Pupil

About this poem

This poem was chosen by Thomas Clark as part of the Scottish Poetry Library’s ‘Champions’ project, a guest curatorship programme to help extend our national reach.

Thomas Clark says, ‘We’re no supposed tae hae favourites, but ah’m haudin ma hauns up – if ah could anely save the ae dialect o Scots for future generations, it’d be Shetlandic aw day lang. No that the guid makars o the Northren Isles are needin ony hauners frae me tae keep their language on the agenda. Weel-accustomed though the Shetlands are tae bein sindert frae the charts o oor geography, nae poetic map o Scotland could bide their loss. Coorse, a language is anely the fowk that use it, an pickin a favourite frae the local dialects o Scotland would be wan hell o a proposition if ilka yin o them could boast a makar like Christie Williamson. Scots, an especially dialectal Scots, is a haundy tool for misdirection. For makars o a prestidigitatious bent, wirds o sufficient beauty or obscurity can aft conceal the howe at the hert o an image, the tuim dunt o a daeless line. An yet, for aw the Shetland smuir an haar that bytimes owerlays it, Williamson’s poetry faws skyrie-clear on ee an lug alike. Scots as the language o hearth an hame – aye, thon’s the weird we’ve aw tae dree. Translations on a tea-towel, Coorie On Caledonia, the hale jingbang. But let’s no forget the real pouer o oor language, o ony language – tae mak the familiar strynge, the strynge familiar. An it’s through sic transmutations as these that Christie Williamson taks oor leiden thochts, the backgrund buzz o oor weary heids, an clours them intae gowd.’