Hugh MacDiarmid

“ In Cruivies and Gilsanquhars tae,
And see the thistle as ocht but that!
For wha o’s ha’e the thistle’s poo’er
To see we’re worthless and believe ’t?
A’thing that ony man can be’s
A mockery o’ his soul at last. ”

“ Lowse me frae licht or eke frae darkness free.
Bite into me forever mair and lift
Me clear o’ chaos in a great relief
Till, like this thistle in the munelicht growin’,
I brak in roses owre a hedge o’ grief....
I am like Burns, and ony wench
Can ser’ me for a time.
Licht’s in them a’—in some a sun,
In some the merest skime. [35]
I’m no’ like Burns, and weel I ken,
Tho’ ony wench can ser’,
It’s no’ through mony but through yin
That ony man wuns fer....
I weddit thee frae fause love, lass,
To free thee and to free mysel’;
But man and wumman tied for life
True can be and truth can tell. ”

“ Gin he grows up, his way wi’ her!... [36]
A’thing wi’ which a man
Can intromit’s a wumman,
And can, and s’ud, become
As intimate and human.
And Jean’s nae mair my wife
Than whisky is at times,
Or munelicht or a thistle
Or kittle thochts or rhymes.
He’s no’ a man ava’,
And lacks a proper pride,
Gin less than a’ the warld
Can ser’ him for a bride!... ”

“ And, fegs, I think the joke is rich
—Pairt soul, pairt skeleton’s come up;
They kentna which was which!...
Thou Daith in which my life
Sae vain a thing can seem,
Frae whatna source d’ye borrow
Your devastatin’ gleam?
Nae doot that hidden sun
’Ud look fu’ wae ana’,
Gin I could see it in the licht
That frae the Earth you draw!...
Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre!
A’body’s gi’en in to the facts o’ life;
The impossible truth’ll triumph at last,
And mock your strife. ”

“ O rootless thistle through the warld that’s pairt o’ you,
Gin you’d withstand the agonies still to come,
You maun send roots doon to the deeps unkent,
Fer deeper than it’s possible for ocht to gang,
Savin’ the human soul,
Deeper than God himsel’ has knowledge o’,
Whaur lichtnin’s canna probe that cleave the warld,
Whaur only in the entire dark there’s founts o’ strength [74]
Eternity’s poisoned draps can never file,
And muckle roots thicken, deef to bobbies’ feet. ”

“ If in a lesser licht I grope my way,
Or use’t for ends that need your different ray
Whelm’t in superior day.
Then aye increase and ne’er withdraw your licht.
—Gin it shows either o’s in hideous plicht,
What gain to turn’t to nicht?
Whisky mak’s Heaven or Hell and whiles mells baith,
Disease is but the privy torch o’ Daith,
—But sex reveals life, faith!
I need them a’ and maun be aye at strife.
Daith and ayont are nocht but pairts o’ life.
—Then be life’s licht, my wife!... [37]
Love often wuns free
In lust to be strangled,
Or love, o’ lust free,
In law’s sairly tangled. ”

“ That kills a’ else wi’in its reach and craves
Nae less at last than a’ the warld to gi’e it scouth.
The need to wark, the need to think, the need to be,
And a’ thing that twists Life into a certain shape
And interferes wi’ perfect liberty—
These feed this Frankenstein that nae man can escape. [11]
For ilka thing a man can be or think or dae
Aye leaves a million mair unbeen, unthocht, undune,
Till his puir warped performance is,
To a’ that micht ha’ been, a thistle to the mune.
It is Mortality itsel’—the mortal coil,
Mockin’ Perfection, Man afore the Throne o’ God. ”

“ The thistle canna vanish quite.
Inside a’ licht its shape maun glint,
A spirit wi’ a skeleton in’t
The world, the flesh, ’ll bide in us
As in the fire the unburnt buss,
Or as frae sire to son we gang
And coontless corpses in us thrang.
And e’en the glory that descends
I kenna whence on me depends,
And shapes itsel’ to what is left
Whaur I o’ me ha’e me bereft,
And still the form is mine, altho’
A force to which I ne’er could grow
Is movin’ in’t as ’twere a sea
That lang syne drooned the last o’ me
—That drooned afore the warld began
A’ that could ever come frae Man. ”

“ Gin my thochts that circle like hobby-horses
’Udna loosen to nightmares I’d sleep;
For nocht but a chowed core’s left whaur Jerusalem lay
Like aipples in a heap!...
It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wumman
When the boss o’ her body’s gane,
And her banes in the wund as she comes
Dirl like a raff o’ rain.
It’s a queer thing to tryst wi’ a wumman
When her ghaist frae abuneheid keeks,
And you see in the licht o’t that a’
You ha’e o’r’s the cleiks.... [34]
What forest worn to the backhauf’s this,
What Eden brocht doon to a beanswaup? ”

“ Skinkle past in quick array
While it is still the self-same day,
A’e day o’ a’ the million days
Through which the soul o’ man can gaze
Upon the wheel’s incessant blaze, [91]
Upon the wheel’s incessant blaze
As it were on a single place
That twinklin’ filled the howe o’ space.
A’e point is a’ that it can be,
I wis nae man ’ll ever see
The rest o’ the rotundity.
Impersonality sall blaw
Through me as ’twere a bluffert o’ snaw
To scour me o’ my sense o’ awe,
A bluffert o’ snaw, the licht that flees
Within the Wheel, and Freedom gi’es
Frae Dust and Daith and a’ Disease ”

“ I’m under nae delusions, fegs!
The whuppin’ sooker at wha’s tip
Oor little point o’ view appears,
A midget coom o’ continents
Wi’ blebs o’ oceans set, sends up
The braith o’ daith as weel as life,
And we maun braird anither tip
Oot owre us ere we wither tae, [55]
And join the sentrice skeleton
As coral insects big their reefs.
What is the tree? As fer as Man’s
Concerned it disna maitter
Gin but a giant thistle ’tis
That spreids eternal mischief there,
As I’m inclined to think. ”

“ Glesca’s a gless whaur Magdalene’s
Discovered in a million crimes.
Christ comes again—wheesht, whatna bairn
In backlands cries betimes?
Hard faces prate o’ their success,
And pickle-makers awn the hills.
There is nae life in a’ the land
But this infernal Thistle kills....
Nae mair I see
As aince I saw
Mysel’ in the thistle
Harth and haw!
Nel suo profondo vidi che s’interna
Legato con amore in un volume
(Or else by Hate, fu’ aft the better Love)
Ciò che per l’universo si squaderna. [81]
Sustanzia ed accidenti, e lor costume. ”

“ Rabbie, wad’st thou wert here—the warld hath need,
And Scotland mair sae, o’ the likes o’ thee!
The whisky that aince moved your lyre’s become
A laxative for a’ loquacity.
O gin they’d stegh their guts and haud their wheesht
I’d thole it, for “a man’s a man,” I ken,
But though the feck ha’e plenty o’ the “a’ that,”
They’re nocht but zoologically men. ”

“ O’ my a’e brain. [20]
Weel, gin it’s Sade
Let it be said
They’ve made me mad
—That’ll da’e instead.
But it’s no’ instead
In Scots, but insteed.
—The life they’ve led
In my puir heid.
But aince I’ve seen
In the thistle here
A’ that they’ve been
I’ll aiblins wun clear.
Thistleless fule,
You’ll ha’e nocht left
But the hole frae which
Life’s struggle is reft!...
Reason ser’s nae end but pleasure,
Truth’s no’ an end but a means
To a wider knowledge o’ life
And a keener interest in’t. ”

“ The thistle rises and forever will!... [79]
The thistle rises and forever will,
Getherin’ the generations under’t.
This is the monument o’ a’ they were,
And a’ they hoped and wondered.
The barren tree, dry leafs, and cracklin’ thorns,
This is the mind o’ a’ humanity,
—The empty intellect that left to grow
’ll let nocht ither be.
Lo! It has choked the sunlicht’s gowden grain,
And strangled syne the white hairst o’ the mune.
Thocht that mak’s a’ the food o’ nocht but Thocht
Is reishlin’ grey abune.... ”

“ A man’s a clean contrairy sicht
Turned this way in-ootside,
And, fegs, I feel like Dr Jekyll
Tak’n guid tent o’ Mr Hyde....
Gurly thistle—hic—you canna
Daunton me wi’ your shaggy mien,
I’m sair—hic—needin’ a shave,
That’s plainly to be seen.
But what aboot it—hic—aboot it?
Mony a man’s been that afore.
It’s no’ a fact that in his lugs
A wund like this need roar!... [10]
[2] I hae forekent ye! O I hae forekent.
The years forecast your face afore they went.
A licht I canna thole is in the lift. ”

“ Licht cheenges naething,
And gin there is a God wha made the licht [76]
We are adapted to receive,
He cheenged naething,
And hesna kythed Hissel!
Save in this licht that fa’s whaur the Auld Nicht was,
Showin’ naething that the Darkness didna hide,
And gin it shows a pairt o’ that
Confoondin’ mair than it confides
Ev’n in that.
The epileptic thistle twitches
(A trick o’ wund or mune or een—or whisky) .
A brain laid bare,
A nervous system,
The skeleton wi’ which men labour
And bring to life in Daith
—I, risen frae the deid, ha’e seen
My deid man’s eunuch offspring. ”

“ A warld o’ men and syne o’ Gods;
The grey that haunts the vievest green;
The wrang side o’ the noblest scene
We ne’er can whummle to oor een,
As ’twere the hinderpairts o’ God [47]
His face aye turned the opposite road,
Or’s neth the flooers the drumlie clods
Frae which they come at sicna odds,
As a’ Earth’s magic frae a spirt,
In shame and secrecy, o’ dirt!
Then shak’ nae mair in silly life,
Nor stand impossible as Daith,
Incredible as a’thing is
Inside or oot owre closely scanned. ”

“ And syne it’s like a wab in which the warld
Squats like a spider, quhile the mune and me
Are taigled in an endless corner o’t
Tyauvin’ fecklessly....
The wan leafs shak’ atour us like the snaw.
Here is the cavaburd in which Earth’s tint.
There’s naebody but Oblivion and us,
Puir gangrel buddies, waunderin’ hameless in’t.
The stars are larochs o’ auld cottages,
And a’ Time’s glen is fu’ o’ blinnin’ stew.
Nae freen’ly lozen skimmers: and the wund
Rises and separates even me and you. [15]
I ken nae Russian and you ken nae Scots. ”

“ For England’s poo’er, and to enrich
The kinds o’ English, and o’ Scots,
The least congenial to my thoughts.
Hauf his soul a Scot maun use
Indulgin’ in illusions,
And hauf in gettin’ rid o’ them
And comin’ to conclusions
Wi’ the demoralisin’ dearth
O’ onything worth while on Earth....
I’m weary o’ the rose as o’ my brain,
And for a deeper knowledge I am fain
Than frae this noddin’ object I can gain. [85]
Beauty is a’e thing, but it tines anither
(For, fegs, they never can be f’und thegither) ,
And ’twixt the twa it’s no’ for me to swither. ”

“ Its dernin’ nature, wad the searchin’ licht
Oor union raises poor’d owre me the nicht. [72]
I’m faced wi’ aspects o’ mysel’
At last wha’s portent nocht can tell,
Save that sheer licht o’ life that when we’re joint
Loups through me like a fire a’ else t’ aroint.
Clear my lourd flesh, and let me move
In the peculiar licht o’ love,
As aiblins in Eternity men may
When their swack souls nae mair are clogged wi’ clay.
Be thou the licht in which I stand
Entire, in thistle-shape, as planned,
And no’ hauf-hidden and hauf-seen as here
In munelicht, whisky, and in fleshly fear ”

“ To meddle wi’ the thistle and to pluck
The figs frae’t is my metier, I think.
Awak’, my muse, and gin you’re in puir fettle,
We aye can blame it on th’ inferior drink.
T. S. Eliot—it’s a Scottish name—
Afore he wrote ‘The Waste Land’ s’ud ha’e come
To Scotland here. He wad ha’e written
A better poem syne—like this, by gum!
Type o’ the wissenschaftsfeindlichkeit,
Begriffsmüdigkeit that has gar’t
Men try Morphologies der Weltgeschichte,
And mad Expressionismus syne in Art. [14]
[4] A shameless thing, for ilka vileness able,
It is deid grey as dust, the dust o’ a man. ”

“ But Man’s a fiky bairn
Wi’ bellythraw, ripples, and worm-i’-the-cheek!...
Dae what ye wull ye canna parry
This skeleton-at-the-feast that through the starry
Maze o’ the warld’s intoxicatin’ soiree
Claughts ye, as micht at an affrontit quean
A bastard wean! [25]
Prood mune, ye needna thring your shouder there,
And at your puir get like a snawstorm stare,
It’s yours—there’s nae denyin’t—and I’m shair
You’d no’ enjoy the evenin’ much the less
Gin you’d but openly confess! ”

“ The licht frae bare banes whitening evermair,
Frae twitchin’ nerves thrawn aff,
Frae nakit thocht,
Works in the Darkness like a fell disease,
A hungry acid and a cancer,
Disease o’ Daith-in-Life and Life-in-Daith. ”

“ The thistle needs maun fa’ again.
—But a’ its growth ’ll never fill
The hole it’s turned my life intill!...
Yet ha’e I Silence left, the croon o’ a’.
No’ her, wha on the hills langsyne I saw
Liftin’ a foreheid o’ perpetual snaw.
No’ her, wha in the how-dumb-deid o’ nicht
Kyths, like Eternity in Time’s despite.
No’ her, withooten shape, wha’s name is Daith,
No’ Him, unkennable abies to faith
—God whom, gin e’er He saw a man, ’ud be
E’en mair dumfooner’d at the sicht than he. ”

“ Daith rises frae’s when oor lives crottle.
These are the moments when my sang
Clears its white feet frae oot amang
My broken thocht, and moves as free
As souls frae bodies when they dee.
There’s naething left o’ me ava’
Save a’ I’d hoped micht whiles befa’.
Sic sang to men is little worth.
It has nae message for the earth.
Men see their warld turned tapsalteerie,
Drookit in a licht owre eerie,
Or sent birlin’ like a peerie—
Syne it turns a’ they’ve kent till then
To shapes they can nae langer ken.
Men canna look on nakit licht. ”

“ A little: but He lacked the poo’er
To licht up mair than pairt o’ space at aince,
And there is lots o’ darkness that’s the same
As gin He’d never spoken
—Mair darkness than there’s licht,
And dwarfin’t to a candle-flame,
A spalin’ candle that’ll sune gang oot.
—Darkness comes closer to us than the licht,
And is oor natural element. We peer oot frae’t
Like cat’s een bleezin’ in a goustrous nicht
(Whaur there is nocht to find but stars
That look like ither cats’ een) ,
Like cat’s een, and there is nocht to find
Savin’ we turn them in upon oorsels;
Cats canna. ”

“ It’s gey and hard wark’ coupin’ gless for gless
Wi’ Cruivie and Gilsanquhar and the like,
And I’m no’ juist as bauld as aince I wes. ”

“ And mak’ a kirk or mill o’ them as we can,
—And yet I feel this muckle thistle’s staun’in’
Atween me and the mune as pairt o’ a Plan.
It isna there—nor me—by accident.
We’re brocht thegither for a certain reason,
Ev’n gin it’s naething mair than juist to gi’e
My jaded soul a necessary frisson.
I never saw afore a thistle quite
Sae intimately, or at sic an ’oor.
There’s something in the fickle licht that gi’es
A different life to’t and an unco poo’er. ”