In which I try to read in Scottish brogue. I thought about posting the video, but A) it sucked as far as angles go, and B) I discovered that I sometimes make the worst face in the world to keep my brogue going.
Here's the poem I'm reading.
Mappamundi by W.N. Herbert
Eh’ve wurkt oot a poetic map o thi warld.
Vass tracts o land ur penntit reid tae shaw Englan kens naethin aboot um. Ireland’s bin shuftit tae London, whaur oafficis o thi Poetry Sock occupeh fehv squerr mile. Seamus Heaney occupehs three o thon. Th’anerly ithir bits in Britain ur Oaxfurd an Hull. Scoatlan, Thi Pool, an Huddersfield, ur cut ti cuttilbanes in America, which issa grecht big burdcage wi a tartan rug owre it, tae shaw Robert Lowell. Chile disnae exist. Argentina’s bin beat. Hungary and Russia haena visas. Africa’s editid doon ti a column in Poetry Verruca, whaur Okigbo’s gote thi ghaist o Roy Campbill hingin owre um. Thi Faur East’s faan aff - aa but China: thon’s renemmed Ezra Poond an pit in thi croncit cage. France disnae get a luke-in: accoardin tae Geoffrey Hill, plucky wee Charles Péguy is wrasslin wi this big deid parrot caad ‘Surrealism’ fur thi throne o Absinthe Sorbet.
In this scenario Eh’m a bittern stoarm aff Ulm.
