Poet
Bàrd
A’ sgrìobhadh na bàrdachd…
Writing the poems…
There were three dozen poems in Sandy’s first collection, ‘Crotal Ruadh – Red Lichen’ (Acair 2016), eight of them also songs. They vary greatly in subject matter, mood, style and use of various formal rhyme schemes, or free verse. Sandy’s second collection, ‘An Seachdamh Tonn – The Seventh Wave’, was published by Acair in 2021, and comprises fifty new poems and a dozen new songs. Her third book, ‘An Naomhsgeul as Buaine – the Most Enduring Saint’s Fable’, also came out in 2021 (published by Sallan Ltd), and is a suite of seventeen Cantos.
Here are a few examples of her writing, starting with the first and last verses of ‘An Seachdamh Tonn’ – ‘The Seventh Wave’, the title-poem of her second book; and the first and last verses of ‘Eilean Ì’ – ‘Iona’, the lynch-pin Canto of her most recent book about St Columba. Also a selection from her first two collections: ‘Na Fir-Chlis’ – ‘The Northern Lights’; ‘Cailleach-Oidhche Fhroboist’ – ‘Frobost Owl’; ‘An Nighean à Chopacabana’ – ‘The Girl from Copacabana’; ‘Cumha a’ Chrùin Chiomaich’ – ‘Lament of the Captive Crown’; ‘Luimnichean Meek’ – ‘Donald’s Limericks’; ‘Cadal Dòchasach’ – ‘Hopeful Sleep’; ‘Cruit-Cuimhneachaidh’ – ‘Harp of Commemoration’. You may also view videos of ‘Fath’ – ‘Vision’, which was commissioned by the Scottish Poetry Library in July 2020; and of ‘Thig Charon a’ Shuirighe’ – ‘Charon Comes a’ Courting’, commissioned by the Gaelic Books Council in May 2020; and hear an audio of ‘Prìosanachd nan Còisir’ – ‘The Choirs’ Imprisonment’, commissioned by Literature Alliance Scotland in July 2021.
Roghainn Bàrdachd Poetry Samples
An Seachdamh Tonn
Thigibh air bòrd, a mhnathan ròghnaicht’,
bìrlinn nam bana-bhàrd ’s an Ceòlraidh,
’s fo a bòid: bheir ’n Seachdamh Tonn –
an stuadh as treas’, as àirde –
gu sàbhailte sibh thar bàirlinn
gu ceann-uidh’ geallaichte do bhàrdachd
nam bana-shonn.
…………
Ràinig ar long a ceart cheann-uidhe,
ag acair am fèath a’ chala-guidhe,
’s fhuair dàn na mnà a fonn
am pòsadh grinn – is binn an fhuaim,
air fadadh leis ar Ceòlraidh smuain.
Is coileanta sàr-bhòid a’ chuain:
an Seachdamh Tonn.
The Seventh Wave
Come aboard, chosen crew of women;
board the female bards’ galley, and hear
your Muses’ Oath: the Seventh Wave –
the highest, most powerful surge –
will bear you safely over the seas
to the destination promised to
poet-heroines.
……….
Our ship has reached her destined port,
drops anchor in the sheltered haven.
Our women’s verse and artful tunes
sing out their sweet response
to the Muses’ lightning spark.
The sea fulfils its solemn Oath:
The Seventh Wave.
Ì: Eilean Ì, O Thì, Sìth Eilean Ì
A Thighearn’ is ar n-Athair chòir,
Maith dhuinn ar gnàthas faoin.
Thoir tuigse dhuinn is ceartas-cèill,
A chum beatha fìor-ghlan ’s grinneas-beus,
’S sìor-adhrar d’ ainm is do ghlòir:
’S sìor-adhrar d’ ainm is do ghlòir.
………
Is coisrigt’ an t-àit’ far an cuir sinn brìgh
Nar dleastanas dhut is dligh’;
Oir stèidhear manachainn, led ghràs
A sgaoileas do shoisgeul farsaing ’s gu bràth,
An ceann-uidhe coisrigte ar sligh’ –
Tìr a’ gheallaidh: Eilean Ì.
An ceann-uidhe coisrigte ar sligh’ –
Tìr a’ gheallaidh: Eilean Ì.
Ar ceann-uidhe: Eilean Ì.
Iona: Isle of Iona, O Lord, the Peace of Iona
Dear Lord and Father, thou art kind:
forgive our foolish ways.
Bless us with wise and rightful mind,
grant us a purer life to find
to revere thy glory, name and praise;
thy glory, name and praise.
………
To found an abbey in this holiest place
shall our destined duty be;
and the wondrous gospel, by Thy grace,
spread through the world from this sacred space
from Iona – promised us by Thee;
Iona – promised by Thee.
Iona – promised us by Thee;
Iona – promised by Thee.
Iona – our destiny.
Luimnichean-Meek
A Dhòmhnaill chòir, cùmaibh ur cuimse
mhìn-aoireil, macanta-puinnseant’
air cealg luchd-cumhachd
gun nàire gun truas,
leis ur Luim-meekan – guth ar muinntir!
Donald’s Limericks
Have you noticed, in recent strange weeks,
there’s a new bardic form – Limer-Meeks:
their satire impeaches
politicians’ breaches,
and sends the ferret of truth down their breeks.
Cadal Dòchasach
Làighe na grèin’,
ròs na h-oidhche,
ciaradh an là:
rionnag nan speur,
gealach as boidhche,
is camhanach nas fheàrr.
Hopeful Sleep
Sun’s setting,
evening’s blush,
the daylight fades:
stars of the heavens,
moon’s silver flush
and a better dawn awaits.
Cruit-Cuimhneachaidh
Air Là na Buaidhe Eòrpaich, 8 Ceitean 2020
Cha bràigh a’ chruit!
Bheir i gaol is ceòl dhuit,
’s ged glaist’ i a-staigh
seo dhuit beannachd bhon taigh
le co-bhàidh: is seòlaidh
ar fuinn is ar ceòlraidh
le fiughar do chèile.
Is comharraicht’ là-fèille
do’n linn romhainn, le cuimhe
is ar meas orr’ as doimhne;
’s don a huile neach-fulaing
sna làithean seo cruaidh.
Harp of Commemoration
On VE day, 8 May 2020
The harp is not captive!
She sends love and music
and though locked indoors,
here’s her blessing from home
with sympathy: our muses
and melodies will fly
over distance between us
to bring hope and regard.
Remember, this holiday,
those gone before, with
our deepest respect;
and those suffering now
in today’s severe times.
An Nighean à Chopacobana
Mòr is donn is òg is maiseach mi
’n nigh’n à Chopacobana a’ spaidsireachd,
sùil gach balach Rio a’ stalcadh
air mo thòir.
Capybara’s Carioca mi,
’s caipirinha ’n deoch a dhòlas mi:
an ainmhidh shomalt’ à Bhrasil –
’n tè as bòidhch’!
An creimeach as motha san t-saoghal mi,
le bikini beag buidh’ orm, a thaghadh mi,
gus spreigeadh miann faoin sna fir gaolaich
Ach gach là, nuair a thèid mi dhan tràigh,
‘s e snàmh a bheir tlachd dhomh is àigh…
Mòr is donn is òg is maiseach mi
’n nigh’n à Chopacobana a’ spaidsireachd
seachad ort, aig àm
a’ Charnavail,
’s chan fhaic mi càch…
’S mi ’n Capybara…
’n nigh’n as àille,
is bidh gu bràth.
The Girl from Copacabana
Large and brown and young and lovely,
I’m the girl from Copacobana; I’m strutting,
and every lad’s eye in Rio lusts
after me.
I’m a Capybara, a native of Rio,
a Caipirinha’s my favourite tipple,
the strapping hot beast from Brazil
– for I am she!
A rodent – yes, I’m the world’s largest;
in my small gold bikini, my art is
to rouse foolish men’s amorous ardour…
but each day, I go down to the sea,
for a swim’s the best pleasure for me…
Large and brown and young and lovely,
I’m the girl from Copacobana; I’m strutting
straight past you
at Carnival time:
there’s no-one I see..
Capybara, that’s me –
the loveliest girl
there will ever be.
Cumha a’ Chrùin Chiomaich
’S mi nam shuidh’ seo nam aonar
Ann am bocsa gun ghrian,
Ghoid an duibhre mo shaorsa:
Rìgh! ’S cha mhòr nach caill mi m’ rian.
Sèist
A Cheòlraidh, ur sunnd!
Is glèidhear ur reachd.
Cha bràigh’ mis’ an crùn,
’S chan àichear mo rùn:
sàr-urram do bhàird ri teachd.
Ged de mheileabhaid purpidh
Rinneadh cluasag m’àit’-suidhe,
’B e sèithear bàird ùraicht’,
No ceann-duainair’ a guidheam.
Caoidht’ an cliù a bu ghnàth leam,
leth-cheud bliadhn’ bhithinn builicht’
air ur bathais – a bhàrdaibh! –
a choisinn a’ phrìomh dhuais.
Ach fichead bliadhn’ orm fadachd –
’s mi sa chiste chiar ghlaiste –
ri bhith fillte mar labhras
air ceann nam bàrd aithnicht’.
Cluinnibh fathann ro-iongantach!
Is mithich dhomh dùsgadh!
Thèid mo lìomhadh is dustadh –
Òir thèid bàrd ùr a’ chrùnadh!
Às a’ chiste mo ghruaim
Is àill leam nis tàireadh.
Gheibh bàrd ùr an seann duais
Is èirich le àigh mi!
Rìgh! Leigibh a-mach mi!
Nis leigibh às mi!!
Sèist mu dheireadh
Togaibh ur ceann, is togaibh ur peann,
a bhàrdaibh, ’s ur tàlann gun tàlainn.
Mis’ an crùn, ’s tha mi beò!
Ar cànan ’s ar cèol,
Suas le bàrdachd, is suas leis a Ghàidhlig!
Lament of the Captive Crown
Here I sit alone and lonely
In a box without sunlight,
Darkness has stolen my freedom:
Lord! I risk losing my sanity.
Chorus
Muses, lift your spirits!
May your rule prevail.
I, the crown, am not captive,
nor is my purpose to be denied:
true honour to future bards.
Though my seat’s a fine cushion
Made of purple velvet,
I should prefer to sit in the bardic chair
Or on the head of a poet.
My former renown’s to be mourned,
My half-century customarily bestowed
on your temples – you poets,
those who won the eminent prize.
But for twenty years I have yearned –
locked away in this gloomy casket –
to be placed, like a laurel-wreath,
on the head of an acknowledged bard.
But hear now! A marvellous rumour!
It is time for me to awaken!
I shall be polished up and dusted off –
for a new bard is to be crowned!
Out of my melancholy casket
I am delighted to escape at last.
A new poet will receive this ancient prize
And I shall soar with joy!
Lord! Release me now!
Now set me free!
Last Chorus
Lift your heads, and lift your pens
Poets, I wish to reward your gifts.
I am the crown, and I Iive!
For our language and music
Raise up your poems, here’s to Gaelic!