Twa Poems

Ian Nimmo White



Whan ye wir the cricket o the litter
ye gowped at me wi goggle een
like Ah wis the eemage o the Lord.

Whan ye turn’t tae whit experts ca’
an adolescent, ye wir a
prog in ma bahookie,

a soor an thrawn, rauchlin tike
wi respeck for naebdie, least yirsel.
Ae mornin, we fell oot.

For a whilie yir shaddie
ne’er swippit the doorstane. We didna
hae glent o ane anither.

Syne, ye lernt a thing or twa,
and mair besides, oot there
amang the lions and bears.

And ma newfund scowth, Ah’ll tak,
wis snug. Or, whan laneliness
dreeped intae a howe, ma thochts

cheynged. Noo we’re speakin (kinda),
speirin it the Warld thegither, ane
auld bletherin skite, ane cannie lad.

Partners in the Firm

Young John luiked auld. His heid
wis doon it the darg aa day.
Press on! wis aye his bugill ca’
whan ’prentices liftit therrs.

Ae mornin, a meenit ahint,
Ah wis stude tae attenshun be his desk.
He brocht me tae buik and tellt me
to wark a meenit owre lowsin.

Auld Tam wis unco droll. He jigged
thru the lobby it hauf efter ten,
smirked guid mornin tae ane and aa,
and wap’t his bowler (ne’er missed)

on tae the antler’t coatiestaun.
Syne he flaucht lik a horn daft bee
for his wee bit comfort plunked awa
whaur naebdie else cuid fund’t.

Nane but thaim cuid unnerstaun:
guid strang wuid, they wir tongue ‘n’ groove.
Auld Tam pulled the punters.
Young John squerr’d the balance.

Ian Nimmo White

(Scots Airts Cooncil poem o the month, Dec 2005)