Poems
Composition
By Francy Devine
You turned full circle round
the cairn high on Dun I,
recorded the scrunch of shifting
shingle as incessant turquoise
rollers stumbled into Port à
Churaich.
As you trapped through the Machair,
you stopped to snatch monkfish
intonements and curdling, Norwich
yells snagged on the blast,
greylags’ trisyllabic cackles,
oystercatchers’ piercing tocsins.
Painstakingly, you conducted
your tonal survey of the inch,
its topographical complexity,
peregrine flora and fauna,
conflicted history and morphine
religiosity.
Then, having studied
your audible notebooks,
aerial recordings, fiddle in hand,
you permitted the airs escape,
as gas occupies space, water finds
its own level, a natural process,
evidence of an alchemical reality,
transformation of quotation pebbles
into precious, musical lodestone.
Scottish Fiddle Player
By Francy Devine
In this landscape -
vast, dreich, wide skied -
that nurtured Strathspey
and Reel, compelled feet
to float over flags, folk
to greet and grin, value
the music made for them.
You continuously delve
into the musical marsh
and moor, to pull out tunes
perfectly preserved in peaty
archives, to faithfully play
Gow or Milne's notation,
a tradition both old and new.
In Migvie's sacred, hollow echo,
resounding off Tomnaverie's
standing stones or making sweat
fly in Coilacriech's sardine tin
session, your powerful grace,
elegant economy of style, truly
garland every listening heart.
The Tarland Wizard
By Sheena Blackhall
Sleeves rowed up
An the richt fit tapping
Westcoat lowsed
Like a coo's lick flapping
Fingers fleein’
Like a fire ben kinnlin
Richt haun bowing
Till the notes ging tinkling
Oot throw the door
Like a reaming Linn
Fae the timber Fiddle
Neath the master's chin
Oot throw the door
Far the meenlicht shines
An the stars start jiggin it
Like gowd-haired quines
Oot throw the door
Till the rain that draps
Inno ilkie puddle's
Keeping time wi claps.
The chiel wi the fiddle
Taaks yer braith awa
Wi the sab o’ his music
Like the rise an faa
O’ a winter win
Throw the caul sna
That ye feel in yer hairt
Fin yer aa yer leen
An yer fair ferfochan
An yer pooch is teem
Syne he'll cheenge his tune
An ye'll hodge an loup
Like a flech's bin nipping
At yer lazy doup
Pitten fire in yer hurdles
Till yer feet takk wings
Fin the Tarland wizard
Boos his magic strings.
Gazing at Lochnagar
By Francy Devine
Glimpsed atween pine stand and iron byre,
residual snows chalk charcoal Lochnagar,
otherwise invisible in the wee hours pitch.
A blue hare melted into the shadow, momentarily held
in the track, mesmerised by melodic fiddle tune,
will-o’-the-wisp feathering across late summer
howe, seeking a cure for fretful insomnia.
As the music faded on a soporific breeze,
rowan and juniper crept out from the night,
a new calf’s hungry moan rolled up from Durnach,
and an oystercatcher’s piping alarm betrayed
opportunist fox slithering through the darkness.
We stood, scenting early ling, bright vanilla whin,
watching the mountain come and go.
We had an intense, silent conversation –
music and weans, blackcock and weasel,
Scotland and Ireland, the moment’s significance,
pure and binding, a joyous gift to be savoured.
Turning back to the house, we could not resist
a last respect to the mountain and I asked for
‘Niel Gow’s Lament For the Death of His Second Wife’.
Through shut eyes, I saw everything: your bowing
style, determined stance and powerful, gentle strength.
The black void paid its respects with a deep silence,
roosting crossbills ceasing their reassuring twitter,
Lochnagar disappearing to avoid any unnecessary
distraction, anything that would take from the tune.