Pupil
da sunlicht strikes da back
o mi een an cuts trow da fug
o mi fitful heid an hit’s a dumb dug
at canna makk oot da lack
at nae amoont o wirds an windreens
can fill wi mair as empty shadoos
o da blaand an bluid lost i da boos
o sixareens sailed intae smidereens
dis terra firma haes me tinkin
lang o dem at’s bön an gien afore
as if I feel mi bons sinkin
trow da saft bug o da tapmaest hill
whaur someday frysher leegs as mine
‘ll staund aneath da sun an winder still
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.’
