What’s This You’re Writing?

by Rab Wilson

What’s This You’re Writing?       English Version

There’s none care now about the poet’s work
Least of all, not round here anyway.
Though Parnassus’ slopes might be hard and steep,
You wonder if the climb is worth the struggle.
Sisyphus, labouring with his little stone,
Was bound to the task by some ill–tempered gods,
The same ones who thought up the Lotto odds,
Damning me and Sis to try again.
Those kettle–boilers who just point and jeer,
Perhaps they could be right! If that’s the case,
As the page stares blankly back in your face,
Stop up your ears! You’ll not want to hear them ask;
‘What’s all this daft nonsense ?
There’s more to life than writing poetry!’

Whit’s This Ye’re Writin?       Ayrshire Scots

There’s nane cares nou anent the makar’s daurg,
Leastweys, no round about here onywey.
Tho Parnassus brae micht be stieve an stey,
Ye wunner gif the sclimb is wirth the tyauve.
Sisyphus, trauchlin wi his chuckie stane,
Wis thirlt tae the task bi some crabbit gods,
The same yins wha thocht up the Lotto odds,
Damnin me an Sis tae ettle agane.
Thae kettle–bilers wha juist pynt an jeer,
Aiblins they could be richt! Gif thon’s the case,
As the blaud stares blankly back in yer face,
Stap yer ears! Ye’ll nae want tae hear thaim speir;
‘Whit’s aa this daft joukerie–pawkerie ?
There’s mair tae life than screivin poetry!’