Scotland my lover

There are mountains that are more to me than men,
There are rivers that are more to me than love,
There's a rock where my soul takes cover.
Wild winds on a maddened world have driven, 
Lifted me up to the bare hills above,
Scotland, my lover.

Here is a lover who will never change,
In storm and stillness, every lightning mood,
New ways of loving I'll discover,
A living sureness nothing can estrange.
Your grief and joy will be my daily food,
Scotland, my lover.

Ours is the love of lovers born to belong,
Our hearts sing the same music, beat as one.
Our glass of the water of life brims over,
Our thrice-rich, flowering native song,
Prodigal and gay. And, when my song is done,
I'll lie with you, my lover.

Clear northern skies lit childhood's innocence,
The day's darg over, dew under my feet, bare
on the cool grass, stars blaze and hover.
O still make love with me, far from the decadence
of this dire century, of love's despair,
Scotland, my jewel, my lover.


-Nannie Katharin Wells

Grandpa's Soup

No one makes soup like my Grandpa’s,
with its diced carrots the perfect size
and its diced potatoes the perfect size
and its wee soft bits –
what are their names?
and its big bit of hough,
which ryhmes with loch, floating
like a rich island in the middle of the soup sea.

I say, Grandpa, Grandpa your soup is the best soup in the whole world.
And Grandpa says, Och,
which rhymes with hough and loch,
Och, Don’t be daft,
because he’s shy about his soup, my Grandpa.
He knows I will grow up and pine for it.
I will fall ill and desperately need it.
I will long for it my whole life after he is gone.
Every soup will become sad and wrong after he is gone.
He knows when I’m older I will avoid soup altogether.
Oh Grandpa, Grandpa, why is your soup so glorious? I say
tucking into my fourth bowl in a day.

Barley! That’s the name of the wee soft bits. Barley.

- Jackie Kay

Ninharia aliterativa e porca

Passando pedestre pela
Calçada cruzei um cocô de cachorro
Certamente cevado a cenoura