wittins an wather an a tait rugby in 1978. An nae autocue tae Margaret Pritchard. Two fighters: Ria Sikkes and Loes Bienemann. A glimpse of feminism in the Netherlands, 1974.The Scots language/the Scots leid:Twa fechters: Ria Sikkes … Continue reading Decades Ago
Sometimes it’s time to go for it full tilt without bothering your head about losing your bearings. The Scots language/the Scots leid:Whiles it’s time tae gang hail wheel intil it athoot fashin yer heid aboot tynin yer meaths.
The Scots language/the Scots leid:Feart fur the daith ye’ll nivver dee?
He sent a text to this fellow he thought he knew really well but didn’t get anything backHe sent an email to this shop about something he’d bought and got naff all back from them either.He posted a letter to an official at the town hall about a very important matter, but no, there was … Continue reading Gittin Back
When a good mood is difficult to get, if I can go for a little walk most likely I’ll feel a whole lot better for it. A walk needn’t be long for a person to benefit from it. The Scots language/the Scots leid:Whan a guid tuin is ull tae git, gin A can gang on … Continue reading Mood Elevator
Get a grip with the bread.No stupid little loaves,discounted by penniesbecause they’re aboutto go offand you thinkyou’ll be able tothrow them in the freezer.No, no cryogenic crustinessof frozen grainsfor the time to come.No. The Scots language/the Scots leid:Screw the heid wi the breid.Nae stippit wee laifsat’s a triffle doon o the priceacause they’r likentae gae … Continue reading Screw the Heid
Benny Said … Listening to the news always depresses me. Jesus! I mean all those wars and stuff. And of course, you get all the refugees pouring out and coming here. I mean, they come over here and get everything that’s going and we’ve got to pay for it. No wonder the council tax is … Continue reading Broad and Narrow
I am trying to be sophisticated.Trying to be profound.So please don’t think I’m constipatedwhen I fail to make a sound.
According to Dictionaries of the Scots Language, a causey-saunt (pavement- or street-saint) is ‘one who is well behaved and pleasant out of doors, i.e. away from his home circle’. For example, ‘He’s a hoose-deil (house-devil) an a causey-saint’.
Don’t mock Mr Spock.Don’t mock his talk.No mockstrous mockish mockosity, please.He is no rock in a sock,just because he’s got his feelingsbehind a lock.And don’t knockthe shock of his ears.But where is Spock?What is his clock?
Tibbie: How long have you been supervisor?Robert: About three years. I’ve worked in the mailroom ten years in all.Tibbie: So what’s your favourite part of the job?Robert: Probably getting the mail out to the different departments on time. We like to keep the customers happy!Tibbie: Happy customers and no complaints. I’ll bet some of the … Continue reading A Chat in the Canteen, 1998
Trains and noses have run through the nightand a mortal man has run through a sea-cave jailof dreaming. But now there are waves of morningtraffic crashing onto our dirty doubleglazing, though muffled, filtered and streamedby our own little shell.
Tibbie: Oh God.Kate looks round.Tibbie: Sorry, it’s freezing.Kate smiles.Tibbie: They should install central heating in these shelters. Or have a hot-water-bottle dispenser.Kate: Yeah, they should.Tibbie: You just want to stay at home and watch TV. Watch a movie or something.Kate: That would be nice.Tibbie: Any films you would recommend? Anything good you’ve seen lately?Kate: No, … Continue reading Tibbie and Kate at the Bus Stop
What Aggie Said I heard a rumour he’d recovered from some illness, even though he’d been close to death, but I couldn’t have told you what was wrong with the chap. No. I think he’d been married but I couldn’t tell you who he was married to or anything like that. But sometimes I would … Continue reading The Cry of a Passing Bird
The premises are, we think,the conclusion.But the reasoning is circularas the wheels on the bikesgo round and round.And the currency and chicken wingsare circulating through the bodypolitic as we keep on delving into, andpulling out of, the mirror wherethe future was falling out of the dust and the rainand onto the scaly and the hairy.
The girl was thumping our piano –for we had no bible handy. And no witch’s hatcould possibly have kepther hair from flying round herface, this broad who seemed to thinkshe had a steeple for a megaphone thatGod Himself was bawling lightningdown into our little lounge,as there we waited – she seemed to believe –for departure … Continue reading Shy Girl’s Gospel
Calm rushingand brushingagainstthe spacious clocksof youth. The Scots language/the Scots leid: Caum stourinan scriffinthe spawcious knockso youthheid.
Nature in your face. Yes,more than a part of your makeup. Yeah,you may, with almighty effort, striveto scrape it off the tops of mountains,and the bottoms of oceans. Yip, the barrelsof dosh are floating for now. But the lips,the cheeks and the rest will fade like other blooms.
We were in the pub, me and Ingridand Fred and Margaret, whowas up at the bar. And I said to Ingrid,out of the blue, thatshe was my dear chum, andthat made her laugh, and I looked atFred and he gave me a wink.So Ingrid suddenly gets up,and she sits on my lap – she’s very … Continue reading Caledonian Road
As a matter of fact, I was looking over whenthe old marine had to make a decisionbefore the opportunity had passed.His wife and he had mashed potatoes sufficientto whisk their thoughts away from anypainful foot or such. All heights andhollows of white to cloud their griefsfor a while. All right, he says to her, I’ll … Continue reading Champit Tatties
They won’t keep still, the littleblack dots. He thought they’d be easier.He thought he could grip them there inthe middle ground between his hungerfor strokes and his need for viewing themas pepper on the back of a stranger’shand. A spice for everyoneand everyone in their space, makes shrinking themeach to a safe size ascience or … Continue reading Reduction to Dots
I look but she has pushed her gazebeyond the glass and so, it seems,there will be no surrender climbingout from either plated heart. That afternoon we’d gone amongthe grass that sweeps around the lakeand talked of this and that, but nowshe points her eyes at walls and fences.
He’s ready to go but she’s doingher utmost to scratch at his thoughts,like false nails through the mist.Will she come into his creeping dreams?She cannot wait till the man whobelieves he’s her man gets homewith a bouquet and wine in his weighty hands. The Scots language/the Scots leid: He’s ready tae gang but she’s daeinhir … Continue reading Late-Night Words
The item ripped us away from our phones.The newsreader howled that the power was cutby a werewolf biting a pylon and making ittopple and wrecking some innocent substation.Not that anyone panicked, though the moonwas full, for our phones and our radios had their batteriescharged and those nights were warm and short.
The cute little Cyclopssquatting on what in olden timeshad been a hilltop bare.A whitewashed bungalow,excreting safety,makes a blind link in thelong chain of a legendof happiness, keptwarm in boxes. Itsbiggest bedroom liesbehind the cosy dormerwhere curtains, without warning,are drawn, and the two of usare heading apart once more.
Half an egg timer?Nothing gets throughto its flattened bottom.A silver lady?Well, some golden wine or othersits suspended over a mossy low wall,all confetti and sipping abandoned.Just pigeons and passers-byto witness a guy who’s trailinga plastic sack as he walks downthe path with a brush at his side.
Working overtimeat this time of year;obediently receivingdiscarded cheer.
They got to the other sideand crossed their hearts,one assumes, or wishes.Back-heeled the pastas far as it would rollinto the long daysand the creeping-crawlingdoubts – all out of mind.
Hae a braw Chrissenmas an yer belt tae the Yule-hole. English/Southron:Have a great Christmas and your belt buckle adjusted after feasting.
The hulking aluminium cutBulging and green from the blackBy a massive doze ofElectromagnetic radiationAs punters wait in line andBanter, some loving their tobacco,And many expecting their frozen day toBe transformed into raging laughter. Perhaps a portion of the queueHad been over the riverThat afternoon, gathered aroundThe pitch, like those who hadSat around the priceless flames,Or … Continue reading Saturday Night and Hulking Aluminium
These leaves belong to a different tree?The wrong gale sticking to theWrong road, right along to a spotYou’d forget was ever there.Nature does not shudderAt how such odds and ends,Brown from this blue planet, neverGrew off any branch round here.So, come in close to the foot of the tree,And pay no heedTo the top of … Continue reading These Leaves Belong to a Different Tree?
I’m afraid we must skimthe same underside of ourslice of the universe.Powerless to skirtthat mountain orkick it offlike a duvet piledon the mattress edge.We are all going climbing –over and down andno further. Yet whilethere are friends andwhen there are guidesthere are ropes that will chafeand burn us all less.
Scaffolding is crawling all over the library.Granite defiant in the face of indignityAnd helpless inconvenience. So muchTrapped inside, but this is allFor its own benefit and the goodOf those who love it and thoseWho don’t but who must, nonetheless, workHard to make it better. Perhaps,However, the old grey dear willEventually grow on the latterLike pine … Continue reading Renovation
In the queue at the post office:What am I supposed to do?Scanning cornflakes at the supermarket:What the hell am I meant to be doing?Doing my level best notTo let puddles attack my socks:What, in the name of whoever,Am I doing and where is it taking me?Then, it’s in the door to billsAnd myself, and ‘what … Continue reading In What?
Before all things come to an end,we’ll stuff ourselves with chocolate.For the bars and the futureare heavily discounted as we waitfor the very end that’s coming our wayin a couple of months, ora couple of years or whenever.A shaky, sugary desireis roaming all over our brains –those lumps of worldsthat some are foretelling willturn into … Continue reading Before All Things Come to an End
I imagine he’s leaptOff his ancestors,Ice-cream cone in his hand,Truly certain of his rightTo a dunghill-peakThat he’s dug straightOut of his very ownLight-footed boasting. But he cannot but ride onThe flat caps and yarnsAnd sows and ploughs inThe nooks and cranniesOf his soul. The treesAnd the dogs and songsWhich did melt long agoRight into the … Continue reading Pokey Hat
Why do birds fly? Just soThey don’t need to climb to their nests?And risk getting hitBy a bushy-tailed bullet-trainElevator, blurring our greyVision of speed. Some dayWe may teleport, but theSquirrel is almost already twoPlaces at once. Oh yes, we may putAll our eggs and our nuts in a single basket,But nature has runnersAnd nature has … Continue reading Feathered, Furry, Hairy
A brief valance aroundthis sleeping, waiting,haunting beauty.The steam of a duskyclose encounter with awhite roadless car.
‘I’m so excited!’ Yes, she’sgoing to let herself buyherself a bar of chocolate.Not the dear stuff, though.No, just the cheapest own-brandbar that she’ll quickly, sadly,put in the only placein the house that’s colder than allthe rooms combined. ‘I wishit could be chocolate everyday!’ But still, she promisesnot to whip that thin andbrittle pleasure outBefore the … Continue reading The Advent of Anticipating
You’d think,Wouldn’t you,That somebody would haveDealt with it by now?The sugar-coated patch of pavement,And the yawn where aRear windscreen has been.But the joy and comfort wasBlazing through boredomAnd roaring at shifting sepiaCoats and bags and buses and bosses.And so now, there it sits,Played out,As forgotten as a wrapperRound a little pleasureThat was grabbed and thrust.
Not sparking its way to the red planetIn the age of Zeppelins.But, in a flash, you mightBelieve that you can smellThe salt and the vinegarOf a merciless Friday nightIn a chilling cosmos,Where the stars are notOur interplanetary streetlights,And a fish has notBeen orbiting a plantedTiny garden for usAnd for us alone.
She’s no ruler butShe might command an audienceOf little viewers who gaze uponThe symmetry of her black hair,Bracketing simultaneously herOvaloid face and its subsetsOf spectacle frames, leadingInward to her pupils. And now she has markedA white sheet with an angle,And says goodbye, and the parallelLines of credits roll over thisLady, a star that skirted kids … Continue reading The Object of a West German Schools Programme
The king of aloofers? He isBeing interestingWell above and beyondTheir static chatter and, apparently,Projecting from allThat pale, blue wallpaper. No balcony below him, though,But there is a pattern ofBehaviour. I mean, it’s as if he’s royally screwedThere, as pretty as a portrait. Hanging.So come ahead, then, fellow guests, andDive deep.
Like a trilobiteHurtling throughThe veins of a mammothTo get to the tusksIn time for aTea party. Like a T-rexRepairing aRed-brick chimneyAnd a length ofPlastic gutter forRaquel Welch. Like a loaf ofWholemeal breadThat was squashed by aToppled binWhen no-one was around toHear or see or sneer or weep.
Gregor MacMinto 