Yuletide is a magic, signalling a new life cycle start – a slow return to light, the sun, currently at 6.6 degree elevation at its zenith… And in those times of darkness, the faintest spark feels a treasure.
The island, engulfed in some 5 and something hours of light on 21 Dec., is already scraping seconds away. Snowflakes dusted every inch of sand, heather and grass this polar felt 24 Dec. 2020.
Yule, Yöl Eve, julhaften, or réveillon, here comes two poems – one in Shetland dialect from Vagaland; the other, from my own pen.
Fae Mr Robertson, aka Vagaland,
Santie’s Reindeer
Da Göd Man hings da starns
Laek peerie lamps sae bricht,
Sae Santie Klaas can fin his wye,
Whin he comes here da nicht.
Dis nicht he yoks his reindeer up,
An drives dem trowe da sky;
Dan he taks on his muckle bag
An leaves his slaidge ootbye.
An, Maamie, whin you mylk da coo
You’ll geng an tak a
O hey, or maybe twartree
An laeve dem lyin furt.
Da reindeer haes sae far ta geng;
Dey’re maybe hed nae maet,
An he’ll be blyde if he can fin
A grain fir dem ta aet.
A’ll hing my sock apo da
Jöst in below da brace,
An whin he’s trivveled trowe da
He’ll aesy fin da place.
He’ll never come till A’m asleep,
Sae A’ll pit on my goon
An up da stairs ita da
A’ll geng an lay me doon.
You’ll pit da claes aboot me noo,
Becaase he’s gittin late;
An, Maamie, whin you mylk da coo
You’ll mind da reindeer’s maet.
Vagaland.
Hame, at Yöl.
And if Vagaland leaves food for the reindeers, I will gladly leave some for a Norwegian character…
November, month of hellery – this fine Shetland dialect word that encapsulates the worse from the sky in the form of storms of any kind – enshrouded in darkness since daylight feels more and more elusive.
Hel, hell, hellery, as 2020 has never matched our expectations; held us hostage within our walls, and loved ones disappear…
Spaekalation – another fine Shetland dialect word that translates as gossip – is a raw piece written at night, as an attempt to deal with both the savagery of the sky and a sudden and an unexpected bereavement. This poem was first written in the dialect and then translated in English
spaekalation
Whit's yun?
Is yun a gooster or a ghoul?
Twa goggly eens i'da tree,
is yun an owl o some kind?
Ta da dare-say o'da mirken, da vaelensi is juist
begun;
dey say dat ghosts ir among wis,
waanderin, lone, aroond wir laand - dy an
me hoose,
da tattie crö, barn an byre -
dey say dey travel wi da flan an da snitter,
skid juist laek bairns apö
da snaa an glerl o ice,
hide i'da white o'da moorie ta
mind da reek o chimney stacks.
Dey say dey sit by da fire atween
da caird an da wirsit -
da Slockit Licht,
crabbit embers ta keep
da memory alive.
Deir shadows
glide alaang da waa,
listen ta da saang o'da nicht.
----
Gossip
What's this?
Is that a messy gust of wind or just a ghoul?
Two goggly eyes inside a tree,
is it an owl of some kind?
To the hear-say of dusk,
That brisk downpour has just begun;
They say that ghosts are among us,
wandering, lone, around
the land, my and
your house,
the spud corner, barn and cowshed -
they say they travel with wind gusts or biting cold air,
Saoirse the Cat, tended and out, released from her nocturnal curfew, remains oblivious to any weekday or clock change… To her, daybreak demands my care and attention, as a new day calls from the sky .
November, month of shorter days, storms and shine. Sunrise reddens hillsides and refracts on window panes… Tis the time to break your fast with starlings that came to raid the bird feeders and forage frantic through rot and golden leaves roses littered to feed the ground.
Tis morning at sunrise on the eighth day of November.
Days, precious days, where time whirl inside oceanic rollers… And light vanishes for long nights. Every minute counts, as life depends on it.
To watch a sundown and wonder at it, listening to the Atlantic, incessant music from our Earth, and feel at one with the divine.
Priceless, mindful and so humbling.
Tis a time where the island welcomes dwellers for winter, from the planet or colder climes. Mother Nature is amazing. In between episodes of hel, hell, hellery, they come to grace our shores and lives.
Spiggie Loch, home of swans…. November seas, home of the orcas.
So much beauty we share and tend to forget as we lock ourselves in this man-made artificial world. This world regulated by clocks and figures of all kinds…. Compartmented in social scales meant to keep us on some frontline. Calendars and even clock change that still belong to another century tainted with wars…
November remembers months of madness, when guns turned life into nightmares, harm and darkness; where eyes opened for a last time, feet inside mud, lice, ice and rats.
That war that never ended all others, as we don’t seem to learn lessons from our own past. Most of our kind regard history to the property of scholars locked in libraries inside books. And even though suffering still tarnish our own lives, we fall for the same one… We invent organisations to temperate bombs and emergency crises. And when leaders spit at freedom, we say amen and stay quiet behind small screens.
November the great month of changes and miracles…
Today, we cry our relief to the world, celebrate light and a new world that reconciled with wisdom instead of darkness, as the world’s first democracy dared to elect a tandem that may relieve a whole planet…
A first woman in the land of the forefathers. A new milestone seeding new possibilities.
Light over the Atlantic
I can only pray wisdom prevails over dollars; pray to walk the shore and marvel at life in all its forms, as I depend on it all to survive. Every daybreak feels a miracle in itself – every sundown, the path to reconvene with stars… Trillions of eyes from a creator of light and life. How can a species wreck it all?
Tis time to repair whilst we can.
I wish to enjoy the garden, breakfast with starlings at sunrise, and feel at one with the island, sky and ocean.
Garden Raiders
Starlings are like vikings - when they descend on trees, they will raid without shame treasure troves to the last! Starlings are gregarious - They're no robin or wren... glitter, shiny armoured, billed to loot the suet - they argue without end on branches or dead leaves, pitiless in their squads... If they could hold an axe, they would kill merciless, to the final fat crumb... They've got the floor, forage through the gold of rose leaves, leave so little to the sparrows; they might tolerate a blackbird, they're dressed to hammer with their bills, squabble and survive November, the savage price named survival.
We are never fully aware of things until they skelp (slap) you in the face.
My first drive back north to catch the sunset at Mavis Grind – the gateway to Northmavine, the north end of the main island – turned far darker as I caught windfarm ground work in progress with trucks at rest at the foot of hills along the A970 off Sandwater Loch. My heart sank. So far, I had only gazed at stills and drone footage in social media… All of the sudden, it became real.
For years, I have marvelled at Central Mainland – Sandwater, Kergord, da Lang Kames… Nesting, Voe – legendary places of wilderness teeming with rich and varied life. For years, we have been wrestling with a nightmare that will change life and lives – wild as well as human – forever.
For years, I have walked the shore and shared it openly: take a picture of it all before it is changed for ever.
We have lost a battle.
Yet instead of the expected pictures taken from the roadside, I thought of friend & artist Paul Bloomer’s current project entitled Shadowed Valley.
Whilst Paul has been developing his response on canvas through the main medium of charcoal, selected recent pieces of his work struck me over recent time.
Shadowed Valley by Paul BloomerShadowed Valley by Paul Bloomer
In turn, I am expressing in words as my response to his work. With gracious thanks, Paul, for your kindness & powerful work.
Da Death Valley
Winds of change,
listen to the silent valley.
Through the darklands we now wander –
round da paets’ broos, where
whimbrels nest,
gigantic claws obey men’s will;
among heather & crowberries where
merlins hide their love and genes,
metallic claws slash & plunder deep through
this land where
redshanks call, protect their youngs between a loch and
Peta’s print,
way past the ridges of wir Kames,
Lottie’s Half-Way Hoose and
Nesting.
Shackled men to demon-money only
see gold, far away vaults,
far too oblivious to
ravens,
whimbrels, merlins or
mystic mountain hares, Heather Ling or rich purple bells,
the divine sanctuary of life.
Men dunna ken,
they come with trucks as giant claws rage through wir laand,
da paets’ broos: (Shetland dialect) the edge of eroded peat (turf); da Laang Kames (place-name): the long valley shaped from Sandwater Loch to the Village of Voe and Nesting area; Peta: (from O.N. & Shetland folklore) name given to a giant that fell asleep in the valley of da Laang Kames; “Men dunna ken”: (from Shetland dialect) expression meaning “people don’t know”; wir laand: our homeland.
Here comes a piece right from the heart, as I begin to come to terms with a virus that confine us and still stirs fears won’t go away and belongs to Natural Laws.
As soon as we accept this, we become survivors. Put aside politics, those daily obscure statistics… Are we seriously reminded daily about death rates related to the flu, coronary disease, smoking & other drugs? And if only… If only we were reminded daily about the state of our homeworld; victims from climate change.
Yes, it is dangerous; yes, it can kill. Yet like others, we will pull through or disappear… Life is precious and every new morning feels a blank page.
Blank Page
New, New beginnings, threads from loose ends, shreds of blankness left in a corner of a page, chapter so void of ink and thoughts.
New, that point of singularity where dreams wonder out of nowhere, elemental as hydrogen in time and space, where syllables echo like dots from a ballpoint pen ready to blacken first page, new beginnings in a cartridge without smudges, writer’s mistakes… Look at it now, It has darkened beyond belief, as new beginnings set to sail as asteroids, debris, comets, bouncing flash balls from nebulae still to be imagined and penned. Fresh universe to the writer.
Da Lang Kames, from O.N., “Long Ridges” . This is a part of my island. A magical gateway to this last corners of wilderness, as BBC Wildlife broadcaster Simon King once defined Shetland.
There is a deep blanket of peat, a rich, precious, protective and fragile habitat about to be destroyed in the name of greed by a few. In spite of a seven year campaign or so, wir community ignored when alternatives exist. A too grand-scale project and areas of special scientific interest decimated by bulldozers… Folk impacted notably involve Nesting, Aith and up to Vidlin, as da Kames extend East and West.
Central Mainland, Shetland. They want a 103 turbines of that size scattered from wir Lang Kames to Vidlin.
Do not take me wrong.
Not against renewable energy – but against the sheer size of a wind farm in such a small gem of archipelago & impact on my local environment: destruction of peat blanket, loss of precious & fragile habitat… Wir rural community ignored for years in the name of money, as well as long-term impact on tourism, incl. eco-tourism. A terrible mistake for Shetland.
There are alternatives that could have made us independent from this hellish national grid: peerie community turbines (tidal or wind). Instead, sold out to a giant parent company (SSE) for snap short-term profit… Utter Disgrace.
I want to believe it is not too late. Too late to save the rest of Shetland from those who want to destroy it.
If you too have visited my islands,
You will have marvelled at these magical places… Maybe you drove/were driven along the N/S road along da Lang Kames to reach magic places like Eshaness, Uyea or Toft on your way to Yell and Unst or Fetlar, wir North Isles…
Thanks to Billy Fox for the graphic images.
Shetland is world famous for its many natural and archaeological treasures –
To plunder it this way is both eco-genocide and damaging to our community.
Please share the logo and help us save Shetland. Thank you.
When night returns on my latitude, and conditions are right, we see it all… Stars, constellations, our Milky Way, meteors and auroras. It is magic.
On Friday night, and to my great surprise, it did just this… Against the odds of forecasters, the veil vanished and let me contemplate such marvellous spectacle. Here comes a prose poem to celebrate it .
Stars
Tonight, I captured Arcturus. Its light pulsed heart, so unmatched glow flicked and flickered in my parallel universe... W by NW, there, inside mid-August twilight, as Elvis echoed deep in stars, I felt the weight of the great Plough lost in a sea of sentinels. Tonight, I harnessed Aquila.
Where Perseids crash in oblivion, I looked for his wings in North night and imagined a hooded friend with two ravens, cloaked and solemn, eyes down on us.
Tonight, I saw the Milky Way, forbidden patches among stars…
So elusive in August skies, the whole of my world in your hands. Light refracted to reach us out and remind us our loneliness belongs to black; that area called underworld, Hades or Hel.
The Creator gave us Lyra, Betelgeuse and Altair in an effort to help our way – never lose sight of the greatness our universe colours with grace; redraw known shapes with my index like a Kepler or a dreamer.
Tonight, I wished for that white star that bears my name to protect us from knives and blades, shackles or chains – reunite us with divine light, and let us shine among stardust.
nordicblackbird 