Now and Soon to Come

Good morning, beloved readers.

sunlit forest.jpgI’m sure you’ve noticed that my frequency of writing, along with its content, have changed a bit over the past year or two. No, I haven’t switched to decaf. God forbid such heresy! Yes, I am sleeping well and my diet is fine.

In actuality, it is indicative of some fairly significant shifts in my overall demeanour. In a sense, my outlook is changing. I don’t see it as some kind of Hollywood denouement where the old guy shares his tale from his death bed to curious onlookers. Nor do I understand it to be a return to some fictitious earlier time less fraught with daily perils and troubling anxiety. I don’t believe in “good ole days.” Nor will I ever.

But, indeed, certain movements are afoot. Those changes, some of which I understand, most not, have all contributed to something altered/ing in me. They are only partly alterations in ideology. I am still the slightly warped Celtic-mystic-progressive living with unassuageable thirst, contemplative longing, and a bit moody around the edges. I still possess an undying spiritual curiosity. The mysteries of science and the cosmos remain to me as enthralling as ever. I am in love with the same girl who first captured my attentions over three decades ago. My two boys are more amazing now than ever. I am, in a word, still me.

But something is different. Or perhaps, new. Newly different? Or…something.

What is it you ask? Hang tight for a series of posts, soon to come, exploring these things.  And, by the way, thanks for asking.

Your friend in formation, R

“Your honest, sonsie face…”

Robert Burns, given his widespread fame (and infamy) to Scottish and English literary crowds in the eighteenth century, one would think him even better known than he is. He is heralded by an annual recognition of his life and work on this very day, January 25th. The great irony of Burns was the praise lavished upon him by both Edinburgh and London poshies despite his very tongue-in-cheek poetic invective against the same. He was after all a product of his era. A fiercely nationalistic Scottish socialist who wrote comical and approachable poetry for everyone. 

In honour of dear Mr. Burns, I post here one of his most famous works, “Address to a Haggis.” It is, in essence, a socio-political statement meant to solicit a laugh or two at the expense of those uppity French, and others, whose social delicacies were no match for the beefy Scots.

Enjoy, and happy Robbie Burns Day!

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Address to a Haggis

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang ‘s my arm.

(Good luck to you and your honest, plump face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.)

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o’ need,

While thro’ your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

(The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.)

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,

An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!

(His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!)

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit hums.

(Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst, 
‘The grace!’ hums.)

Is there that owre his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi’ perfect sconner,

Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view

On sic a dinner?

(Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?)

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither’d rash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

(Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.)

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He’ll make it whissle;

An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,

Like taps o’ thrissle.

(But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He’ll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.)

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o’ fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,

Gie her a Haggis!

(You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer, 
Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!)

Saturday Fragmentia Sacra 2

Friends, in light of an upcoming five-day silent retreat I shall be enjoying at St. Placid Priory, this will be my last holy scrap for a wee while. Munch on it or discard at will. Enjoy a morning coffee, an afternoon nap, an evening cuddle with your significant other, and any other little joys to be mined from the beautiful mundane!

Saturday Fragmentia Sacra 2 copy.jpgPeace and love in abundance…R