set owre frae John Wain
(Wain’s
jot:) The beuk (Fernand Gigon’s Formula
for Death – the Atom Bombs and After) tells an
aa hou Major Claude R. Eatherly, pilot o the
aircraft that cairriet the saicont bomb til
Nagasaki
,
wis
later smat wi nichtmeirs. His wife is quotit sayin:
“He’ll aften lowp up in the mids o the nicht an
goller oot in an inhuman vyce that gars me grue:
‘Drap it, drap it.’”
Major Eatherly begoud ti hae short spells o
wuidness, says Gigon. The doctors pit it doun til
extreme nervous depression, an Eatherly
wis
awardit a pension o $237 a month.
Seeminlie he saw this ‘as a bonus for
murder, as a peyment for whit haed been duin til the
twa Japanese ceities.’ He neiver liftit the siller,
an fell intil petty theft. For this he
wis
jylt in
Fort Worth
preison.
I
Guid news.
He maun hae loued them efter aa.
His orders
wis
ti brander banes til ash.
He flew up
wi the bomb an lat it faa,
an syne his
orders
wis
ti tak the cash,
a hansel for
a hero, that he wadna pree,
but whit wey
no nae pynt ti speir,
juist gin he
touched it he wad dee,
he focht his
ain, an no his kintra’s weir.
His orders
telt him he
wis
no a man:
but tempert
instrument but stain,
aa fears an
passions steikit lik a fan:
wi nae mair
free will nor his plane.
But nou he
focht ti win his manheid back.
Stey frae
the sunset o his pyne he flew
fornent the
daurkness o thon last attack.
It
wis
for luve he focht, ti mak that true.
II
Tak a life
an ye’ll aye dee a bit: pit haims
on ocht that
muves an feels, whitiver ugsome,
no necessar,
or hatesome, an ye’r caain doun
the haill
sum o life. An that’s deein a bit yersel.
Takkin yer
enemy’s life haunders him,
a bittie, at
yer ain destruction. Thon’s whit wey
enemies is
hatit: sen thay gar us kill them.
A murtherer
maun sheuch the deid man in;
but his
crime unhowks an cowps on leivin fowk,
til thaim it
faas maun nou snowk oot the murtherer,
murther him,
and dern him in a yirdin, thaim it is
that nou
drees the cauld fingir o daith preein thair banes.
Animals
hates daith. A trappit tod will chowe
throu its
ain leg: life is that important
that he
forgies himsel the thraws,
greein, for
dear life, til the dispert teeth,
shairin
throu bane an marra, the gantin whaups.
That’s
whit ails the trapper at the tod.
Ye dout the
trapper disna hate the tod?
He dis but,
an the tod’ll tell ye whit extent.
It isna the
tod’s teeth grinndin his banes,
but the
trapper’s. Thare the trapper, see:
wi the heid
doun, rundgin, oor efter oor.
An thaim the
trapper works for, thare thaim tae,
heids
hunkert at the trap, chowein awa.
Whit wey wad
thay no hate the tod? Thair chafts is mankit
wi his ramsh
bluid, an on thair tongues his banes,
aa minchit
sclenters, nips sairly sherp.
Major
Eatherly aince,
wis
thon wey wi the Japanese.
III
Hell is ane
furnace, sae the wyce men taucht.
Sin an
ye’ll burn for it:
ae lowein
coal the ilka sinfu thocht.
Sin sainit
in Gode’s brander o desert,
that
whuspert up in smeik or skailt in ash:
sae ilka oor
the new oor aye cuid stert.
Sae fire
wis
halie, tho it tortured sauls
nae end til
sinners’ pynes, as aye an on
thair sins
wis
brunt frae aff them bi the coals.
Hell fried
the creiminal, but brunt the crime,
purged whaur
it punished, haled whaur it herriet:
a stove it
wis
ti waarm the beilds o time.
Nae man the
hungir o the fire wad slicht,
an aa war
feart o fire, yit nane rebelled.
The wyce men
taucht that hell
wis
juist an richt.
The wyce men
passed. New cleiver men pit oot
the face o
hell
wis
juist a guiser’s neep
thay staw
the fears the saul micht better dout.
Splint efter
splint the fires o hell did dwyne
thair heat
nae langir warmed the beilds o time
fluorescent
nou thay lowed wi new ingyne.
The
cauldrife sancts did dauner up an doun
thair bluid
ti beik wi warthie exerceise,
gaun stote
lik conkers throu the drauchtie toun.
Thae
emblematic lowes did dwyne in lown
but
metaphysic fires can neiver fail, an men
fled skails
o deivils that thair hame
wis
stown,
felt pulsin
in thair pows the dauncin heat
nae langir
hained in Gode’s ain byler-hoose.
Fire brunt
thair brous, rynd chawed thair feet.
Thon sornin
fire cuid sclim an speed
mair swith
nor gawsie flames o hell.
Its fuel
duin, time’s timmers brunt insteid.
Sae time
dried oot an youngest herts grew auld,
the
smuisterin meenits spailed an sindert aa,
the warld
wis
coddlin, but the men
wis
cauld.
Nou frae
this pyne, pyne warse haed wan til birth,
mair hate,
mair thraws, ti’t lang an last thay sayed:
“Lat free
this fire ti chowe the breid o yirth:
lat it be
flame at burns in aa men’s sicht
an lat’s
lat on we kennelt it oorsels
ti crack the
pows o men an lat in licht.
Sen daith
bydes here amang us, weish him joy,
bid him til
oor buird, an til oor gemmes,
we canna
juidge, but we can aye destroy.”
An sae the
curtains o the mynd
wis
drawn,
men conjurt
hell, a first, a saicont time:
an Major
Eatherly teuk aff at dawn.
IV
Think whit
like some sea-maw,
the weings
aa eyl-clartit, babbin on waves
this airt an
nane, ablo the roary cluds, taivert,
hystit
wabbit gin up wi the swaw times
ti glower at
the faur sea-rim, taivert,
wabbit, wi
the storms comin, an its weings deid,
maw-smeddum
deid:
whit like this fleimit,
aiblins bi
its Makar loued, but fair forhouit,
begeckit bi
the swack scales o fishes ablo
that lowps,
thraws, douks lik the bird afore
in hits
sky-freedom, thairs aye siccar in the sea,
the maw nou
thirled til the surface,
but fushion
ti douk or flie:
pit that on yer flag.
Forget thon
maw, droun it frae yer mynd
in the stey
bleck swall o the storm, brek it
fornent the
brigs o mornin’s licht, forduin ti sweim:
awa thon
thocht o the bird, but hain its ensign.
Thon is the
ensign o Eatherly
that scancit
gleg aboot him, swaw til swaw-heid,
but
landin-grun saw nane, but the sky-rim
that he
wisna free ti pree, or the siller
glent o
begeckin scales o the doukin fishes
whaur he
wisna free ti douk.
Fowk haes
aye hauden til signs
thay micht
be sainit o thair sins.
Ainct it
wis
the scapegait caaed ootby
heftin its
wecht o wyte ablo a tuim lift
ti its form
wis
tint, forlost in fulyerie.
Nou at
we’r ceivilised, the’r nae wild bit.
Insteid o
thon birkie scapegait rinnin oot
ti be tint
ablo the wull an tuim lift,
the lade o
guilt is stappit i the jylehoose waas
that fowk
traiks intil bi the dour yetts.
But nou thon
eimage tae is oot o date.
The Major
gaun ti jyle is nae scapegait.
Him sayin
sorry disna dae awa wi oor ain faut,
nor sit wi
onie sainin solace us:
this is
sorra for its ain sake: bonnie,
by
unnerstaunin, by solace, unexpectit.
He disna lee
in jyle for sayin sorry.
It’s nae
affront til oor law that he waukens
wi cries o
peitie on his gizzent lips.
His paiks
frae us isna for greetin or bad dreams:
we punish
him for stealin frae the store.
G’an gie
his bluidie pension til the grocer,
tell him
it’s aa the lawin for oor sauls.
But neiver
fash as faur as pree his duir
an hale the
Major oot in the sun’s licht.
It maiters
nocht: gie him peace: his nichtmeirs aiblins
scauds him
the less in the jylehoose mirk.
Gie him
peace: wauken him nane: gin sleepin, come awa.
Pit juist
yer scribble fauldit by his heid,
naething
offeicial or fantoush – a blad
ripped oot
yer jotter, an the words in peincil –
say nocht o
luve, or thanks, or penitence,
an juist say
‘Eatherly, we hear ye.’
John Law
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