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Poems in Scotland, 2020
DATE: 21 January — 4 February 2020
PLACE: Inverness, Strathpeffer, Sutherland, Lochaber, Ross, Glasgow, Edinburgh
Red Marsh
No more can be high
No more can be wide
Smoky rain can spread over soon
and wavy wind can rage
but there is never been clear blue sky
Birds sing a song in their clear voices
Cattles graze in silence
Sun respects our living
No more can find out in the world
the most perfect luck and peace
It sinks whenever we tread on
The rug of the dead covered in folds
White light spreads, gathers and spreads again
The ground is in the restful slumber in it
Red marsh is shinning
(Culloden Moor, Inverness)
Forest and Fog
Cannot do anymore, being frozen
No help for standing stock still
Black forest of nightfall
Young marsh hides under snow blanket
Old river cannot swim against the stream of time
Munros just pray devoutly
Wet hair of forest is chilled to the bone
The feeling in its toes is already covered with moss
It cannot react to the kiss of a red squirrel
Meaning, logic — shed everything,
undress and being about to embrace forest,
White fog is beautiful—one winter night
(Tarvie, Strathpeffer)
Stag
Separated by one cliff
braving the storm
Our spirits look at each other
Your antler is tree
My poem is wind
The hill rustles in the infinite silent
When you turn on your heels
When I again walk
the eternal moment will become past
We two are still here
As long winter does not rush spring
Without knowing that time to come
Our spirits look at each other
braving the storm
over the cliff
(Loch Assynt, Sutherland)
Potter
Morning dew runs down a window
Steam rises from his wet grey hair
A chair he sat gives a creak
Rain again beats the roof
Rolling cigarette has slender scent
His fingers are rounded and thick
A fishing port of winter is in sigh
The lights come on in town along the shore
The shadow of a seagull sails across the sky
He again smokes the cigarette
From the end of the hill over a forest
Munro looks down at him
The man exhales slowly
The palm of his hands burns redly
A kiln of his spirit burst into flame
His anger returns to the soil some day
He makes vessels
to hold stray lives in the world
(Lochinver, Sutherland)
No more can be high
No more can be wide
Smoky rain can spread over soon
and wavy wind can rage
but there is never been clear blue sky
Birds sing a song in their clear voices
Cattles graze in silence
Sun respects our living
No more can find out in the world
the most perfect luck and peace
It sinks whenever we tread on
The rug of the dead covered in folds
White light spreads, gathers and spreads again
The ground is in the restful slumber in it
Red marsh is shinning
(Culloden Moor, Inverness)
Forest and Fog
Cannot do anymore, being frozen
No help for standing stock still
Black forest of nightfall
Young marsh hides under snow blanket
Old river cannot swim against the stream of time
Munros just pray devoutly
Wet hair of forest is chilled to the bone
The feeling in its toes is already covered with moss
It cannot react to the kiss of a red squirrel
Meaning, logic — shed everything,
undress and being about to embrace forest,
White fog is beautiful—one winter night
(Tarvie, Strathpeffer)
Stag
Separated by one cliff
braving the storm
Our spirits look at each other
Your antler is tree
My poem is wind
The hill rustles in the infinite silent
When you turn on your heels
When I again walk
the eternal moment will become past
We two are still here
As long winter does not rush spring
Without knowing that time to come
Our spirits look at each other
braving the storm
over the cliff
(Loch Assynt, Sutherland)
Potter
Morning dew runs down a window
Steam rises from his wet grey hair
A chair he sat gives a creak
Rain again beats the roof
Rolling cigarette has slender scent
His fingers are rounded and thick
A fishing port of winter is in sigh
The lights come on in town along the shore
The shadow of a seagull sails across the sky
He again smokes the cigarette
From the end of the hill over a forest
Munro looks down at him
The man exhales slowly
The palm of his hands burns redly
A kiln of his spirit burst into flame
His anger returns to the soil some day
He makes vessels
to hold stray lives in the world
(Lochinver, Sutherland)