Caroline Mackie was born and bred in Edinburgh but left to the Netherlands with her husband and 2 little ones in 1979. What was to be perhaps a short adventure, ended up with the family staying in the Netherlands 'forever'.

With family still in Scotland and not being all that far off, Caroline kept good contact with our roots. Caroline has always written.  She was always the one at the office to compose something for anyone leaving... that sort of thing. Caroline has been an official translator of Dutch to English since 2009.
Over the years Caroline wrote children's books (no luck with publishers), rhymes and short stories, more and more over the last few years - time on her hands she suggests - and not long ago began writing in the vernacular too - Caroline's version of Scots. Caroline hesitates to call her pieces 'poetry' but participating in online 'spoken word' events has encouraged Caroline, and feels her short stories seem appreciated when she posts them on Facebook.
Caroline is happy to participate with the Scots Language Centre Poetry Column and hopes she comes over well.

Advocacy

The kids the day are still aa telt ‘at’s nae wey tae be speakin!’
Thir even telt in jist they words! It’s mad!
Ah’m realisin (late, ah ken) it’s spellin thit needs tweakin,
an tellin kids thit hou they speak’s NO bad.

Wis aa keep up wi Burns at schuil. It helps, thir’s nae denying.
A word like ‘ilka’ might indeed no last.
But whit wey kin we no jist larn tae spell in decent Scots,
an larn thit hou we spik’s no frae times past!

Ah’ve loads o pals that tell me, ‘ah hiv niver spoke lik thon!’
No even realisin that they dae!
It’s the spellin an the writin that wis never taught tae us.
Been denied us all they years. So, whit d’ye say?

Teach Inglis aye, as foreign tongue. Big up the uis o Scots.
Pronunciation (whit’s the Scots fir aat?)
Wir mair than jist an accent! We’ve history tae prove it!
Ah dinnae ken it aa, but ah’ve got heart.

If bairns wis gien mair access tae mair writings o aa airts,
the chances o revival wid be grand.
Nae mair wuid even Scots hink thit their kids wis speakin ‘slang’.
A sense o pride wid then gae hand in hand.

Ah ken a dinnae dae it right masel. Ah niver larnt!
O course ah ken ah huvnae got the clowt.
But nou, ah hink the time his come! We need tae get this sorted!
‘Scots wha hae…’ an aa that. Shout it out!

Caroline Mackie, 6th January 2023
 

Lorna Callery-Sithole is an award-wining, working-class, multidisciplinary, Renfrewshire-based poet, visual artist, performer, and educator as well as being the proud mama of three beautiful Zimbabweegies. She has published three poetry collections; Pigeon with Warburtons (Speculative Books, 2019), Colour Theory (Hybrid Dreich, 2020) documenting her biracial family’s experiences of everyday racism, and Facing our Past; Shining the Light (National Trust for Scotland, 2020), examining the links between the Stirling Maxwells and enslavement in the Caribbean. She is currently working on her forth poetry collection, Billboard Apocalypse, reflecting on life in a post Covid landscape amidst the Cost of Living Crisis. She regularly performs her work at venues across Scotland and will be closing the Paisley Book Festival 2023 alongside the Renfrewshire Makar, Shaun Moore. https://www.lornacallery-sithole.com

Twitter: @LornaCallery

Insta: @lorna_callery

Metets Store

[eftir Joan Eardley’s paintin ae the same name] 

bairnsang echoes 
up the close 
doon the road

pillar boax cheeks 
couldnae keep
damp oot 

newspapers linin 
puddle jumpers’
holy soles

hopscotch weans
jump chalk-marked
breid lines

ridd heedit lassie
sookin sherbitt lemons
chasin shaddas 

skinnymalink 
troubled tae hink
stuck in the daurk

his da spendin 
pay packet
two sheets tae the wind

sheets oan windaes 
tae block oot the sun 
nettin wiz a luxury 

wan cludgie fir aw
pitch black back court
black bag bin raiders

newspapers oan the wire 
wipe yer erse 
wi yesterday’s heidlines

East End tenements
black wi stoor
lookin slant

bare flairboards 
a bad smit  
lassies wi shaved heids

fitba in the streets 
thur wiz aye a laugh
tae be hud

but
who the hell 
wiz Betty?

Alan Millar is a poet, writer and journalist based in Ballymoney, Co Antrim, but born and reared in the Laggan valley of East Donegal, also a traditional Ulster-Scots speaking area. In 2021, he won the SLS Hugh Macdiarmid Tassie for his poem ‘Wee Weaver Birdie’, the first

Irish person to have done so. He is also winner of the inaugural Linenhall Library Ulster-Scots writing competition, short story section, and is runner up in in the 2022 SLS’s Robert McLellan Tassie for short story. He is published in Lallans, Ullans, Linenhall Library 2021

Winners Pamphlet and Ulster-Scots Community Network publication, ‘Yarns’. In 2014, he edited 'Frae the Causey tae the Apocalypse' the poems in Ulster-Scots and English of John McKinley of Dunseverick. He has recently started a weekly Ulster-Scots column ‘Leid

Loanen’ in the paper he works for. He has appeared in two BBCNI programmes in his capacity as an Ulster-Scots poet including ‘The narra sea, the further shore’, with Scots musician Phil Cunningham. Alan is a keen hiker and open water swimmer and is starting his third Polar Bear challenge, swimming at least 3k a month, from November to March, at Portrush, NI and local lakes.

Nit Hairst o tha Anshints, Colonsay 

frae a tael o oor Mesolithic hunter-gaether ancestors  
bae Alan Millar

blakberries, connies, nits, deer, pillwort, buckies, troot, dulse, boar, cherries, clappy doos, otter, siller eel, watter hen, duck, maukin, scart, petricock, saumon, mackerel, spoots…    

Twa auler yins sit, wearied  

at wid’s laggin, fornenst tha shore 

dugoots beached in plane sicht 

a wairm autumn evenin 

doucely fleppin at tha midgies 

as tha sun’s bricht draps 

abakka trees on tha saft lift 

ahint them, tha peck, peckin 

o whinstane chackin at wid 

chiels clishmaclaverin 

snoiterin forbye 

fur a wean is sleepin nearerhan

moo fu apen, wee finngers aa rid 

sair frae tha gaetherin

anent her, tha gye roon pit 

shalla, san lined, big as birkies-bae-twa 

pit heid tae toe athort it 

fur twa days noo tha nits 

hae tumult in frae their creels 

collectit bae tha wee femily 

waek yins foragin inbye 

tha stranger dannerin tha airts   

bonnie broon thoosans noo platted aaf 

tae jist aneath tha gress 

smellin o hairst sappie

yerbivore greens, deep guid 

Yao’s boonty 

tae tha lass stid grimin tha san ower    

tha mither, yer mammy’s namesake 

on her knees

smuithin aff flush tae tha groon

wi eydent hans 

sens tha dochter bak tae tha stran fur mair  

noo sat bidin 

keekin at her granwean, streichin   

a lown spell, a quateness faals 

wan she jalouses maun swallie this isle 

efter they’re awa  

her unco sperin cut shoort  

bae a sweet burd sang     

itsell loost  

as her nephews’ pap oota tha busses   

traelin hazel sticks fur tha wid bing 

aye groughin  

in tha late mirk o dailygaun 

ilka boadie gaethers 

aroon tha bonfire, 

cannie bigged ower tha hairst 

aal een on tha younglin heid yin 

hunkered wi flints, he lichts tha fog tinner 

blaws, tae flames kittle his finngers  

quick sets it unner tha boney    

naw lang efter, tha clan beed doon 

furfoughen, bit fur wan aule sentinel 

wha kens his darg   

taipin on sticks 

skailin tha haet greeshoch fairly   

fur their rich hairst maun kythe  

maun bae roastit naw burnt

kerries his gree lik a heid yin 

o a blast furnace, smeltin 

gustie baked flora, niver gaes aff 

kept beilded weel, frae rane an tide 

meat though ony scantiness  

on their gye road farrit.

I wis born in 1939 in a wee mining village oan the edge o’ Dunfermline.

It seems I wis wan o’ they slow developers….in ither words…a wee bit dovie fir I failed ma Qualifying exam and ended up in whit wis cawed a “Junior Secondary School.” So, it wis thit a left the skail wi’ nae qualifications whitsaever…an’ ma dovetail jints wir nae up tae much aither.

I wis lucky tae git a joab, but soon I wis wanderin’ aboot Fife repairing televisions an’ I did this until I left Fife fir London in the late fifties. So, it wis that I lived for some time in a Boardin’ hoose in Bermondsey wi seven Irishmen, an Englishmen, a Welshman an’ twa Scotsmen. This wis a time o’ traditional Jazz clubs, bonny girls and signs in windaes sayin’ nae Blacks, nae Irish and nae dogs.

Efter this I hid aw sorts o’ joabs; I wis a Paratrooper, an Antique dealer, Computer engineer, an’ aw different odds an’ sods. In my thirties I gained some educational qualifications and enrolled in University before trainin’ tae be a teacher. I taught in the old List D system in Dundee then when this system was closed down, I moved tae Fife. Noo married and wi a dochter, I steyed in Fife until takkin early retirement. Moved tae France fir a few years before returning there.

The hale o’ my life I’ve a passion fir bicycle touring and fir many years I’ve wandered all ower France wi ma wee tent fir a couple o’ months every year. As weel though, I enjoyed paddling a sea Kayak, sailing a Sailboat and daein some Cross-country skiing.

I’ve been writin’ poetry fir years…mainly as an outlet when experiencin’ some sort o’ trauma, but then as a creative outlet. Noo an’ then it strikes a chord wi’ a body and that’s jist grand when that happens. I live in dread that I’m “discovered” an’ rocketed tae stardom……I mean am awfy auld an’ it kid be the finish o’ me.

If I’ve hid wan guidin’ principle in ma life it wid be tae try an’ be kind…..and noo and then I think I micht hiv managed it.

Ach…. but the heart is gallus 

Ach… but the heart is gallus
his nae care where it flees
claps doon only whar’ the fancy taks it,
wi nae thoucht of richt….or wrang
an cannae be foretelt …
it micht well shun beauty or perfection
tae land oan some passing face  
seen but for an instant
in some clarty windae
or fa’ in a dwam ower somethin’ 
a wee bit oot o’ place….
wan tooth no weel aligned
a mouth that’s faur too big
a wee bit lisp…which at first hearin’
enslaves forever the listening ear.

Nae justice rules in these affairs
an’ anither’s pure devotion…true an’ tested 
may be spurned an’ turned awa
an’ favour foun’ in wan less worthy….. 
Ach…..but the heart is gallus.
 

Janet Crawford is a Falkirk based writer. Her film-poem Beacon, was included in the New York based ‘Anti Heroin Chic’. Her debut stage-play ‘A Cup ‘o Kindness’, was shown during the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 2018. She is a trustee of The Federation of Writers (Scotland). Janet sings with the Freedom of Mind Community Choir and is a member of the Women with Fierce Words collective.  Locally, she has programmed for the Falkirk Storytelling Festival, bringing her love of all things writing to her home town. Her most recent publications include her first published short story in Razor Cuts IX,  and poetry in a number of anthologies including Words from Battlefield, Horsepower, To Whom It May Concern, Nutmeg 21, Razur Cuts- finest cuts and most recently Short & Sweet. She has recently added open water swimming and campervanning to her hobbies and feels these are great for encouraging her writing!

Scunnert

I ken I cannae change time
I’m stuck with days that hurtle oan
beyond a voice
I cannae help but want tae hear

whisper love

dis a lug caw canny
and mind itsel
o the lilt and lift yer voice carrit
when it lifted vowels and letters
straight fi yer heart shoutin…
‘bye darling, I love you’

as I ran awa
messages dropped in yer hall

nae tea or hugs shared, nae soap opera chatter
whilst I laughed …
mindin ye,
I dinnae watch them at aw
and then you’d say
‘well, I’m only telling ye whit I watched’…

yer een dancing wi laughter

or dae I hae tae learn tae feast on memory
and chew it doon in tiny mouthfu’s
so as no tae choke

oan grief.