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The Bonniest Companie
The Bonniest Companie
The Bonniest Companie
Ebook66 pages33 minutes

The Bonniest Companie

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In her extraordinary collection, Kathleen Jamie examines her native Scotland - a country at once wild and contained, rural and urban - and her place within it. In the author's own words: '2014 was a year of tremendous energy in my native Scotland, and knowing I wanted to embrace that energy and participate in my own way, I resolved to write a poem a week, and follow the cycle of the year.' The poems also venture into childhood and family memory - and look to ahead to the future.

The Bonniest Companie is a visionary response to a year shaped and charged by both local and global forces, and will stand as a remarkable document of our times.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherPan Macmillan
Release dateOct 8, 2015
ISBN9781509801701
The Bonniest Companie
Author

Kathleen Jamie

Award-winning poet, Kathleen Jamie was born in the west of Scotland in 1962. Her first travel book, Among Muslims (also published by Sort Of Books), was described as 'utterly luminous' (The Independent) and 'one of the most powerful accounts by a contemporary Western writer' (TLS). Her latest poetry collection, The Tree House (Picador), won the 2004 Forward prize. A part-time lecturer in Creative Writing at St Andrews University, Kathleen Jamie lives with her family in Fife.

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    Book preview

    The Bonniest Companie - Kathleen Jamie

    Acknowledgements

    MERLE

    The Shrew

    Take me to the river, but not right now,

    not in this cauld blast, this easterly

    striding up from the sea

    like a bitter shepherd –

    and as for you, you Arctic-hatched, comfy-looking geese

    occupying our fields,

    you needn’t head back north anytime soon –

    snow on the mountains, frozen ploughed clods –

    weeks of this now, enough’s enough

    – but when my hour comes,

    let me go like the shrew

    right here on the path: spindrift on her midget fur,

    caught mid-thought, mid-dash

    Glacial

    A thousand-foot slog, then a cairn of old stones –

    hand-shifted labour,

    and much the same river, shining

    way below

    as the Romans came, saw,

    and soon thought the better of.

    Too many mountains, too many

    wanchancy tribes

    whose habits we wouldn’t much care for

    (but could probably match),

    too much grim north, too much faraway snow.

    Let’s bide here a moment, catching our breath

    and inhaling the sweet scent of whatever

    whin-bush is flowering today

    and see for miles, all the way hence

    to the lynx’s return, the re-established wolf’s.

    Merle

    Thon blackbird in the briar

    by the outfield dyke

    doesn’t know he’s born

    doesn’t know he’s praise and part

    of this Sabbath forenoon

    north-Atlantic style.

    From his yellow beak his song descends

    to the year’s first celandines;

    his throat patters. With a yellow claw

    he scarts his left lug

    Soon the haar will burn off

    revealing the Rum Cuillin

    happed in March snow, and the waters of the Minch

    but for

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