Apr 052013
 

By Bob Smith.

A problem in rural Scotia
The scourge o modern day
Fan fowk faa hiv the money
Buy second hooses faar tae stay
.
Noo some young eens in the kwintraside
Leave skweel an wint tae bide
An gyaang tae wark near tae hame
Be it Skite or Deveronside
.
Bonnie hooses in rural villages
Snappit up bi fowk fae toons
Tae spend a wikk eyn or holidays
Oot-buyin local quines an loons
.
Holiday hames they are ca’ed
Faar ainers dinna bide at aa
Bit rint them oot tae tourists
Is iss nae bliddy eese ava
The young eens are the future
O the wee villages an toons
They’re haein tae leave the area
Cos o “second hame” bliddy goons
.
A hoose can be left empty
Fer wikks upon a time
Only bidden in noo an agin
Jist unused steen an lime
.
Holiday hames help oot tourism
Some fowk they div decree
Bit withoot a local population
The villages wull seen dee
.
.
.
.
© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013
Mar 282013
 

By Bob Smith.

Trumpie a see, wints tae hae a marquee
Plunkit richt in the middle o Menie
Haudin waddins an sic, fer ony rich prick
Fit am sure wull cost a fair penny

A marquee’s jist a name, fer a big tint on a frame
Far monied fowk can spik tae their pallies
Wull Trump be mine host, as pigs they div roast
An doon champers in a couple o swallies

Fae tap o marquee, flags ye micht see
Blawin stracht oot in the win
As sum drunken plunkers, faa intae the bunkers
Iss thocht it fair maks me grin

Nae doot Trump wull say, in his loodest bray
It’s the “Greatest Marquee in the Warld”
Fer the openin evint, invites wull be sint
As the Trump flags are infurled

Nae invite ye’ll see, tae the likes o me
Onywye a wid hae tae refuse
Local press wull be keen, tae mak sure they’re seen
So’s they hae the odd gin as they newse

As fowk dee a jig, fin samplin the pig
An lood music ower the dunes it is blarin
Wull oor boys in blue, stop the hullaballoo
Or micht they Trump badges be wearin

Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013

Mar 142013
 

By Bob Smith.

Jist hae a leuk, at the bliddy great plook
On the face o Aiberdeen toon
St Nicholas Hoose, nae langer in use
Thunk hivvens it’ll seen be knocked doon
.
It’s nae the only een, fit’s tae be seen
Aroon oor gweed city o granite
Union Square a confess, is jist concrete an gless
Mair suited tae an alien planet
.
We hiv shoppin malls, fer young guys an gals
Their shops ye can fin ony place
We hid the Co-opie arcade, wi units ready made
It disappeared withoot ony trace
.
Tak the New Market, wi wa’s fit are barkit
A biggin fit’s lost it’s soul
Knock the place doon, richt tae the foon
It’s nae langer fit fer it’s role
Iss toon o oors, destroyed bi sum boors
Faa’s ideas hiv stepped oot o line
Silver City by the sea, twixt Don an the Dee
His fair lost some o it’s shine
.
Architects wi nae vision, attractin derision
Shud be pit in Castlegate stocks
It shud be their plight, tae be peltit wi shite
Syne throw awa the keys o the locks
.
Planners tae hiv gin mad, iss is affa sad
It’s time tae tak them tae task
Tak back oor cities, fae thae Walter Mittys
Iss surely is nae much tae ask.
.
Reclaimin the toon, iss wid be a boon
Nae langer run bi Acsef an freens
Ordinary fowk hiv mair say, tae ensure fair play
Fin it cums tae spendin “the beans”

Bob Smith”The Poetry Mannie” 2013

 

Feb 212013
 

By Bob Smith.

The whaup. Ma faavrit bird
wi its maist hauntin soon
a soond aat is embedded
sin i wis jist a loon

wi connach aa its habitat
its feedin gruns wi invade
wi really cwidna care a jot
as human arrogance wi parade

wi drain maist o oor weetlans
wi trumple doon oor grasses
why maan wi use up oor lan
jist tae satisfy the masses

we maan leave the whaup some space
fer it breedin an fer feedin
ere’s plenty room fer aa o us
if wi stop ayewis bliddy needin

© bob smith “the poetry mannie”  2013
Image credit: Sylvia Duckworth | Wiki Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feb 022013
 

By Bob Smith.

A’ve ayewis spak the Doric
Sin a wis jist a loon
A dialect still weel loo’d
Fae the Spey tae Bervie toon

Fin a wis at the local skweel
In classrooms it wis banned
Ye were threatened wi the scud
Fit wid hae wairmed yer hand

Bit eence oot in the playgrun
It flowed oot o yer moo
An wi yer freens an neipers
Doric wisna thocht taboo

We canna lit iss language dee
It’s pairt an paircel o oor lan
The Doric an the North east
They aye gyang han in han

A’m  loathe tak in fit a’m hearin
Young fowk canna say “ch” as in loch
Fit’s the warld cumin tae
If ye canna git yer tongue aroon roch?

Doric wirds are mair expressive
Than onything else ye micht hear
Thunk hivvens fowk still spik it
In  kwintra placies like New Deer

The  braw wird  “dreich” a like
Instead o jist sayin “dull”
Or maybe gyaan “heelster-gowdie”
As ye tummle doon a hull

Robbie Shepherd he still spiks it
An a Doric sang he’ll sing
Sin the days o “The Garlogie Fower”
Iss chiel’s bin the Doric “king”

Lits aa fecht fer the Doric
Hae it taacht in aa the skweels
Instead o aa the lah-de-dahs
Thinkin the Doric is fer feels

© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013

Jan 242013
 

The Return Of Tam O’Shanter By Hall H. Harper.  ( With sincere apologies to Robert Burns. )

When chapman billies leave the street
And drouthy neibours neibours meet,
When frae their shop an’ office biggins
Auld cronies meet at Geordie Riggins’
Tae sup strang scuds and guid French brandy
And oft times talk o’ houghmagandy,
(‘Though truth be tell’t, for a’ their clatter
A carlin widna’ thole their patter).

Then enter Tam fresh frae his wark,
Wi’ spreckelt tie and strippet sark,
Forfoughten, yamp and unco drouthy,
His mou fair like auld brock’s bahouchie.
“Quick lassie, barley bree!” he cries,
Then Souter Johnny he espies –
“Hey laddie, hae anither dram
Tae keep me comp’ny, bonnie man!”

So Tam and Johnny had a drinkie –
A gless o’ amber tinkalinky,
Then Johnny says, “Ye’ll hae anither
To help keep buck an’ saul thegither.”
“Na, na,” says Tam to Souter J,
“Just ae yin, then a’m on ma way!”
“Losh, losh,” says Johnny, “wheesht yer chitters,
Hae a gin wi’ angostura bitters!”

The ‘oors they passed intae the nicht,
By when baith were an unco sicht,
Then Tam minds Kate at hame hersel’
An’ says, “My life’ll be like Hell
If I don’t move my doup the noo
An’ get back hame tae you know who.
She’ll skin my hurdies tae the bane,
Yon glunshy, crabbit, ill-faured dame!”

“Nae bother pal,” says Souter Johnny,
“I’ll help ye spin a tale sae bonnie,
You’ll hae’r eatin’ oot yer mit –
So noo, let’s hae anither nip!”
An’ so the twa fiers had anither
An’ then the same an’ then anither
An’ then anither wan an’ then
They ’greed tae hae the same again.

But meanwhiles back in Laverock Rise
The sonsie Kate sits back an’ sighs –
She’s wash’d her hair an’ done’r nails
An’ watch’d the latest Emmerdale,
Had Chicken Korma an’, furra treat,
Some Athol Brose made wi’ Bezique
An’ couldnae gie a tinkler’s dam’
For the absence o’ the blootered Tam.

Noo back tae Tam wha’s haimewith raikin’
A stottin’, thowless, path is takin’,
Wi’ wan step fore an’ twa steps back,
His pair heid spinnin’ fit tae brak
An’ in his hert, terrification
That Johnny’s weel wraucht fabrication’ll
No swick his guidwife, mistress Kate,
Wha mith be gyte, but isnae blate.

At last he comes tae Laverock Rise,
“Oh hinnie lamb, I’m hame,” he cries,
“Oh aye,” quo’ Kate, “now let me guess,
Yon Britt’ny’s made another mess
An’ bootchet someone’s order up
So now, as ye’re the maister’s pup,
The hale jingbang befell to you
Tae bide an’ see the damp’t thing through!”

“Naw, naw,” says he, “an’ naw again,
I left on time but wid ye ken
I spied, as I passed by the kirk,
A Saturnalia in the mirk
An’ while I tried tae run away,
Auld Nick himsel’ bad me to stay
An’ had me towed up like a linnet,
By a strappin’ lassie in a simmet!”

“Aye, pull the other leg, big Tam
There’s bells and whistles on that wan,
If ye think I up the river came
On a watter biscuit – think again!
I’m no’ wan o’ yer office quines
That’ll fa’ fur a’ yer flow’ry lines
An’ get their wits a’ mixter maxter –
Yer bleezin’ man, get tae yer scratcher!”

So Tam sleekt aff intil his pit,
While sonsie Kate sat wi’ a smirk
An’ lacht at auld Tam’s childy haivers
‘Boot kirkyaird capers wi’ witchie ravers.
But all a sudden her smirkles seg,
She sees Tam’s jaiket on the peg
An’ gasps tae see upon its back,
A pentacle burnt in deepest black.

So maidens, never dout yer maun,
‘Though he may seem baith fu’ an’ thrawn
An’ never speir his fine excuse
When he comes late intil the hoose.
An’ laddies, when ye’re at the hottle
An’ilka tales matched wi’ a bottle,
Just mind the ‘oor an’ don’t be glaiket –
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s jaiket!

GLOSSARY

chapman billies        – pedlar fellows
biggins                    – buildings
scuds                      – beer
houghmagandy        – hoo’s yer faither
carlin                        – old woman; witch
spreckelt                  – spotted
forfoughten              – exhausted; tired; enervated; worn out
yamp                        – possessing a keen hunger
buck                        – body
losh                          – lord
doup                        – bottom; buttocks; posterior; erse
glunshy                    – scowling
ill-faured                  – discourteous; ill mannered; offensive; shabby; ugly
haimewith                – homeward
thowless                  – inactive; inert; lethargic; sluggish
swick                      – deceive; swindle; bluff; cheat
gyte                        – daft; crazy; mad
blate                        – simple; slow; stupid
bootchet                  – botched
towed                      – tied; roped; caged
smirkles                  – smiles; suppressed laugh
hottle                      – hotel
yanker                    – agile person (not used in the poem, but may be useful in day to day conversation)

Jan 182013
 

By Bob Smith.

If ye didna ken afore
Ye need tae read the A.V.
Tae ken fit’s really happ’nin
In the toon twixt Don an Dee

The P&J  gies ye ae side
O a story there’s nae doot
Bit tae read anither side
A doot ye wull miss oot

The “EE” it is the same
Div fowk read it onymair?
The airt o democratic reportin?
They hiv fair lost the flair

Baith ower canny wi their print
A coordy custard approach detected
Ad. revenue they maan protect
Big business views aye reflected

Ceetizen journalism’s on the mairch
Wi the Aiberdeen Voice tae the fore
Maist o the mainstream media
Are noo classed as bein a bore

Times they hiv moved on
Fae the days o ink an quill
Bit some fowk in oor toon
Wull fecht fer democracy still

So tho yer nine or ninety
An fer truth ye div aspire
AV shud be yer readin
Ither local media are dire

© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013

Jan 142013
 

By Bob Smith.

Lit me say richt awa,there wull be blue sna
Afore ma fantasy predicshuns cum richt
Bit lit us aa pray, there wull cum a day
Fin warld poverty’s nae langer in sicht

The Donald wull state,”Michael Forbes a’ll nae hate”
“An at winfairms a’ll nae hae a glower”
Afore is cums true, naebody’ll be on the broo
An hell itsel wull freeze ower

The Dons’ll aye win, their fan’s wull aye grin
In Europe Man Utd they’ll crush
Their play wull be racy, fin they sign Lionel Messi
An the green an white hordes they wull hush

Gaza Strip wull hae peace,an Israelies they’ll cease
Tae bigg on Palestinian grun
Fowk wull feel better, an guns winna maitter
An fae shell’s young bairns winna run

In oor Aiberdeen,the cooncil cums clean
An tells us aa fit’s gyaan on
Nae diggers wull dig tae bigg a new brig
Throwe the streets o puir Tillydrone

Sir Ian wull depart, in the puff o a fart
Wi his 50 odd million in a hurry
He’ll dee much mair gweed, if Africa’s hungry he’ll feed
An aboot webs an gairdens nae worry

Fit the future micht be, we’ll jist wait an see
Wull ony fantasy predicshuns cum true?
If only een wis fulfilled, a wid be richt thrilled
So a’m hopin the sna wull turn blue

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013

Jan 032013
 

By Bob Smith.

A didna mak ony reesolushins
At the stairt o the New Year
Jist in case some o them
Widna be kept a fear
.
If a hid made reesolushins
Tae show a bit o moral grit
A wid mak the extra effort
Tae stir things up a bit
.
Keep opposin the mannie Trump
Ma main aim iss wid be
So fae oor shores he’d bugger aff
Fae his haverins we’d be free
.
A’d fecht tae keep oor kwintra
Safe fae the lan grabbin rich
Chiels fa try tae mak the rules
An democracy try tae ditch
A’d stir things wi the cooncil
Tae see oor money weel spint
An nae lan in the coffers
O fowk faa mak a mint
.
On a far less serious note
Ma gowf a’d try tae improve
So ma handicap it wis cut
An ma swing wis in the groove
.
A’d try tae be aye smilin
Fin fowk an me div meet
An look upon the positives
If the Dons they div git beat
.
Bit ae New Year reesolushin
An on iss a’ll nae bi canny
Is tae wish ye “a the best”
Fae Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie”

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie”
Image Credit© Anna Dobos | Dreamstime.com

Dec 272012
 

By Bob Smith.

Some fowk doon in Stoney
Woke up tae flooded hoosies
Watter flowin a fyow fit deep
It flushed oot ony moosies
.
Rain cam poorin oot the sky
Rinnin doon fae field an park
The Carron burst ower it’s banks
Faar wis yon Noah wi his Ark?
.
Aroon Brigfield and the High Street
War hames fit wur warst hit
Drains they jist cwidna cope
Wi the watter, gunge an grit
Some local fowk war on TV
Like Alan Smith an Isla Duncan
In Isla’s food caterin placie
Her stock it took a dunkin
.
Ithers in iss bonnie place
Jist sooth o Aiberdeen toon
Showed gran community spirit
Gien grub, an the odd nichtgoon
.
So raise a gless o Glenfiddich
Tae thae gweed Steenhive fowk
As a toast tae aa their spirit
An tae annoy yon Trumpie gowk

© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2012
Image credit: Judith Pullar