Hebridean

 

Gus Wylie's two earlier Hebrides books were black and white photographs, but Hebridean Light (Birlinn, 2003) is in colour. This, as I mentioned before, was the treasure I recently hauled from the paper-recycling skip. Where it goes now, I don't know, but before it does, here's a somewhat bleached-out flavour of some of its inexhaustible pages, and the pretext for some other Hebrides-related samples. 

chan eil mi nad aghaidh

1

chan eil mi nad aghaidh a thaistealair ghil

tha thu ruith tro mo chuislean mar aran mo bhith

chan eil mise an aghaidh do mheuran a’ slìobadh nan clach

do theanga mar theine a’ tionndadh nam fòd

chan eil mi an aghaidh do shùil a bhith suaineadh

nan teagamh trom chlaigeann, trom

chliabh, trom chruth

’s ged a shìneadh tu gu dà cheann na sìorraidheachd

abairteachd rag d’ iarrtais airson ciall, ciall, ciall

’s ged nach freagair mi le cinnt thu,

fàilte, fàilte, fàilt’ ort

2

an t-adhbhar a th’ aig deigh airson seudachd a chrochadh

air gach craobh is an liathachd gus laighe air m’ aois

is an t-adhbhar dhan a’ chuan a bhith ’g at is a’ seacadh is

an t-achbhar dhomh a bhith mar eathar bheag a’ bocail

eadar north utsire ’s south utsire flinne bog a’ tionndadh

chun nam bleideagan cruaidhe ’s mi an dòchas nach tig

an reothadh cuain nas fhaisge gus nach faicear na

mathain bhàn air bhàrr an raoin reòthta ’s an acras

na bheuc deudach no fodham na cearbain

mar fheannagan fairge gam fheitheamh

3

ann an tionndadh na grèìne chì mi ann a shin thu

chì mi thu taobh thall an sgàthain

’s cha toir thu cobhair dhomh

is chì mi ann a shin thu mar gum b’ ann a’ feitheamh,

a mhathain ghil, a chearbain nad shàmhchair

i'm not against you 

1

i’m not against you white traveller

you flow through my veins like the bread of my life

i am not against your fingers stroking the stones

your tongue like fire turning the peat turfs

i am not against your eye entwining

uncertainties through my head, through my

ribs, my form

and though you’d stretch to the two ends of eternity

the stubborn assertion of your demands for sense, sense, sense

and though i won’t answer you with confidence,

welcome, welcome, welcome

2

the reason ice suspends jewellery

on every tree while hoar sets to lie on my age

and the reason oceans swell and shrink and

the reason i am like a small skiff bucking

between north utsire and south utsire soft sleet turning

into hard flakes while i hope there’ll be no

freezing ocean any closer good not to see the

white bears ranging the frozen expanses, their hunger

a fanged roar or beneath me the sharks

like ocean crows awaiting

3

in the turning of the sun i see you there

i see you beyond the mirror

and you don’t come to help me

and i see you there as if waiting

for the white bear, the shark in your silence

(By Aonghas MacNeacail. Poem source: https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/chan-eil-mi-nad-aghaidh/ . From dèanamh gàire ris a’ chloc: dàin ùra agus thaghte / laughing at the clock : new and selected poems  (Polygon, 2012). English translation by the author.)

An Taigh-tasgaidh ’s an Leabhar

Feumaidh mi dhol chun taigh-tasgaidh

dh’fhaicinn uidheaman m’ eachdraidh

a shad mo sheanmhair às,

a shuath mo sheanair

le bhoisean cnapach sgìth

air a’ chuairt mu dheireadh

a ghabh e

dhan t-sabhal.

Feumaidh mi dhol chun taigh-tasgaidh

às aonais duslach an fheòir

air m’ aodach,

dh’fhaicinn uidheaman m’ eachdraidh

mus tèid an leth-shealladh

den leth-sgeul

a th’ agam

a dhìth

leis an sguab th’ air cùl mo shàil.

Feumaidh mi leabhar bhith deas air mo shùil

de bhriathran nan làithean a dh’fhalbh,

feumaidh mi leughadh fa chomhair an àm

tha cànan an cunnart dhol balbh.

Feumaidh mi leabhar a dh’innseas dhomh sgeul

nach eil idir air bilean an t-sluaigh,

a dhol gu fear eile ’son barrachd de dh’fhios

’s de thuigse air adhbhar na truaigh’.

The Museum and the Book

I must go to the museum

to see the tools of my history

my grandmother threw out

my grandfather stroked

with his tired knobbly hands

on the last round

he made

of the barn.

I must go to the museum

without the dust of the grass

on my clothes

to see the tools of my history

before the half-sight

of the half-story

I have

is swept

away by the brush at my heels.

I must have a book for my eyes

of the words of days gone by

I must read it when facing the time

a language threatens to go dumb.

I must have a book that will tell me a story

that’s not on the lips of my people,

must go to someone else for more information

and understanding of the reason for grief.

By Màiri NicGumaraid. Poem source: https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/an-taigh-tasgaidh-s-an-leabhar/ . from An Aghaidh na Sìorraidheachd: Ochdnar Bhàrd Gàidhlig – Duanaire Dà-chànanach / In the Face of Eternity: Eight Gaelic Poets – A Bilingual Anthology, edited by Christopher Whyte (Edinburgh: Polygon, 1991)

Six songs in a barn: lockdown broadcast by Colin Macleod, crofter and singer-songwriter from Lewis:

The second song:

The Long Road

[Verse 1]

Take a little while to reach you in the morning

I've been driving here since yesterday

Feels good now to get out in the open

It's been getting far too real back there at home

[Verse 2]

They found him in the kitchen in the morning

He was such a good ol' boy, you know

Had a little hard time, had stretched out far too long

But no one ever wished to see him gone

[Pre-Chorus]

Well, it's been so hard these last few years

I don't want to face the truth

It was there she told me what I needed to hear

[Chorus]

She said, "you have to take the long road

You know that it's a slow road

And it'll be a hard road

But you’ve gotta take the long road"

[Verse 3]

It's been good to talk to you these last few days

And it's good to get some space inside my head

I know I need to go back home, I need to see that stone

And stand up where they put him in the ground

[Pre-Chorus]

Well, it's been so hard these last few years

I don't want to face the truth

It was there she told me what I needed to hear

[Chorus]

She said, "you have to take the long road

Know that it's a slow road

And it'll be a hard road

But you've gotta take the long road"

(Source: https://genius.com/Colin-macleod-the-long-road-lyrics .)

(In the 1880s....:)

The chief complaint was the same wherever we went: "We have not enough land; we could and would pay rent willingly if we had more ground to cultivate. As it is, our crofts are not large enough to keep us in food." The outside world has been busy watching the battle in Ireland; little attention has been spared to the Highlands; yet every small paragraph on the subject for which newspapers can make room, between accounts of stolen breeches and besieged members of Parliament, shows the determination of the men who are fighting the same battle in the far north. If troops are kept in Ireland, if Welsh tithes can only be collected by hussars, war-ships are sent to the Islands. If Irishmen, protected by a Land League, refuse to pay rent, so do Scotch crofters. Indeed, the latter are far more determined and daring. They know, too, how to hold together. In Glendale, an out-of-the-way corner of Skye to which strangers seldom penetrate, not a crofter has paid rent for five years. An old man, tenant on another estate, told us about them with pride. "No, sir," he said, "they have no paid a penny for five years, but the factor he will keep friends with them. He will know ferry well if he wass not their friend it will be worse trouble that will be coming whatever."

He was a fine, healthy old man, between sixty and seventy; and when he found that we sympathized, he walked about half a mile just to talk with us. He pretended he came to show us the way, but as the road was straight before us it was easy to see through his excuse.

J—— asked him what he thought about the crofter question. "I will be a real old Land Leaguer every time," he declared; and then he went on to tell us that in his part of the island the crofters held together like one man. The Commission was coming; it was slow, but they would wait for it. Then, if it did not improve their condition, they would take matters into their own hands. Their landlord was good enough, as landlords went; he was a civil-spoken gentleman if rents were paid on the very day they were due, but that was about all that could be said for him. Rents were not so high on his estate as on others, but the taxes were heavy, and it was more land they needed. "You will see those potatoes"—and he pointed to a tiny green patch sloping down from the road to a ditch, beyond which was heather—"you will see for yourself they grow well whatever. And they would be growing as well on the other side of the ditch, where I myself have planted them in other days. But what will grow there now? Heather and ferns! And it will be heather and ferns you will see as far as you can for twelve miles. If they will be giving us more land, sir, it's no trouble from the Highlanders they will be having; but if they don't give it to us we will take it."

He shook hands heartily with us both when he left. One may doubt the demagogue who uses the people's suffering for political capital; but one can but respect a man like this sturdy old crofter, himself one of the people, who knows his wrongs and determines to right them. His methods may be illegal; so have been those of many men who have struggled for freedom.

From Our Journey to the Hebrides (1890), by the American graphic artist Joseph Pennell and his wife Elizabeth Robins Pennell. The Pennells loved a fight. Their combative support for the crofters' cause was admirable, but it ran alongside Joseph's equally combative anti-Semitism (The Jew at Home, 1892) and his racist views of African Americans.

 

DIA liom a laighe,

Dia liom ag eirigh,
Dia liom anus gach rath soluis,
Is gun mi rath son as aonais,
    Gun non rath as aonais.

Criosda liom a cadal,
Criosda liom a dusgadh,
Criosda liom a caithris,
Gach la agus oidhche,
    Gach aon la is oidhche.

Dia liom a comhnadh
Domhnach liom a riaghladh,
Spiorad liom a treoradh,
Gu soir agus siorruidh,
    Soir agus siorruidh, Amen.
        Triath nan triath, Amen.
 

GOD with me lying down,
God with me rising up,
God with me in each ray of light,
Nor I a ray of joy without Him,
    Nor one ray without Him.

Christ with me sleeping,
Christ with me waking,
Christ with me watching,
Every day and night,
    Each day and night.

God with me protecting,
The Lord with me directing,
The Spirit with me strengthening,
For ever and for evermore,
    Ever and evermore, Amen.
        Chief of chiefs, Amen.

THIS poem was taken down in 1866 from Mary Macrae, Harris. She came from Kintail when young, with Alexander Macrae, whose mother was one of the celebrated ten daughters of Macleod of Rararsay, mentioned by Johnson and Boswell. Mary Macrae was rather under than over middle height, but strongly and symmetrically formed. She often walked with companions, after the work of the day was done, distances of ten and fifteen miles to a dance, and after dancing all night walked back again to the work of the morning fresh and vigorous as if nothing unusual had occurred. She was a faithful servant and an admirable worker, and danced at her leisure and carolled at her work like 'Fosgag Moire,' Our Lady's lark, above her.

The people of Harris had been greatly given to old lore and to the old ways of their fathers, reciting and singing, dancing and merry-making; but a reaction occurred, and Mary Macrae's old-world ways were abjured and condemned.

'The bigots of an iron time
Had called her simple art a crime.'

But Mary Macrae heeded not, and went on in her own way, singing her songs and ballads, intoning her hymns and incantations, and chanting her own 'port-a-bial,' mouth music, and dancing to her own shadow when nothing better was available.

I love to think of this brave kindly woman, with her strong Highland characteristics and her proud Highland spirit. She was a true type of a grand people gone never to return.

From Carmina Gadelica (1900, 2nd edition 1928), the remarkable storehouse of Gaelic oral tradition collected by Alexander Carmichael. 

Complete text of Carmina Gadelica: https://www.electricscotland.com/books/pdf/carmina.htm

*

[In 1814...]

The opposite side of the lake seemed quite pathless, as a huge mountain, one of the detached ridges of the Quillen, sinks in a profound and almost perpendicular precipice down to the water. On the left-hand side, which we traversed, rose a higher and equally inaccessible mountain, the top of which seemed to contain the crater of an exhausted volcano. I never saw a spot on which there was less appearance of vegetation of any kind; the eye rested on nothing but brown and naked crags, and the rocks on which we walked by the side of the loch were as bare as the pavement of Cheapside. There are one or two spots of islets in the loch which seem to bear juniper, or some such low bushy shrub.

Returned from our extraordinary walk and went on board. During dinner, our vessel quitted Loch Scavig, and having doubled its southern cape, opened the bay or salt-water Loch of Sleapin. There went again on shore to visit the late discovered and much celebrated cavern, called Macallister's cave. It opens at the end of a deep ravine running upward from the sea, and the proprietor, Mr. Macallister of Strath Aird, finding that visitors injured it, by breaking and carrying away the stalactites with which it abounds, has secured this cavern by an eight or nine feet wall, with a door. Upon inquiring for the key, we found it was three miles up the loch at the laird's house. It was now late, and to stay until a messenger had gone and returned three miles, was not to be thought of, any more than the alternative of going up the loch and lying there all night. We therefore, with regret, resolved to scale the wall, in which attempt, by the assistance of a rope and some ancient acquaintance with orchard breaking, we easily succeeded. The first entrance to this celebrated cave is rude and unpromising, but the light of the torches with which we were provided is soon reflected from roof, floor, and walls, which seem as if they were sheeted with marble, partly smooth, partly rough with frost-work and rustic ornaments, and partly wrought into statuary. The floor forms a steep and difficult ascent, and might be fancifully compared to a sheet of water, which, while it rushed whitening and foaming down a declivity, had been suddenly arrested and consolidated by the spell of an enchanter. Upon attaining the summit of this ascent, the cave descends with equal rapidity to the brink of a pool of the most limpid water, about four or five yards broad. There opens beyond this pool a portal arch, with beautiful white chasing upon the sides, which promises a continuation of the cave. One of our sailors swam across, for there was no other mode of passing, and informed us (as indeed we partly saw by the light he carried), that the enchantment of Macallister's cave terminated with this portal, beyond which there was only a rude ordinary cavern speedily choked with stones and earth. But the pool, on the brink of which we stood, surrounded by the most fanciful mouldings in a substance resembling white marble, and distinguished by the depth and purity of its waters, might be the bathing grotto of a Naiad. I think a statuary might catch beautiful hints from the fanciful and romantic disposition of the stalactites. There is scarce a form or group that an active fancy may not trace among the grotesque ornaments which have been gradually moulded in this cavern by the dropping of the calcareous water, and its hardening into petrifactions; many of these have been destroyed by the senseless rage of appropriation among recent tourists, and the grotto has lost (I am informed), through the smoke of torches, much of that vivid silver tint which was originally one of its chief distinctions. But enough of beauty remains to compensate for all that may be lost. As the easiest mode of return, I slid down the polished sheet of marble which forms the rising ascent, and thereby injured my pantaloons in a way which my jacket is ill calculated to conceal. Our wearables, after a month's hard service, begin to be frail, and there are daily demands for repairs. Our eatables also begin to assume a real nautical appearance—no soft bread—milk a rare commodity—and those gentlemen most in favor with John Peters, the steward, who prefer salt beef to fresh. To make amends, we never hear of sea-sickness, and the good-humor and harmony of the party continue uninterrupted. When we left the cave we carried off two grandsons of Mr. Macallister's, remarkably fine boys; and Erskine, who may be called L'ami des Enfans, treated them most kindly, and showed them all the curiosities in the vessel, causing even the guns to be fired for their amusement, besides filling their pockets with almonds and raisins. So that, with a handsome letter of apology, I hope we may erase any evil impression Mr. Macallister may adopt from our storming the exterior defences of his cavern. After having sent them ashore in safety, stand out of the bay with little or no wind, for the opposite island of Egg.

(From Walter Scott's diary of his trip to Shetland, Orkney and the Hebrides, 24 August 1814. The diary is included in Lockhart (vol IV) : this extract comes from Chapter XXXI. Scott used the cave as a setting for one of the scenes in The Lord of the Isles. It is now known as the Spar Cave; it is visitable, though not easily, for an hour at low tide. Info and pics: https://www.walkhighlands.co.uk/skye/sparcave.shtml . Apparently a sailor later demolished the wall by firing a cannon at it.)

The Cas Chrom is a foot plough. It can also be used for digging peat.

Robin A Crawford has an excellent peat blog. This post is about turfing:

https://robinacrawford.com/2017/04/20/more-spadework-on-lewis/

*

                        ...  At Oban, a wet

trek to the ferry landing, where a

nun, or the daft counterfeit of one

(time runs out, the meek grow jaded,

shibboleths of piety no guarantee):

veil and wimple above dank waterproof,

nun-blue pantsuit protruding -- lugs

half a dozen satchels ("tinned things

you can't get up here"), has misplaced

her ticket, is so fecklessly egregious

it can't (or could it, after all?) be

contraband. From Craignure, Isle of Mull,

a bus jolts westward, traversing, and

it's still no picnic, the slow route

Keats slogged through on that wet

walking tour: a backward-looking

homage, not a setting forth, as for

his brother George, into the future:

drowned Lycidas, whether beyond the

stormy . . . And of course it rained,

the way it's doing as I skitter up

the cleated iron of the gangway at

Fionnphort; Iona, an indecipherable

blur, a slosh of boots and oilskins,

once landed on, is even wetter.

Not that it always rains: tomorrow

everything will be diaphanous

as the penumbra of a jellyfish:

I'll ride to Staffa over tourmaline

and amethyst without a wrinkle;

will stand sun-warmed above the bay

where St. Columba made his pious landfall,

the purple, ankle-deep, hung like a mantle

on the starved shoulder of the moor. ...

(From the title poem of Amy Clampitt's Westward (1990)).

TV and kerosene

 

Got a stinker, so I'm making things easy on myself with a few samples of what I'm currently reading.

*

I realized I had forgotten to say goodbye to my mother but, by the time I turned round, she had gone. I waved at the empty space she had left behind and followed the daunting Mrs Berwick into a room where twelve other girls were sitting on squishy sofas and beanbags. I sat cross-legged on the floor, as we used to do in assembly at Kingsclere Primary School.

"What's that pong?" I heard one girl with long hair scooped up in a scrunchie say to another, also with long, tumbling hair.

"I think it's coming from over thar." The other girl pointed towards me.

I sniffed at my clothes and realized that I did smell of Flossy. I tried to tuck myself into as tight a ball as I could, hoping I would disappear. Mrs Berwick looked down her beaky nose and told us all what we could and, mainly, what we couldn't do.

I was sharing a room with two other girls who were much older than me. Everyone was older than me by nearly a year and they all seemed to have been to boarding school before.

"What does your father do?" a girl asked me, as she wound her long blond hair round her index finger.

"My dad's a racehorse trainer," I answered.

There was a snort from one corner, giggles from another. I heard the word "Dad" being uttered with incredulity.

"You mean your father's a stable boy?" the blond girl said.

"No, he's a trainer. He trained Mill Reef." Usually, that was my get-out-of-jail card.

"Huh," said a girl whose father was a colonel in the army. "Mill Reef? Never heard of him. But if you were born in a barnful of horses, that explains why you stink of manure!"

The other girls started laughing hysterically, rolling around on the floor together. I got up and silently left the room.

"I can ride, I can ride," I said to myself.

It was the one thing I knew I could do better than anyone else at this school.

We were straight into lessons the next day, which meant wearing the uniform of green and white striped shirts, green skirt, red or green jumper and green blazer with red stripes. I chose to wear the red jumper as it was new, whereas my green one was second-hand. Everyone else had chosen green. My skirt needed to be rolled over a few times, as it was on the big side.

"You'll grow into it," my mother had promised me.

Mum had refused to buy me the burgundy penny loafers that were on the school uniform list because they were "ridiculously expensive". Instead, I had orthopaedic shoes that would support my arches. I hated them.

Clare Balding's first day at boarding school, from her irresistible memoir My Animals And Other Family (2012). (For non-UK readers, Clare Balding is a TV sports presenter. Initially her specialism was horse racing but she's doing Wimbledon this year.)

*

I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on
In low and languid mood: for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the Life within;
Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague
Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs!

My native Land! 
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,
Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is everywhere! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty family,
Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Lines Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz Forest"; the poet feeling the alienating force of a nature that had no personal association for him, but intrigued too.The original draft of the poem (apart, presumably, from the one in the album at the inn) was sent in a letter of 17 May 1799 to Sara Coleridge, who was keeping the home fires burning at Nether Stowey.  "Not that they possess a grain of merit as poetry," he wrote (as was his wont). But this poem's thinking about nationalism and internationalism, about our relations with nature in a local context and outside that context, holds my attention.

Like many readers of our time, I'm discovering Coleridge's poetry (other than the half-dozen standards) through Richard Holmes' inspiringly-curated Coleridge: Selected Poems (1996).

I must say that my own experience of coming back on the Calais-Dover ferry is that the fabled white cliffs are at least as dingy as a kidling!

*

She passes right by many dense patches, leaving them to sway in the breeze. "It's our way," she says, "to take only what we need. I've always been told that you never take more than half." Sometimes she doesn't take any at all, but just comes here to check the meadow, to see how the plants are doing. "Our teachings," she says, "are very strong. They wouldn't get handed on if they weren't useful. The most important thing to remember is what my grandmother always said: 'If we use a plant respectfully it will stay with us and flourish. If we ignore it, it will go away. If you don't give it respect it will leave us.'" The plants themselves have shown us this -- Mishkos kenomagwen. As we leave the meadow for the path back through the woods, she twists a handful of timothy into a loose knot upon itself, beside the trail. "This tells other pickers that I've been here," she says, "so that they know not to take any more. This place always gives good sweetgrass since we tend to it right. But other places it's getting hard to find. I'm thinking that they might not be picking right. Some people, they're in a hurry and they pull up the whole plant. Even the roots come up. That's not the way I was taught."

From Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teaching of Plants (2013) by Robin Wall Kimmerer. 

*

Grisha, completely forgetting who was boss, hugged the berry commissioner and, squinting at him slyly, mischievously drawled out:

An old tramp helped me escape . . .

And the berry commissioner sang, sighing as though the words had been written for him personally:

I came to life, sensing freedom . . .

Ksiuta came out from behind the wall, rubbing her sleepy eyes, and gently put her finger to her lips. Out of respect for the infant, they stopped singing. 

And then Ivan Kuzmich Belomestnykh said, "People should live together the way they know how to sing together. Everything would be all right then. And, people should start talking and not be afraid of their thoughts. For if you're afraid of your thoughts, you won't have any at all.

"Thank you, dear guests, for coming with this precious present -- my grandson. I'm often not kind enough, and there's no point in even talking about education. Forgive me for that. And you forgive me, Ksiuta. People fight against each other, mostly over trifles. If we stop fighting over trifles, then, God willing, there won't be another big war either."

"To peace!" the berry commissioner cried out ecstatically, hugging Belomestnykh. "Hey, Ivan Kuzmich, you and I . . . You and I . . . And all of us . . . I'm staying with you, my native land. Yes, staying! Where else can I go?"

And he offered a large tear in place of the innumerable emotions he couldn't express with words. And then fell asleep in the chair where he sat, his head in the sauerkraut. Grisha and the geologist lay down in the haystack. The night wind, penetrating the cracks, rustled the hay, and it moved, breathing as if alive, trying to share its thoughts with people, but unable. The pole over the well creaked in the wind, its long neck swaying under the tired stars, which continued to shine for all their weariness. And they would have to shine for a long time more, so that people, weighed down by the earth's gravity, could sometimes raise their heads, look at the stars, and think that besides funny things and sad things, besides meanness and kindness, besides life and death on earth there was a universal eternity.

The mushroomer was put in the side room on a creaking iron bed with nickel-plated knobs, and when Ivan Kuzmich lit the way for him with a kerosene lantern, Nikanor Sergeyevich saw, hanging over his bed, an oilcloth with swans. They even flew this far, Nikanor Sergeyevich thought, and laughed sadly. But he slept soundly, dreaming that he and Kuroda were in some extraordinary forest, where giant mushrooms grew taller than a man. They were using a saw to cut the stem of an agaric so gigantic that your arm wouldn't fit around it. They would take it in Grisha's truck to Hiroshima and show all mankind, to make them ashamed of that other, terrifying mushroom, invented by men. 

And the infant, probably, didn't dream anything, because he still had no past and, therefore, no memories to give birth to dreams. 

From Wild Berries (1981) by Yevgeny Yevtushenko, translated by Antonina W. Bouis. 

*

despite the hopelessness of their position they didn't despair they were

not as hopeless as their           position         human beings do this fine

though you might say it's something they only do when the mood

takes them AS THEY SAY                  hey big spender despair is       quite

gratuitous and             never accurately quoted                    humanity is anti

-universe                     never curated Quixotically               do you know i

still don't really know what i'm made of not really i read the books         etc.

and watch Horizon but one day it will repeat itself too often to memorize

empty                                                                                            reminder

say 2 different words and the 2nd. will always be a repetition of the 1st.

sunlight                                                                                         labyrinth

see what i mean                       if only liars could be seen silhouetted against

the sun             white ash        black ash                        white lash blacklist the

star emerging from the wormhole                 rolling on quantum shingle an

empty reminder like a moth in the fist                      deluded into folly       by

the truth          the prisoners turn to dust                    visitors' book bleached

Extracts from two poems near the start of Tim Allen's Very Rare Poems Upon The Earth (128 Improvisations) (Aquifer, 2023). I only recently embarked on this, but I'm already hauling up treasures. (NB The extracts are the second half of "Intrusion", and the first half of "Modification".)

*

From tall rooms, largesse of peonies, 

the porches summercool, the bed upstairs

immaculate in its white counterpane,

to kerosene-lit evenings, the wind

an orphan roaming the silver maples,

sudden widowhood: to meaner comforts,

a trumpetvine above the kitchen door,

then one night her new husband didn't

come in from the milking: to the lot

she bought with what that place went

for, dwindlings in a doll's house: to

the high-rise efficiency condominium,

television on all day, to the cubicle

in the denominational home, to total

unprivacy of bed and bedpan, nurse shoes,

TV with no picture or else coming in waves,

a vertigo: to, one nightfall ...

The beginning of "A Winter Burial", from Amy Clampitt's Westward (1990). I had relished her three earlier collections when I first set about discovering modern poetry in English, but it wasn't long before I was focussing on kinds of poetry that were not so readily purchasable in Waterstones. Thirty-five years later, and closer to the poet's own age (she was a famously late starter), I now seem to hear different strands in the incredible weave of her verse. 

She died in 1994, just eleven years after the publication of her first book. I was actually surprised at how relatively little there is about her on the internet... She had been celebrated, so far as poets are ever celebrated, during that decade. But even celebrated modern poets drop out of public memory with staggering speed. (A thought that might also apply to Yevtushenko.)

Anyway, there's a couple of evenings of Amy Clampitt's poems here: https://www.amyclampitt.com/poems-main .