Sunday, 12 March 2017

The Sunday Posts 2017/ Hush Hush

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Once, our valleys were ringin'
with sounds of our children singin',
but now, sheep bleat 'til the evenin'
and shielings stand empty and broken.

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Where stands our proud Highland mettle?
Our men, once sae feared in battle
now stand, cowed, huddled like cattle,
and soon tae be shipped o'er the ocean.

Oh, we stood with our heads bowed in prayer
while Factors laid our cottages bare.
The flames fired the clear mountain air,
and many were dead in the mornin'.

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Nae use greetin' or prayin' now.
Gone. Gone, all hopes of stayin',
sae hush, now. The anchor's a-weighin'.
Don't cry in your sleep, bonny baby.

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'.
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin';
Dreams of peace and of freedom,
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby.

Sunday, 26 February 2017

The Sunday Posts 2017/ Breaking News

We interrupt this poem to bring you reports
of an explosion

of wild untruths and other signs that the news
is broken.

Early indications from those who were first
on the scene

have led to widespread fears of another Sweden
or Bowling Green

and that peace might erupt at any moment
in other places.

It is believed that amongst the rubble of reality
were found traces

of humanity and an understanding that stretches
beyond borders.

Many experts predict this will lead to a new wave
of presidential orders

for such trumped-up charges form part of
a familiar pattern.

But back to the poem: we’ll bring you more news
as it doesn’t happen.

Brian Bilston

Sunday, 12 February 2017

The Sunday Posts 2017/ As I Grow Old I Will March Not Shuffle

As I grow old
I will not shuffle to the beat
of self-interest
and make that slow retreat
​​​to the right.

I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist
marching with the kids. I shall sing
‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing
homemade placards that proclaim

I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,
and build unscalable barricades
from bottles of flat lemonade,
tartan blankets and chicken wire.
I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.

I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,
armed with a ballpoint pen
and a hand that shakes with rage not age
at politicians’ latest crimes,
in strongly-worded letters to The Times.

I will be a centenarian centurion
and allow injustice no admittance.
I will stage longstanding sit-ins.
My mobility scooter and I
will move for no-one.

And when I die
I will be the scattered ashes
that attach themselves to the lashes
and blind the eyes
of racists and fascists.

Brian Bilston

Sunday, 29 January 2017

The Sunday posts 2017/ Brexit In Pursuit Of A Bear

Please look out for this bear. Thank you.
He's been getting ideas above his station.
If found please hand him in to the Home Office.
Section: UK Visas and Immigration.

He is wearing a blue duffel coat,
Red wellies and a wide brimmed hat
in an attempt to look like one of us
but do not be fooled by that.

He's one of those funny foreign types,
who try to come here nowadays
to take our homes and steal our jobs
and eat our Great Nation's marmalade.

It is thought he may have terrorist connections
and may be planning to do us harm
so please beware of his hard stare
not to mention his right to bear arms.

Also reported in this area.
Illegal economic migrant
Great Uncle Bulgaria.

Brian Bilston

Sunday, 25 December 2016

The Sunday Posts 2016/ Da Night at Christ wis Boarn

A lass, wis gaen ta cry,
ta Bethlehem cam, weary an makkin maen,
an fan dey wir nae wye
ta lay her doon, for aa da beds wis taen.
Da lodgin-mistress said
da byre wid hae ta du dem, till da moarn:
dere, twa clean windlins spread
athin an empty stall, Goad’s Bairn wis boarn.
A peerie whaig, wi a starn
athin her broo, wis tied apo da waak,
an, inbye i da barn,
wi sleepy peesters, hens upo da baak.
Whin aa wis ower an düne
da Midder’s een droopit in sweet relief;
Joseph sat winderin on
dis marvel at wis nearly past belief.
Dan suddenly, da lift
wis filled wi light an singin fae abüne! –
as Pretty Dancers shift,
sae moved da singers o da heevenly tüne,
an whin dey aa wir geen,
doon da lang hilly gait da shepherds cam,
winderin what hit might mean –
an ane wis kerryin a ting o lamb.
Dey cam in trow, an bent
afore da Infant in a glüd o light:
intae demsels, withoot a doot dey kent
hunders o years wid hear aboot dis night.
Stella Sutherland.
Photo Cathar Memorial, Minerve, Languedoc.
By Alistair.



Friday, 11 November 2016

In Memoriam. One Hundred Years On

Written For Private D. Sutherland
killed in action in the German trench,
and the others who died

So you were David’s father,

And he was your only son,

And the new-cut peats are rotting

And the work is left undone,

Because of an old man weeping,

Just an old man in pain,

For David, his son David,

That will not come again.

Oh, the letters he wrote you,

And I can see them still,

Not a word of the fighting,

But just the sheep on the hill

And how you should get the crops in

Ere the year get stormier,
And the Bosches have got his body,

And I was his officer.

You were only David’s father,

But I had fifty sons

When we went up in the evening

Under the arch of the guns,

And we came back at twilight - 

O God! I heard them call

To me for help and pity

That could not help at all.

Oh, never will I forget you,

My men that trusted me,

More my sons than your fathers’,
For they could only see

The little helpless babies 

And the young men in their pride.
They could not see you dying,

And hold you while you died.

Happy and young and gallant,

They saw their first-born go,

But not the strong limbs broken

And the beautiful men brought low,

The piteous writhing bodies,

The screamed ‘Don’t leave me, Sir’,

For they were only your fathers

But I was your officer.

E. Alan Mackintosh

Sunday, 14 August 2016

The Sunday Posts 2016/ Galaxy Song

Whenever life gets you down, Mrs.Brown
And things seem hard or tough
And people are stupid, obnoxious or daft
And you feel that you've had quite enough

Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving
And revolving at nine hundred miles an hour
That's orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it's reckoned
A sun that is the source of all our power

The sun and you and me and all the stars that we can see
Are moving at a million miles a day
In an outer spiral arm, at forty thousand miles an hour
Of the galaxy we call the 'milky way'

Our galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars
It's a hundred thousand light years side to side
It bulges in the middle, sixteen thousand light years thick
But out by us, it's just three thousand light years wide

We're thirty thousand light years from galactic central point
We go 'round every two hundred million years
And our galaxy is only one of millions of billions
In this amazing and expanding universe

The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding
In all of the directions it can whizz
As fast as it can go, the speed of light, you know
Twelve million miles a minute and that's the fastest speed there is

So remember, when you're feeling very small and insecure
How amazingly unlikely is your birth
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space
'Cause there's bugger all down here on Earth

Eric Idle.

The Sunday Posts 2017/ Hush Hush

Hush, hush, time tae be sleepin'. Hush, hush, dreams come a-creepin'; Dreams of peace and of freedom, So smile in your sleep,...