Room 102

A bheil a Gháidhlig agaibh?
Do you speak Gaelic?
Speckles of it only, generic
chit-chit. Not enough,
not nearly enough.
Translations are always tricky,
hear it again, hear it literally:
A bheil a Gháidhlig agaibh?
Do you have the Gaelic?
Yes, oh yes.
It flows through my veins, sings
up past the bent grasses, bellows
from the peat bogs, flutters past my ear
as the sídhe sprinkle it on my skin.
This land knows her mistress, will answer
no other commands - and why should she?
She has suffered for this, has earned the right
to her pride. She will retain her integrity though
fewer and fewer can speak with her
as time passes and apathy remains.
This strange tongue of my ancestors, impenetrable
to folk from other places, is beautiful to me.
When I speak the little I can, it nestles on the
roof of my mouth and sits like Home on my tongue.
A bheil a Gháidhlig agaibh?
Not enough, not nearly enough.
But,
Tha mi ag ionnsachadh.
I'm learning.

Awa' an bile yer heid
Ye lanky streak o' pish
Yer maw's a haw bag
Yer da's a ba' sac
An' see you -
Yer claimt.



A translation for those of you not blessed with Scots genes (and thus an innate ability to understand violent insults in all their forms) by my fellow countryman Mr Danny Reynolds -



Oh wouldst that thou
Couldst take thy head
And boil it in a saucepan, red
Thou lean and lank, I must define
Compare thee to a pig’s urine
Thy mater, we detesticle
Thy pater, the skin round a testicle
If thou comest here now
The crowd will amass
Whilst I shall kick
Thy scrawny ass.

Danny Reynolds

Anna Russell

The bairns come to her
Forced to visit, armed to the hilt
With brain numbing gadgetry
Anglicised
Americanised
Anything but Rooted
But she has weapons of her own.

'Beag air bheag' she tells herself
'Beag air bheag.'

She starts with the wee ones
A song before slumber
'Griogal Cridhe' swims from her lips
The bairns don't understand the words
But her voice,
Swollen with the lilts of their ancestors,
Soothes them into heavy liddedness

The bigger ones shift and fidget
This is not the life
The adverts promise them
But she is undeterred
And tells tales
Their tales
Of Jacobites
Clearences
Faeries
Of Grey Men
Second Sight
And a land that cries daily
To be remembered

Years later
The bairns are grown
They travel
As We are wont to do
People hear the accent
And ask about home
The land they, as strangers
Have heard so much about
And these bairns who are grown
Remember the Highland Matriarch
And pass on her tales
Her songs
With fire in their eyes
And pride in their bellies

Anna Russell