Simon W. Hall

Dverg Mal       Orcadian, Scots of Orkney

‘The echo comes from the hammars, or cliffs, on the side of the hill.
Dr Marwick decided that Dwarmo is a corruption
of the Old Norse dverg–mal, which literally means ‘dwarf talk’.’

Daft, kenspeckle peedie voices spikkan back.
Who dae they think they ær ? They shouldna spik back.
The Wurds o Dwarves ? Grice grunts and skorrie skreks.
The language o dwarves is good
Fur functional use at straightforward pieces
Like the Gutterplitter Industrial Estate,
Whar peedie black dwarves wark a wark in thur pits,
Under the glare o halogen inspection lamps,
Wae muckle pliers, snarls o wire,
Tullimentan silver spanners,
And no–questions–asked ball–pien hammars,
Rivan at rotten pickup radiators, laggered in græse,
Drivan oot roosty wheel beareens,
Cannibalisan gargly owld two–stroke ootboards,
And kerryan oot ither, similar mechanical necessities,
Bletheran awey demented tae themsæls and wan anither,
Slivers o steel like sandeels coiled in thur long, græsy beards,
Retchan guttural, norny pellets o used engine oil
Fae thur durty mooths tae spit oot on cowld concrete.
(And hiv ye heard a owld dwarf mither
Takkan the calls fae the clients,
Reevlan awey on Skype,
Her erse eltit in pelters ? Beuy, beuy.
Cheust imagine that in its underwear.)
But I digress. Yes, we ken we couldna dae withoot them.
They mak sure urbane folk like iss git fae A tae B.
And they græse the tractor wheels o wur economy.
But na, that owld Dverg Mal canna really be suffered
Tae sweem wae slimy legs across the Peedie Sea tae the Toon.
It canna come anywhar near the Muckle Hooses o
Bureaucracy, The Academy, the flat–screen o the BBC.
Or the sky will faal doon.
Hid disna hiv a formal register, ye see.
And hid reverts tae English under duress.
There’s a naffil lot the dwarf talk can’t express.
Na na. That echo ye thowt ye heard in the Chamber ? Hid wis notheen.
Mak no mistake. It is the dwarf tongue, and the dwarf tongue only.

glossary
daft, kenspeckle peedie voices:  silly, familiar little voices
shouldna:  shouldn’t
grice grunts and scorrie skreks:  pig grunts and the screeches of young seagulls pieces:  places
gutter:  mud
plitter:  to play around in mud or water
wark a wark:  mess around, cause mischief
muckle:  big
snarls:  twists;
tullimentan:  glittering
rivan:  wrenching and pulling
laggered:  coated thickly
bletheran:  chattering
norny:  old fashioned, like the (almost) extinct Orkney Norn language
reevlan:  talking incessantly
erse:  ass, butt
eltit:  coated, covered
pelters:  balls of dried animal dung
beuy:  boy
ken:  know
canna:  cannot
Peedie Sea:  a saltwater lagoon in Kirkwall, separating the
                   industrial estate from the rest of the town
muckle hooses:  big houses
a naffil lot:  an awful lot.

by Simon W. Hall

Poor Peedie Gaelic       Orcadian, Scots of Orkney

Poor peedie Gaelic.
Peedie tottie grottie buckie.
Atlantic o pressure bearan doon on thee.
Hoo kin thoo stand it, peedie thing ?
Thoo’re only peedie.

Poor peedie Gaelic.
Empty shell cast up on a skerry.
Ootcast on the maritime periphery.
Peedie breist wae livan, roseate hue.
But when I turn thee ower I see
A peedie skull grinnan back at me.

Still, thoo are blessed compared wae me:
Thur’s Alba on the BBC,
A Language Act fur aal tae see,
And thoo’re distinct.
But haters willna let iss be,
Till wur extinct.

translation
Poor little Gaelic. Tiny little cowrie shell. Atlantic of pressure
bearing down on you. How can you stand it, little thing ? You’re

only little.
Poor little Gaelic. Empty shell cast up on a sea rock. Outcast on the
maritime periphery. Little breast with living, roseate hue. But when

I turn you over I see a little skull grinning back at me.
Still, you are blessed compared with me: there’s Alba on the BBC, a
Language Act for all to see, and you’re distinct. But haters won’t
leave us alone / in peace, until we are extinct.

by Ron Butlin  

When I reach the centre of the earth
let there be someone with me.
Each of us must bear the world’s weight,
but not alone.

So when I return at last to this same hour
and this same place,
let there be someone raising even
the emptiness in their hands
towards me.

by Ron Butlin

I was having a last drink with a friend at the very moment
a truck was being driven down a faraway hillside.

I left the bar to find the city–centre deserted —
No trams, no buses, no pedestrians and all the shop doors
standing wide open. Everyone had gone to Nice
to see the fireworks.

My friend was dying of cancer. We’d said goodbye,
and I was setting off across the city as the truck
approached la Promenade des Anglais.

He’d been given two years at most. No more consultations,
no more tests. I was putting my key in the door when
the truck started its zigzag carnage through men,
women and children, continuing
to crush them under its wheels as I climbed
the stairs to our top floor flat.

My friend had looked tired, hesitant, but his parting
handclasp had been sure.

Princes Street. La Promenade des Anglais.
From today it’s only a short walk from one to the other.

Saying goodbye, brings us closer than ever before.