Ghetto-makars, tae the knackirs'
Wi aw yir schemes, yir smug dour dreams
O yir ain feet. Yi're beat
By yon new Scoatlan loupin tae yir street...
— Robert Crawford
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James Murray combs the dialect from his beard
And files slips for his massive Dictionary.
Thinking of Helensburgh, J. G. Frazer
Revises flayings and human sacrifice;
Abo of the Celtic Twilight, St Andrew Lang
Posts him a ten-page note on totemism
And a coloured fairy book.
Among circuitboard crowsteps
To be miniaturised is not small-minded.
To love you needs more details than the Book of Kells —
Your harbours, your photography, your democratic intellect
Still boundless, chip of a nation.
Semiconductor country, land crammed with intimate expanses,
Your cities are superlattices, heterojunctive
Graphed from the air, your cropmarked farmlands
Are epitaxies of tweed.
Throw all your stagey chandeliers in wheel-barrows and move them north
To celebrate my mother's sewing-machine
And her beneath an eighty-watt bulb, pedalling
Iambs on an antique metal footplate.
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Political leaders are never leaders. For leaders we have to look to the Awakeners! Lao Tse, Buddha, Socrates, Jesus, Milarepa, Gurdjiev, Krishnamurti.
Utu, shepherd of the land, father of the black-headed, when you go to sleep, the people go to sleep with you; youth Utu, when you rise, the people rise with you.
Some of my youthful readers are developing wonderful imaginations. This pleases me.
Religion in so far as it is a source of consolation is a hindrance to true faith; and in this sense atheism is a purification.