LL-L 'Literature' 2006.06.13 (02) [E/LS/S]

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L O W L A N D S - L * 13 June 2006 * Volume 02
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From: Howard Scott <listes at alterego.montreal.qc.ca>
Subject: LL-L 'Members' news' 2006.06.12 (02) [E/S]

My condolences to Arthur. Having lost my own father in January, I have some
idea of what he is feeling. The poem is beautiful.

Thank you, Ron and Sandy for the Scots versions. Would it be imposing to
ask for Scots renderings of a poem I wrote for my father? It would be
wonderful to have it our "ancestral language." (There were still remnants
of Scots in my grandparents' speech, after 4 generations in Canada. Little
was left in my father's language apart from some pronounciations.)

*****

Shoulders

His shoulders grew a little thin at the end,
Diminished by age.

They were always broad and strong,
Holding his daughters and his sons,
Carrying endless pails of milk,
Stooking sheaves of grain,
Hefting bags of feed,
And casting Sunday afternoon fishing lines.

He taught me how to build a solid load of hay
That would hold together over the rough patches,
Shoulders swinging bales above his head.
He passed on shoulders strong enough
To carry a share of the weight of the world
When he no longer could.

His shoulders were broad and strong at the end
Undiminished by time.


For my father, Gordon James Scott, who died on January 21, 2006, in his 85
year.

*****

Howard Scott

At 03:45 PM 12-06-06 -0700, you wrote:
>From: Sandy Fleming <sandy at scotstext.org>
>Subject: LL-L 'Members' news' 2006.06.11 (04) [E/S]
>
> >From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
> >Subject: Members' news
> >
> >Folks,
> >
> >I took a stab at a Scots translation of Arthur's poem. Perhaps our Scots
> >speakers will be so kind as to consider making comments, corrections and/or
> >suggestions, maybe in time for Arthur and his brother to include it in the
> >funeral service program.
> >
> >Thanks in anticipation.
> >
> >Regards,
> >Reinhard/Ron
> >
> >***
> >
> > The aigle mither's gane.
> > Gin she went soarin intae yonner
> > Or wappit her weengs ticht in a plype,
> > Hert-stappin,
> > That Ah canna ken.
> > But this Ah seen:
> > Afore she winned awa, she
> > Birled, an sweyed, an smirkit;
> > An Ah shoud dae nae less.
> >
> >Arthur's original version:
> >
> > The eagle mother is gone.
> > Whether she soared away,
> > Or folded wings in plunge,
> > Heart-stopping,
> > I cannot know.
> > But this I saw:
> > Before she left, she
> > Gyred, and turned, and smiled;
> > And I should do no less.
> >
>Ron,
>
>Here's what I'd suggest:
>
>The aigle mither's awa.
>Whether faur abuin oor sicht,
>Or faan intae a hert-grippin drap,
>Wings happit,
>I canna lairn.
>But this I did spy:
>Afore she gaed ower, she
>Birled, an turned, an smiled;
>An nane less shoud I dae mysel.
>
>Sandy Fleming
>http://scotstext.org/
>
>----------
>
>From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
>Subject: Members' news
>
>Thanks a lot, Sandy! That's lovely.
>
>I'll pass it on to Arthur if you don't mind.
>
>Cheers!
>Reinhard/Ron

----------

From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
Subject: Literature

Hello, dear Howard!

It is good to hear from you again.  My condolences.  I would say "belatedly," but
January is not too far back, and "belatedly" is never the right word in reference
to the loss of a close person.

I would be happy to oblige with a translation, but -- and is all too clear to
most -- I am not really Scots-competent.  So I'll wait and see if any of our
Scots-competent fellow Lowlanders volunterrs.

I enjoy the plain style of your poem.

Below, in a more "mysterious" and "mystical" vein, is my Low Saxon (Low German)
poem with my English translation.  I wrote it on the day after my mother-in-law's
death, and it was published in 1999.

Some may say that this is too somber and morose a topic.  I personally beg to differ.

Kind regards,
Reinhard/Ron

***

VÖRHANG

de kassen flimmert un drœnt in eensen to un versöökt
vergävens de läävlose stuuv' wedder waak to maken
mit vertellen vun minschenbülgen er kamen un gaan
vun'n stried mit de natuur, de tied un dat sülvst, un vun de
technologie er bäter, gauer, œder – keen quäält dat nu

keen dat ook west is ... de is nu al lang wedder weg
still hett he 'n eensaam, verklaamt rögen achterlaten
'n basch rüken schudern siepert œver andenken
persöönlichen kraam un snippels vun handschrift
de er waar bedüden nu keen een meer wäten schall

de grulichen schadden vun den sien heemliche plicht
un 'n wulk vun dat grote radel sien scharp bieten rœk
benävelt iesig 'n hümpel lüüd' de to benaut för pien
unnood smödene frücht vun'n groten tekenboom plückt
anpurrt vun slööksche slangen de al lang lurig kruupt

nüchterne lüüd' mit swattswichtig duurn as gillenkluft
griept un verpackt 'n leddig gehüüs' un schuuvt dat weg
un laatt 'n spoor vun nich-seggte, nich-dane saken achter
up't balkonggelänner wiest noch 'n krei er waarn klöörn
dörch'n vörhang un flüggt denn lichtflünksch uut de künn.

***

CURTAINS

the box keeps flickering and bellowing, vainly
attempting to revive the lifeless room with stories
about the comings and goings of human waves
about struggles with nature, time and self and 
about technology's better and faster — who cares now

whoever they were have long come and gone
leaving behind a solitary movement frozen in time
with odorous gloom oozing out over mementos
and personal sundries, scraps of handwriting
whose true meaning will no longer be known

the uncanny shadows of their clandestine chore
and a whiff of the great mystery's acrid redolence
icily envelop an assembly too perplexed for pain
reluctantly picking from the great tree of tokens
urged on by voracious vipers that thrive on grief

fetchers donning condolence as trade guild attire
grab, wrap and wheel away a still, vacant frame
leaving a trail of unsaid words and undone deeds
on the balcony railing a crow reveals its true colors
through lace curtains, then lightly flies out of sight

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