A 60 Odd Burns Night Selection
Poetry for a braw bricht moonlicht nicht.
Personally, I don’t think it matters what nationality you are. If you love poetry, you can celebrate Burns night. You don’t need to be Irish to celebrate Bloomsday. I am not the sort of Englishman who walks around Edinburgh dressed in a kilt, but I did buy a kilt just to celebrate Burns night in. It comes out of the loft on January 24th and goes back up on January 26th.
When I did my DNA test to discover my heritage. I was mostly English with a bit of Irish and a bit of Norwegian. I’m clinging to the Irish and Norwegian because I reckon that it adds enough Celtic and Viking to my blood, that I can side with them over the Norman invaders, whose descendants are clearly all readers of the Sun, Mail or Telegraph, and easily swayed by the likes of Nigel Fromage and Stephen Yaxley Thingummywhats.
I like the idea of Celtic good sense, David Hulme, Adam Smith, Alex Ferguson, all brilliant in their time. Even Arthur Conan Doyle. I know he was away with the fairies, but he created Sherlock Holmes for God’s sake! And I love Scottish humorist poets such as Ivor Cutler and William McGonnegal (was he a humorist or did he mean it - either way he was a genius)
I could go on, but better still. Here are some poems from the Sixty Odd
Poems
Burns Monument after Dark - Jim Murdoch After the wedding the happy couple leave for a luxury break - Liz McPherson Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-Race Fae the Cabrach - Dawn McLachlan In praise of Haggis - Liz McPherson Third Degree Burns - Paul Dyson The Engineer - Mike O'Brien
Burns Monument After Dark - Jim Murdoch
Here we are again and your grey eyes and mine avoid the distant lights— still, an afterglow remains. I can deny reality but what of my fears? Secrets are just lies by process of omission: Shadows amongst shadows and tonight, the dark scares me. ... Jim Murdoch, the larkin Loving Scots poet/novelist featured as number 57 of the Sixty Odd Poets < < <
After the wedding the happy couple leave for a luxury break - Liz McPherson
Our honeymoon’s in Scotland. In November. In a Reliant Robin. We sleep in a tent wearing woolly hats with the dog lying between us. We don’t get up to pee in the middle of the night. In the morning, there’s frost on the grass and we can’t buy breakfast because we drank all of our cash in the Noble Stag. The three-wheeler swings round kinks on narrow lanes, a bibulous tyke, loses part of its exhaust outside Kilmarnock. ... Liz McPherson's collection Shivering in the Wind is available from the Yaffle Press < < <
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-Race - Gary Wells
Potatoes and turnips isn't as grand as tatties and neeps, as a compliment to the Haggis. As it is brought into the room. Swirl of kilt, moan of bagpipe. The Flowers of the Forest, piped to perfection. The Haggis, freshly killed, is addressed and offered amongst a thong of admirers. Whisky flows to crystal glass. A toast is proposed, Ode to a Mouse is issued forth, Ae Fond Kiss remembers the fallen. The night draws to conclusion. Another dram is drawn. Auld Lang Syne echoes around the room. A poet has helped celebrate one more year with friends, to remind of those who went before. ... Gary is a regular Contributor to Sixty Odd Poets specials - I await his full page of sixty Odd poems with bated breath - it can't be too long. < < <
Fae the Cabrach - Dawn McLachlan
Ghosts are here in mourning winds Rising up with soot-black birds High and dark as winter clouds Soughing over fields unploughed Above unkempt and tumbled walls A hundred skeins soar and call Filling wild air with their lament White the hare by empty doors As mists roll in across the moor Swallowing the human traces Through now which the wildlife laces Tucked beneath the heather shroud Ribbon like Paths anew Distilled silence In a landscape steeped in secrets And long since untrodden ways Here the memories of grieving mothers Sons who will now not grow old And futures that remain untold No lights left to guide them home Empty hearths of now bare stone Gardens long since left and barren But from a gnarled and twisted rowan A tattered mistle thrush sings As Autumn’s geese Bring Winter’s snow on their wings ... Dawn McLachlan regularly publishes her poetry on Bluesky. She lives in North east Scotland < < <
In Praise of Haggis - Liz McPherson
The haggis is a tim’rous beast, he lives up in the highlands, his body’s long, his legs are short to suit the harsh environs. He grazes on a varied diet of leaves and twigs and moss, a gentle vegetarian, he’s fond of prickly gorse The haggis hides from human sight, his coat is brown and hairy, he blends into the scenery avoids all adversaries. So if you plan to feast upon Rab’s ‘other’ tim’rous beastie, a friend o’mine you’ll be no more ye haggis-eatin’ freak ye. ... < < <
Third Degree Burns - Paul Dyson
D’ya ken Bobby Burns where men in skirts munch on deep-fried Mars bars bag-pipes and tartan cake D’ya ken barbarians at the gate beyond that Northern wall trying to escape Rab C the Big Yin and Nicola Sturgeon D’ya ken piping in the Haggis with Neeps and tatties a staple like porridge oats Iron Brew and ‘wreck the hoose’ juice D’ya ken Trump’s heritage 19 holes without retaliatory tariffs shouting Freedom to Greenland William Wallace and the SNP So if ya ken nowt about Caledonia wear ya sporran loose like the moose, sample the angels share of the ‘Hiskey and your love will wear her red red nose. ... Paul Dyson, poet, artist and musician was one of the first poets to join the Fellowship of the Sixty Odd. He recently released his second collection of poems: 29 Colour Postcards and One Still Life < < <
The Engineer - Mike O’Brien
The ship was beset from all sides Port, starboard and fore By enemies inhuman Whose cold hearts were set on war The captain knew he must retreat To fight another day So he ordered the ships engineer To get them on their way The engineer was a Scot A dour and doughty man His face was grim as he declared I dinnae think I can! “Cap’n the ship cannae take nae more Powers doon by seventy percent The dilithium crystals Are near completely spent If I push her any harder She’ll be rent apart I’m sure Cap’n listen when I say She cannae take nae more” The Captain eyed the Engineer With stern unflinching eye “Warp five and that’s an order” “Aye Aye” came the reply “But I’ll need tae take a little time Tae recalibrate the drive” “How long?” - “Six Hours” - “We don’t have hours! Just Minutes and you’ve got five.” The engineer was under stress His flesh was all a lather But the doughty hero set to work With what things he could gather He had to do his captain’s will By any ways or means He re-routed auxiliary power Through the ships baths and latrines He cooled down the condensing coil With frozen orange crush And re-energized the crystals With his phaser drive toothbrush Torpedoes were incoming as The warp drive was engaged In a microsecond they had gone Leaving their foes enraged The engineer wiped his brow The captain smiled and said I never doubted you, old friend And now, full speed ahead! There’s strange new worlds around us And we’ve five years to explore But the engineer’s voice was quaking “She cannae take nae more” “Cap’n the ship cannae take nae more Powers doon by seventy percent The dilithium crystals Are near completely spent If I push her any harder She’ll be rent apart I’m sure Cap’n listen when I say She cannae take nae more” ... Mike O'Brien has recently completed his second substack series of Sixty Odd Poems and is taking a little time off to build up the publishing side of his project - the Sixty Odd Press < < <