Runner Up for the 2022 Sloan Prize
Dorothy Lawrenson was born in Dundee and grew up in Fife. She has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Edinburgh, an MFA in Creative Writing from Texas State University, and an MA in Fine Art from the University of Edinburgh. Her poems, in English and Scots, have appeared in journals including Edinburgh Review, Frogmore Papers, Irish Pages, Lallans, The Oxford Magazine, South and Painted, spoken; and in anthologies including A Year of Scottish Poems and Best New British and Irish Poets 2019–2021. She has previously won both the Wigtown and Sangschaw prizes for writing in Scots.
See more of Dorothy’s work
website: www.dorothylawrenson.com
Three Sangs o Derkness an Licht
i. Cutty Days
When the sun’s sweir
tae rise an gleg tae dern
his licht ablow a bowie
he juist kittles the lift
syne yirds his braivity
whiles the mensefu mune
wi nae sic fause blateness
busks hersel an taks
the road she’s used wi
tentless o day or nicht
or whether she’s hailly
or ainly hauf hersel
till, jimp an dwynin,
she kens it’s lowsin time
an syne she’s brand new.
ii. Ghazal o the Leid
The nicht, i the blae lowe o ma laptap’s screen,
I hae a mind tae scrieve a puckle thochts anent the leid.
Lichtit like masel – whiles unco, whiles kenspeckle –
whit can I mak o this whiles vauntie, whiles shent leid?
It’s geylies like a braisant lassie struntin doon the street
in fur coat an nae knickers, thon ill-towdent leid.
I’m minded o some gangrel loon, wha’s chynged his claes
atween ferm an toun an frae his neebors spulyied.
The leid’s a lichtsome wee gazelle that jinks intae a wid,
or mebbe it’s a twal-point stag that’s sweir tae be follaed.
It’s a sair fecht tae gralloch sic a muckle dyke-louper,
but I ettle at the hert an the wame o the leid.
In the mids o ma life, I maun kittle up ma voice,
for in ma prodigal barnheid, I misspent ma leid.
In howffs an buiks, the leid cam speirin, tellt me
it kent ma faither – though ma faither never kent the leid.
Ae day, like a bee in ma bonnet, ma tung
stertit tae dirl in ma heid wi thon contramashious leid.
Eenoo, ma harns is dinsome, thrang wi wurds
bizzin like bees in the byke o this eident leid.
(Noo I’ve habbled thon spell-chacker, I hae killed
thay kail-worms wimplin reid ablow ilk wurd like ‘leid’.)
Dod, there isnae muckle siller tae be won
furthsettin in this niver-pey-the-rent leid!
The makar’s darg’s a muckle ontak, but mebbe
it’s me that’s tae be makkit, an the Makar is the leid?
It’s a quaitlike kind o worship, chackin at the keys,
the screen leamin like a lozen in the kirk o the leid.
Syne tak this sang o praise, an lat me scrieve
Gift o the Makar at the fit o this heiven-sent leid.
iii. Aubade
Yestreen we twa smoored the fire,
dreeblin ase on ilka yella glaim
tae mak it smooder till morn.
We cooried doon, doverin taigled
ticht as a wapped raip
abuird a ship on a gurly sea.
Whiles yin o’s wad feeze or jee,
as if ettlin tae mak an affgaun
in’s ain dozened currach.
Sae ye girded your barrel-breist
wi ma airms, but fient a craw-nest
could gainstaun when keek-o-day’s
assie glowe wis sent tae sinder us:
auld mune i the new mune’s airms,
fou as the fouth o ma hert.
