Except for Iain, who looks both found & lost, / already haunted by his own baffled ghost…
One cannot take the beginning out of the air
/ saying ‘It is the time: the hour is here’.
/ The process is continuous…
If I have to, then let me be the whaler poet, / launcher of the knife, portioning off / the…
Burns! with honour due /I oft have honour’d thee. Great shadow, hide / Thy face; I sin against thy native…
Immortal Robert Burns of Ayr,
/ There’s but few poets can with you compare;
/ Some of your poems and songs are very fine:
Leaves turn sere and there are bings
/ from networks stretching in through the window:
/ you could tiptoe now among the stubby thumbs…
On God the Tree’s Scottish branch new buds grow.
/ The feeblest prove it is no dead stick.
/ You flower and fruit,
/ drop seeds…
“A man’s a man for a’ that” – how does he know?
/ Traipsing with his plough, the rural hero,
/ Swaggering down the…
Förgäves ser han upp
/ mot den dödstysta hunger,
/ som kallas rymden; tål-
/ modigt betraktar han
/ vårens knoppar: de öppnas,
/ plötsliga skrik, som stelnar
/ till blomma. Det…
Dear Mr. Crichton Smith,
/ how our languages mourn you.
/ Though the cottages on Kerrara Sound
/ are stoical in their grief
/ the lilt in the…
i m Gael Turnbull, poet, 1928-2004
/ They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not…
“the sea is not salt enough”
/ Gently, gently gets
/ things going, as you
/ well know, and here’s
/ the nub: the dust is up
/ afresh, and…