Christmas Dinner at home

Normally we don't bother much about xmas, but last year Guo Ying asked me to make her a traditional christmas dinner. Well, not exactly traditional, (a chicken tagine with olives and preserved lemons we bought in Casablanca), but close enough...... This year it'll be xmas in Sri Lanka. 

ON-GOING WORK

in Scots

translated from the Chinese

Some recent work: this is the beginning of a poem of around 370 lines, dating back to at least 2,000 years ago, and probably much further. It's obscure, but beautiful.

FORGAITHERT WI DULE

bi Qu Yuan

A come o the stock o Gaoyang, see

ma fore-elder wis cryit Bo Yong

whan the Heizer Starn wis at the Sneck, ay

on Ne’erday A wis born

ma faither spaed it out the firsten day, see

an braw bairn-names he gied me

the name he gied wis Suithfast Ensamplar, ay

an the byname o Halie Balance

born wi beautie in ma benmaist sel, see

eikit ti that A wis buskit brawlie

luvage A wure an the beildit seggans, ay

twyned hairst bawderries for ma garlant

swippert A gaed like in hot trod, see

feart the years wadna wait on uis

A gaithert angelica frae the hill i the dawin, ay

an poued rashes on the annays i the gloamin

days an months skelpit on like they’d ne’er devaul, see

springs an hairsts cam efter ither bi ane an bi ane

A thocht hou the gerss an trees fades, ay

feart ma Weill-faurd Ane wad dwyne awa an dee

yir youthheid ingaither an gie owre sculdudrie, see

hou no mend yir weys an haud yirsel forrit?

A’ve graithit braw horses for ye ti ride, ay

c’wa nou an A’ll gang afore ye ti airt ye yir gate

theThree Langsyne Kings wis douce an onspottit, see

ilka sweet flouer wis laid by shuir in its place

black spice and cannel they mellit thegither, ay

an throuither they twyned rare fynnigrief in garlants

Yao an Shun, thae twa, they rang great an glorifeed, see

for that they follaed the richt wey and keepit the richt gate

hou muckle the menselessness o Jie an Zhou, ay

wha gaed an ill gate ti misgovern an misfare

tentless gowks rins efter gomerel pleisurs, see

drumlie an derk’s their road, dour their danger

hou wad A fear skaith ti ma ain sel, ay

whan ma soverane’s weir-cairt cud be cowpit?

ramstam A gaed afore an ahint ti ser ye, see

ti airt ye in the fuitsteids o the kings o auld

but ma Muskit Ane wadna see ma benmaist hairt, ay

trewin the ill-tonguit he gaed wuid at me

fine weill A ken leal hairts gets mishanter, see

but A maun thole it for A canna gie owre

A obtest nine-fauld heiven for ma witness, ay

It was aa for the sake o ma Guidman

yince wi me he’d be fair-spoken, see

but then he forthocht an tuik the rue

it’s no for masel A care bi this sinderin, ay

        but A’m hairtsair ma Guidman sud be sae kittle

monie’s the acre A plantit wi bawderries, see

an sheucht in basilic in monie’s the brek

A set pairkfus o peonies an cairt-stell, ay

        mellin the seggans wi the melissa

And these are the work of the great 8th-century master, Du Fu:

FRAE HIE ABUNE 

a grumlie gowl, a lowerin lift

puggies greit an mane

caller shaulds, white sauns

birds flee hame ti reist

nae en o failin trees, leafs

faan i the reishlin wund

ne’er still, the lang Yangtze Watter

rowin an pirlin doun

a million mile o heart-sair hairsts -

an here’s me, fremt for ay

a lang life o seikness tae –

sclimmin the touer ma lane

cark an care an wersh wersh rue

an cranreuch at ma haffets

a pugglt auld gangrel – an juist gien

up the bluidie booze

 

 NAE TITLE 

ane

our land’s gey bonnie i the settin sun

gress and flouers perfumin the waretime wund

swallas flee abune the slaistery slatch

doverin deuks beik on the warm saun

 

twa

the watter’s emerant, the birds whiter yit

the hills is green, their flourish skyrie-gettin

here’s anither waretime winnin awa -

an whan ‘ll come ma ain hame-gaun?

 

 

THE WATTERSIDE CLACHAN

 wi the ae jouk the caller watter

oxters the clachan as it rins

this watterside clachan aa simmer

lithe an lown it lies

the swallas is aye joukin in an out

amang the riggin-trees

an seamaas coorie in aa crouse

thegither on the watter

the cailleach scrieves hersel a paper

ti mak a dambrod o’t

the younkers  chap awa at preens

ti mak their fishin heuks

gin A hed a guid auld frein

ti help wi meal an siller

a simple hameart sowl like me -

whit ither wad A seek for?

  

FORENENT THE SNAA

weir, an greitin, an monie new ghaists

chantin doul an wae, an auld bodach his lane

the tapsalteerie cairrie’s gaun doun ti dayset

flauchts o snaa dancin i the whidderin wund

the caup’s cuisten awa, an the coggie’s tuim

the stove’s there yit, an fair like reid

sindert frae the stewartries, nae news at aa

an me, sitten waefulike, scrievin i the air

 

THE WALCOME

 Fair pleased at Shirra Cui cryin in…

 besouth an benorth ma but an ben

naethin but waretime fluidin

naethin ti see bar seamaas in flochts

comin day an daily

ma flouerie bauks hes niver yit

been soupit for a veisitor

ma wicker yett for the firsten time

‘ll open for ye the day, sir

fancy breid? the mercat’s fer

there’ll be naethin ti gust yir gab, sir

a gless, ye say? it’s a tuim wee hous

forbye oor fernyear’s brewin

but gin ye’re willin to cowp a gless

wi the auld ane at’s ma neibour

A’ll cry him in outowre the dyke

ti hae a rowth o drams thegither

   

 

Staunin ma lane

 hyne awa i the lift the eagle hings

inben the braes, a pair o pickie-maas

scovin an tovin, handie for the onding

dandie an cantie, playin back an forrit

the gress wi dew is fair droukit yit

the ettercap’s wab still no taen awa

providence is neaurhaun by aa the warks o man

A’m staunin ma lane, a million reasons for care

  

VIZZY I THE SPRING 

the kinrik’s by wi’t, but our land’s ti the fore still;

our city, this spring, is growthie wi weeds:

at times like nou, tears splatter our blooms

an birds brek in on the sorra o our pairtins.

beacon fires hae bleized in spring efter spring:

the ae note frae hame, A’d pey thousans for.

ma lyart hair I’ve scartit sae thin, that

muckle tho A ettle at it, it winna haud ma hatpreen.

 

FRAE THE HAIRT, TRAIVELLIN

 on the haugh fine gress an a smaa wind

on ma boatie a hie-tiltit stang an lanesome nichts

the staurs hingin owre the even outland's braid

an the muin wallachin whaur muckle watters jow

whit wey 'll musardrie e’er mak ma name?

A'm auld an seik an shuirlie maun reteir

whit am A like, fleein an flichterin about?

a pickie-maa, atween the yirth an lift!

 

---

 

It's simple: Scotland is ready to be an independent nation again. After 300 years of being part of the Union, it's time we gave the English their independence.

A chance to have no more war, and no more bankrupting ourselves and going without for the politicians' hard-on that is Trident (the "British" nuclear weapons system that is rented from the USA). No more wasting the revenue from our oil, no more delusions of imperial grandeur

No more wars....Hamish Henderson said it right:

Nae mair will our bonnie callants
Merch tae war whan our braggarts crousely craw
Nor wee weans frae pitheid an clachan
Murn the ships sailin doun the Broomielaw
Broken faimilies in launs we've hairriet
Will curse 'Scotlan the Brave' nae mair, nae mair

The time will come. I long for the day. No more gutted kilties, no more broken lives. no more war.

West Lake, Hangzhou

The first time I saw West Lake in Hangzhou, I was dumbfounded. It was October, at sunset, and as I watched the sun go down, from a pavilion behind me came drifting the sound of local opera, as musicians and singers came and went, often dropping in off their bikes to request a song, or to play a tune or two. It was magical.

And, having read about the beauty of the lake for many years, to see it for the first time was a very emotional experience. I wept as I stood there. Later, having lived close by, and seen it through the seasons, it became familiar to me, but never less than ravishing - in sunshine, in the rain, and even, once, in the snow.

Many years after I left Hangzhou, I went back, to find the city centre all but unrecognisable: the old streets were gone, replaced with mirror-glass towers and multi-lane highways. Qingchun Lu, once the main street - Marco Polo had walked it - was a twisting, organic muddle of Art Deco banks, traditional 2-storey houses with wooden upper walls, and unlovely Stalinist buildings, but it had real character. All gone now. But the lake remains inviolate, and lovely as ever.

We destroy so much, humans. God's spoilers.....but we can build true sometimes. West Lake is lovely because men made it so.

Will we ever learn again how to build true and lovely things, without damaging our mother, the Earth?

the turning world

we never know what songs an stories are hidden in the stones around us, in the hills and the mountains, and in the whisper of the sea - unless we take time to listen

so, at this failing moon, I watch the wind and the tides in Hong Kong, as once I watched the Border seasons turn, and I sit here calmly, and I think of how the old old world turns

there are invisible bridges we cross every day, unknowing, and descents we can make into the world of dreams (if we choose to), a world - or worlds - at our finger's end, if we just reach out and touch

what small lives we lead, and so much to explore.....


And today is the birthday of my poor dead brother, for which I have no words but constant loss and a sore heart.

The Lady's Brig

On a bend in the Ettrick Water, below the ruin of Newark Tower, the Lady's Brig used to be my favourite way to get to the tower from the Ettrick road. It lay, a haunted, tranquil spot, at the bottom of a slope covered in mixed woodland - ash, oak, birch and rowan - and spanned a deep pool fringed with hazel bushes. As a teenager I used to love the dark peaty water, where I'd see the kythe of a salmon's back from time to time, and, fresh from Robert Graves' "White Goddess", I'd dream about the salmon of knowledge, which gained its wisdom from the hazel nuts that fell into the pool. I'd read there, or just sit and dream an afternoon away, lulled by the rush of water, the birdsong, and the breeze in the bushes.

The last time I was there - two-three years ago - it was dilapidated and closed.

And the houses I remember from my childhood? 26 Point Rd., Apapa, Lagos is still there - or at least the address is: I had a Nigerian scam e-mail once from that address. That fairly put the heart across me.... In Edinburgh, what was my grandparents' house in Abbeyhill, is still there, as I think is the Edwardian villa we lived in on Carronshore Road, near Falkirk, though the Carron ironworks, where my dad worked, is long ago demolished. My mother's family house - Croft Cottage in Selkirk - is there yet, though much altered and occupied by strangers.

I know people whose family have lived in the same house for generations, who still have all their old toys and schoolbooks - I have none of that. Much of my past is known only to me and my brother now, as most of my family is long dead.

Which brings me to something I've long wondered about: how much can we trust our memories? Trying to write about my childhood in Nigeria once, I asked my brother about the chimps. You see, when we were in Lagos, Dad had a doctor friend who raised chimpanzees, and we would play with them on the white sands of Victoria beach. He asked if I remembered the albino one, and I didn't, so I asked Mum, and she told me that it wasn't the chimp that was albino, but the houseboy who looked after them. My brother had conflated the two.....(I still remember the smell of chimps.)

I think we seem to have discrete childhood memories like little snapshots, and as we turn them over in our minds, we link them together to create the illusion of movement, like movie film does.

Zhuangzi talks about someone who wakes from a dream of glorious feast, and weeps for what he's missing. And, he says, one day, there will be a great awakening. Maybe so with our memories?

Where would the Lady's Brig lead me now, if I could cross it again?

The long way home?

I've been living away from Scotland since 1991, and here in Hong Kong since Christmas 1999. My time here is coming to an end soon - I'm on my last contract, and will leave in summer '09, latest.

So I'm thinking about endings and beginnings - or, at least, my dreams are all about endings and beginnings. Not the same thing.

It's maybe the best way to a calm and happy life, if you can learn to manage your goodbyes. For me at this moment as I'm coming towards my second Saturn return, I'm impelled to ask, as I was 30 years ago, "What am I for?", but this time I also have to ask myself if the answers I provided then are still useful.

This was when I began to be a translator and when I began to write and publish: as I defined myself then, I was a meditator (2 hours daily!), a vegetarian, firmly located in Scotland, and pretty much at peace with where I was going, though I couldn't see how to achieve it.

Oh boys and girls, the things I've seen and done since then. I've climbed the Great Wall more times than I care to recall, I've seen pink dolphins on the Amazon, and watched the stars over Machu Picchu. As a boy I dreamed of visiting Rome, Florence and Athens, of walking the streets of Herculaneum and Pompeii, and I've done it. I've loitered in cafes from Amsterdam to Berlin, got stoned in Morocco, woken on the overnight sleeper from Sydney to Brisbane to be gobsmacked by the other-worldly weirdness of the Australian bush under a full moon. I got lost one night on the black sands of Karekare beach outside Auckland, under the strange southern stars, I've many times been at the taking of drink with poets and other such hooligans in Auckland, Wellington, London, Edinburgh, and many other places besides Hong Kong, and I've played music or been on stage reading poems in Bali, Thailand, Vietnam, China, New Zealand, Portugal, France and Spain, and all over England and Scotland.

So many things to do still.......

My friend Thor's wee laddie said to him the other day, "Dying's like a bubble: POP! and it's gone....but it's in the water, really." Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings cometh forth wisdom: I've never heard a better description of the moment of nirvana, the absorption into the universal Buddha mind (may all living beings get there).

Maybe there are no goodbyes in truth. Love is incontrovertibly unconditional: it transcends the conditional, man-made concepts of time and space, so maybe when we love, we love for once and for ever. If we truly open our hearts to the magnanimity of the living multiverse, why shouldn't we?

The living wisdom of the salmon flickers in the granite below us, and between the stars.