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 that take root.
“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…