Poetic Biography of Rabbie Burns

A short biographical tribute to the Immortal Bard.

NB (for English folk)  oggan = ocean; fu' =  had a skinful.

Rabbie the Rhyming Alkie

                                                O Rabbie Burns, he got sae fu',

                                                They thought that he might ne'er come to;

                                                "Go easy, Rab," his friends all said,

                                                "Or you will very soon be dead;

                                                Your way of life, it is not wise."

                                                But Rab thought they were telling lies.

                                                On Hogmanay, he got so drunk,

                                                He took a freezing midnight dunk;

                                                He fell right off of his toboggan,

                                                And leapt full-clothed into the oggan;

                                                His escapade did not come free,

                                                He croaked it from the pneumonie.

With Amy Winehouse drinking herself to death, and England rugby players jumping in the sea at the World Cup, it seems that little has changed among the famous.

To a Mouse (the Update)

This is an attempt to make Robert Burns world-famous poem more accessible to a modern urban audience. Burns lived in a stone country cottage, a world away from how we live now. Not only his archaic dialect words, but also his rustic sentimentality, are alien to today's people. I was inspired to bring it up-to-date by similar treatments accorded to Shakespeare's plays for the school audience.

To a Mouse

                                    Wee sleekit, cowrin' tim'rous beastie,

                                    O what a panic's in thy breastie;

                                    It's wise ye've run away so hasty,

                                    For ye've been nibblin' at ma pastry.

                                    Furtively ye steal ma food,

                                    And what ye leave is nae so guid;

                                    Ye reek so bad I can aye smell it,

                                    Ye've strewn ma flat wi' wee brown pellets.

                                    Behind the plasterboard ye scurry,

                                    Ye're always in an awfu' hurry;

                                    Both night and day ye're scamp'rin' proud,

                                    Frae one so small, it sounds quite loud.

                                    If I can lay ma hands on ye,

                                    I'll smash ye tae a pulp.

Three Dodgy Haiku from the Word! workshop

The organiser, Jan Fox, challenged us to be in the now, and write haiku to perform in front of the group. She told us that 'now presence' was the key to successful live performance, in her experience.

The first is based on what happened while we were trying to write them.

                                    The fire brigade's here;

                                    We're living in denial,

                                    But get the all clear.

Someone cooking upstairs. Lucky we weren't killed as we ignored the alarm and wrote. Fanatics, eh?

                                    Should I eat Greg's bun?

                                    It's full of sticky toffee

                                    Which will rot my teeth.

It was sitting in front of me after I had finished my first effort, and he had been trying to get someone to take it, as he only wanted one of the pair he had bought.

                                    The cherry blossom

                                    Is gone; they've cut down the trees,

                                    To build a new shed.

Jan mentioned flippantly that real haiku should feature the cherry blossom. This, sadly, is also based on what has happened in my home street, where the prettiest cherry trees in the city have been sacrificed to church expansion.

We had five minutes to write one, and I did three. The secret to churning out the doggerel against the clock is to not be overly fussy about quality.

                                   

                                   

The Word! Poetry Workshop

A friend and I went to the Word! poetry workshop at the YMCA Theatre mainly out of curiosity. It was too small to sit at the back trying to look inconspicuous, so there was no escape. The first challenge was to write a poem about our journey to the workshop. We had five minutes. For someone who never writes and rarely reads poetry, this was a bit of a task.

                                    Walking along, bopping along,

                                    Startled by unseasonal sun.

                                    Greg keeps talking winter coats

                                    While I'm still feeling hot,

                                    He's telling me 'bout clothing shops.

                                    Curiosity killed the cat;

                                    What am I interloping at?

                                    The door is locked, my mind is clocked.

                                    To go or stay?

                                    Nothing else to do today;

                                    And now I'm trapped,

                                    Into trying to write a poem.