Self-Isolation

Tags

Duddingston Loch, Edinburgh, National Portrait Gallery, Rev Robert Walker, self-isolation, skating

…can still be fun. 

Think of the Rev Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch

(National Portrait Gallery, Edinburgh).

Raeburn at The National Gallery of Scotland

Tags

Duddingston Loch, Edinburgh Festival, Enlightenment, General Assembly, Kirst Wark, Lallans, New Town, phizzogs, Princes Street Gardens, Raeburn, Rev Robert Walker, Sir John Sinclair of Ulbster, The Mound, Whigs

You didn’t go to The Edinburgh Festival this year?

Brassica enquired.

No, too busy moving house.  But I will never forget the year I

went to the big Raeburn exhibition.

Why is that in particular?  I mean, I know he was a brilliant portrait

painter…

Because, when I came out, I could recognise all those faces, or phizzogs,

in Princes Street Gardens…I wrote a poem about the experience, as I

recall…

I started to declaim it, but Brassie protested that she didn’t

understand Lallans.  For all you linguists ‘oot there’, as it

were, ‘read oan‘.  See if you can get the gist:

(Kirsty Wark- crop image by Frank Wales.

KW at Innovate ’08 Conference, London)

 

Raeburn At The National Gallery of Scotland

 

A’ they pitten-oan, pauchtie Whigs appear

oan the Mound, or even wi’ Kirsty Wark,

debating devolution. Tartan-trewed

museum staff hae a look o’ Sir John

Sinclair of Ulbster and the Kirk still skates

oan wabblie ice – no oan Duddingston Loch,

but at its ain General Assembly.

Next thing they’ll be a’ wearin’ pink trappins

as they tapsalteerie roon key issues.

Slidderie, crabbit, towtie judges

aye hae glancy nebs, and advocates

gaither airt traisures. Quate, lang-drauchit wives

keep oan winnin’ their marital chess games;

take mair to theirselves than thir marrow’s queen:

wummen catch oan fast tae Enlightenment.

Braw, harp-playin’ sirens still turn hoose-ends,

musickers are forespoken by thir world;

bairnies crack thir thoums, so ye gie yir tent;

chiels forget thir first wives efter echt days.

The high heid yins adopt designer cloots

tae hide the fact they are debt-bedevilled.

They sappie, pairted lips warsle tae rede

themsels. We can hear them bairge in New Town,

spoat thir reflections in Jenny a’ things.

Thir portraits can be traced aff Princes Street:

there’s that carnaptious phizzog, they chollers:

a’ they bachles oan erstwhile buckled feet.

 

Phizzogs

Tags

Duddingston Loch, Edinburgh Festival, Henry Raeburn, Jack Vettriano, Kenneth Currie, Kirsty Wark, Lord Braxfield, Princes Street, Robert McQueen

Brassie rushed in.

Hi, guys!  Just back.

She placed her ridiculously unstable table number stand

next to ours.  Now we had two numbers.

Spoke to Clammie earlier, she gushed.  But how was Edinburgh,

Candia?  You missed the Festival.

Yes, but I gained the weather, I said.  I did manage to catch the

Kenneth Currie exhibition at The Portait Gallery on the first day.

Is that the guy who paints butlers on wet beaches? Clammie asked.

No, that’s Jack Vettriano, I corrected her.  Currie is a tad more

macabre. He is interested in how age affects the body.

Aren’t we all?! agreed Brassie, ruefully. What else did you

see?

Latter day examples of the Raeburn portraits mobilised on

Princes Street, I observed.  Leopards don’t change their spots.

Here, I wrote a poem about the sense of deja vu.  You can read

it with your latte.

Gee thanks, Candia, said Brassie.  Give me a break.  I’m just

back.

I’ll read it, said Clammie.  Pass it over.  What language is this?

You’ll need to translate!

Raeburn on the Streets of Edinburgh

A’ they pitten-oan, pauchtie Whigs appear

oan the Mound, or even wi’ Kirsty Wark,

debating devolution. Tartan-trewed

museum staff hae a look o’ Robert

McQueen, Lord Braxfield and the Kirk still skates

oan wabblie ice – no oan Duddingston Loch,

but at its ain General Assembly.

Next thing they’ll be a’ wearin’ pink trappins

as they tapsalteerie roon key issues.

Slidderie, crabbit, towtie judges

aye hae glancy nebs, and advocates

gaither airt traisures. Quate, lang-drauchit wives

keep oan winnin’ their marital chess games

and take unto themselves mair than thir marrow’s queen:

wummen catch oan fast tae Enlightenment.

Braw, harp-playin’ sirens still turn hoose-ends,

musickers are forespoken by thir world;

bairnies crack thir thoums, so ye gie yir tent;

chiels forget thir first wives efter echt days.

The high heid yins adopt designer cloots

tae hide the fact they are debt-bedevilled.

Thon sappie, pairted lips warsle tae rede

themsels. We can hear them bairge in New Town,

spoat thir reflections in Jenny a’ things.

Thir Portrait Gallery’s oan Princes Street:

there’s that carnaptious phizzog, they chollers:

a’ they bachles oan erstwhile buckled feet.