Wrack Wid

Now that autumn is approaching rapidly, and stormy weather more likely, I started thinking about the thrill I used to get from finding drift wood (wrack wid) along the shores (banks) of Shetland.
There was no greater excitement for a beach comber (wrackie man), than hearing on Radio Shetland that a wood carrying boat had lost a deck cargo.
I'll never forget the early 70s when such an event happened. A form of driftwood fueled insanity crept into the daily life of many Shetlanders. Women were left wondering if they still had a husband, until he came home in the middle of the night soaking wet from his nights work of dragging timber from the sea.
That particular event was even immortalised in a song, by Eddie Barclay  on his 1983 album 'Hame Aboot', called 'Widdy Ert'.

Well, here's my thoughts on the noble act of saving timber from the ocean. It may not read well, but it sounds good when sung. Even with my voice. ;)

Da Wrackie Man’s Prayer
(Set loosely to the tune of: My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean)

I stood on da banks bro dis moarnin,
Wi my een peegin hard ‘po da sea,
An I offered a prayer ta da Guid Loard,
Wid he please send som wrack wid ta me.

Chorus:
Wrack wid, wrack wid,
Dael planks an battens,
A wrackie man’s spree,
Wrack wid, wrack wid,
Oh Loard send some wrack wid ta me.

I ken a’m no much fir da kirk Loard,
So please dunna tink ill o me,
Whin I ask dee ta do as a’m biddin,
An please send some wrack wid ta me.

(Chorus)


Da last time du sent wis a scaur loard,
Hit fair filt me auld heart wi glee,
Bit hit aa guid ta big a new hen hoose,
So send a deck cargo ta me.

(Chorus)

Dis time I need wid fur a box bed,
Ta keep da wife closer ta me,
Shö wins oot o a king size ower aesy,
So Loard send some wrack wid ta me.

(Chorus)

Inch planks wid be awfully handy,
Less cutting an sawin fur me,
An meybe a guid fower inch pit prop,
Loard I need a new dröltin tree.

(Chorus)




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By the way, if anybody wants translation on any of the words, or verses, just ask, and I'll do my best.

Yun's aa fir enoo

Snyirk

This is a new concept for me. I'm going to try to explain a few words from my Shetland dialect, by making verses about these words. Worst of all I'm going to write the verses in English.

In some cases I might get it right, but most likely I'll make a complete gonads of it. This could be a project doomed to failure.

The first word for this treatment is Snyirk:

It's many years since I last heard
the snyrkin of a straining oar,
or the snyirk of a rusty hinge
on  an ill-maintained barn door.

When motors replaced oars
boats fly along so fast,
and that, with well oiled hinges,
means that snyirk is a word of the past.

I'll try to do better with my next verse explaining a Shetland word, so bear with me. Some Shetland words are damned hard to find any way of explaining within the restrictions of the English language.

Yun's aa fir enoo

Mindin A Face

This strange little poem, which I wrote about 25 years ago, was a reflection of things which I had witnessed whilst helping my brother to deal with sheep gathering at Cunningsburgh.
Perhaps it's just my idea of the Shetland crofter, but I'm sure that other Shetlanders, if they read this, will see something very real about it.

Additionally, this is one of the poems I've written which has appeared in the strangest place. On a French website about poetry, between a poem by Christine De Luca and one by Edgar Alan Poe.

Mindin A Face

Some times whin I look at a face in a crood
I  tink,  feth I ken him, or at least I shöd,
a’ll no mind da name, or whit pairt he's fae,
meybe fae Mossbank, or Vidlin, or Brae.

Bit mindin faces is a winderfil art,
an da  Shetlan crofter’s da  man fir dis pairt.
He can staand at da crö an tell at a glance,
wha owns a hug, wi his look or his stance.

“Yea yun een is Rasmies”, he’ll declare wi glee,
“He’s ower little wirt ta belang ta me”,
an, "Yun lamb ower yunder belangs ta da Knowe"
"Hit has a face laek a weel ridden sow”.

Bit dis art o da croftir can geeng a bit gly,
whin greed taks ower, du kens da wye.
For as shön as he sees a guid looking lamb,
hye shouts, “Sees du dat boy, da face o wir ram”.

Auld Rasmie

Faain Bye

Some folk just have no sense of fun. And considering a response to my last post, which I had to edit for fear of retribution of the most heinous female kind, it came to my mind that the only response was another poetical one, since I only think in rhymes.

Faain Bye ( A ting only weemin dö)

Followin on fae da last post I med,
some een girned hard at da tings dat I sed.
A'm no sure I ken whit wis irkin hir birse,
apairt fae her sittin flat on her erse.

I only ever write whit I see,
so why dö fok tak dat oot on me.
If dey dunna want ta end in me verses,
staand at da bar, dunna faa 'pö dir erses.

Auld Rasmie

Swittlin Foo

Since it's a Friday night it seemed only fair to post yet another reflection on the Shetland drink culture.
I wrote this poem, many years ago after observing the normal Friday night crowd at a drinking facility in Sandwick. Many, if not most of those there, were male. Many, if not most of them, possibly including myself, were drunk, or getting that way. In Shetland dialect it could safely be said that most were 'Swittlin Foo', hence the title.

Swittlin Foo

Lined up at da bar laek hens on a baak,
glaepin pints sae fast dey wir laek ta shock.
Seekin excuses no ta geeng hame,
tae da wife wha’s anger is rising laek steam.

Da stories du hears at da face o a bar,
range fae sex, ta politics, an maybe da car.
If du staands lang enyoch hit’s a winder ta hear,
foo grit some tales get whin telt trow beer.

Du’ll hear o da olick dat weighed twinty pound,
an he gets a bit gritter wi every round.
Or da coo at da show wi a calf o grit size,
twa pints later sho’d twins an dey baith wan a prize.

Du’ll hear o da sexual exploits o man,
i da back o a Mini or an auld Austin van.
Or da time at da paet hill whin castin a bank,
dat some een fell foo heid first i da stank.

Bit der’s wan tale a’m sure du never will hear,
nae odds foo muckle’s been swittled i beer.
An dat is foo muckle trouble an strife,
dis drinkin’ll mak wance du’s hame ta da wife.

Auld Rasmie

Untitled Verse

I try to avoid writing in English, especially when it comes to poetry, purely because I have such a terrible grasp of English grammar. But sometimes my old garbled brain cell picks up on an idea, won't let it go, and the result is something like this.

Let faith be your guide, through all of your fears.
Let love be your comfort, through all of your years.
Let friendship come first, and cruel thoughts come last.
Let your mind seek the future, you can't change the past.

Auld Rasmie

Da Best Tings i Life

I suppose that nostalgia was the root of this little verse which I wrote last year.
No doubt all Shetland exiles have thoughts from time to time about the things they miss about the islands.
Although, sitting in the glory of a West Norway summer's afternoon, with the temperature several degrees above any Shetland record, it's a bit hard to think about force 8 horizontal rain and salt spray, with any degree of longing. ;)

Da Best Tings i Life

A greetin bairn du can had i de airm,
a lass du can cuddle ta keep dysel warm,
an Olick dat maks dee airms sair whin du hauls him,
an a lang lost freend dat's plaesed whin du calls him.

A beer dat's sae cauld dy troats laek ta freeze,
a curry sae hot dat du faas tae dy knees,
a warm simmers day whin da Laevriks ir trillin,
an troots i da tap o da loch ir swillin.

A cauld winters nicht upö a craig stane,
sprootin soe fur sillocks, dy tae ta tak hame,
a tocht o da place du wis boarn an cam fae,
Shetlan, oh Loard, whit mair cud du hae.

Auld Rasmie