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this is a placeholder while a brand new site is underway behind the scenes. For now, catch updates by the owner @bluesky and enjoy reading a truly great poem by Karine Polwart of Scotland.

I Burn, But I Am Not Consumed

​© 2017 Karine Polwart

On May 11th, 1930, a young woman called Mary Anne MacLeod, from Tong on The Isle of Lewis, stepped aboard the RMS Transylvania from Glasgow to New York City, in search of a better life. There, she met Frederick, whose father had emigrated to America from Germany as a 16 year old boy.

And together, Mary Anne and Frederick raised five children.

Mary Anne's middle son would return to Scotland years later, the home of his MacLeod ancestors, whose clan motto is: “I burn, but I am not consumed.” And here - in the name of progress and profit - and executive golf - he would pit himself against time and tide, and in his wake, the shifting dunes at Balmedie in Aberdeenshire would never be the same.

The marbled, metamorphic rock of Lewis is two-thirds the age of Earth - amongst the oldest on our planet. It knows about power, and it's seen a lot. And so I wondered: what might it have to say about the Inauguration - tomorrow in Washington DC - of the 45th President of the United States of America - Mary Anne Macleod's middle son, Donald? And this is what the rock told me.
Oh son of Lewis, lonely boy
​hewn from granite, salt and sky
upon a foreign shore
the ocean is a mirror gleam
in which you see yourself
and nothing more.

Three billion years of gravity
of strata forged in fire and earth
the stone crib of your mother's birth
in which your forebears lie
I am alive. I am a tomb
I burn, but I am not consumed
I burn, but I am not consumed
Fish may swim at your command
across The Atlantic to the land
of dreams and self belief and boundless chance
An exile tale. An immigrant dance
You're captain of a frigate now
So set your compass
raise the mast
Blow up the sails
Erase the past, and future, if you must
Together we can stand
and watch the peat-land turn to dust

This is your apprenticeship:
The Gulf Stream doesn't know your name
nor does the splendid, blazing sun
that alters how the currents run
The North wind never heard you roar
You're fired! You're fired!
My back might burn, the blaze run wild
but I am not consumed, my child

The Minch whips up a spindrift storm
The machair shifts. The machair moans
From Uig Bay to Luskentyre
the gale blows fast, the tide flows higher
The shore erodes and disappears
And, meantime, you are stoking fears
and stacking hope into a pyre
You strike a match

Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Your mother was a wee girl once
who played upon my rocky shore
And you, you are broken boy
and you want more and more and more
You build a tower. You build a wall
You live in fear that they might fall
You who see nothing but your own face
in the sheen of The Hudson River

Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh

A balancing is yet to come
although by then you may be gone
and leave a desert to your sons and daughters
Still, these waters, they will rise
the North Sea haar will cover your eyes
despite your appetite for lies
and your disregard for truth

Three billion years of gravity
of strata forged in fire and earth
the stone crib of your mother's birth
in which your forebears lie
I am alive. I am a tomb
I burn, but I am not consumed
I burn, but I am not consumed
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