Not the Arctic Convoy. 

      On a cosy boat with no risk of torpedoes coming at you, it's difficult to imagine the hardships men experienced during the Arctic Convoys of the Second World War. But standing on an icy, snow covered deck in sub zero temperatures made it a wee bit easier to visualise. The Scottish poet J.K. Annand who survived the convoys, brought the experience alive when he wrote this poem - and all the grittier for being written in the Scots language.

                                 

Arctic Convoy

Intil the pitmirk nicht we northwart sail

Facing the bleffarts and the gurly seas

That ser' out muckle skaith to mortal men.

Whummlin about like a waukrife feverit bairn

The gude ship snowks the waters o a wave.

Swithers, syne pokes her neb intil the air

Hings for a wee thing, dinnlin, on the crest,

And clatters in the trouch wi sic a dunt

As gey near rives the platin frae her ribs

And flypes the tripes o insuspectin man.

Northwart, aye northwart, in the pitmirk nicht.

A nirlin wind comes blawin frae the ice,

Plays dirdum through the rails and shrouds and riggin,

Ruggin at bodies clawin at the life-lines.

There's a sic a rowth o air that neb and lungs

Juist cannae cope wi sic a dirlin onding.

Caulder the air becomes,  and snell the wind.

The waters, splairgin as she dunts her boo,

Blads in a blatter o hailstanes on the brig

And geals on guns and turrets, masts and spars,

Cleedin the iron and steel wi coat of ice.

Northwart, aye northwart, in the pitmirk nict.

The nirlin wind has gane, a lowness comes;

The lang slaw swall still minds us o the gale.

Restin aff-watch, a-sweein in our hammmocks,

We watch our sleepin messmates' fozy braith

Transmogrify to ice upon the skin

That growes aye thicker on the ship-side plates.

Nae mair we hear the lipper o the water,

Only the dunsh o ice-floes scruntin by;

Floes that in the noon-day gloaming licht

Are lily leafs upon my lochan dubh.

But nae bricht lily-flouer delytes the ee,

Nae diving bird diverts amang the leafs,

Nae sea-bird to convoy us on our gait.

In ilka deid-lown airt smools Davy Jones,

Ice-tangle marline spikes o fingers gleg

To claught the bodies o unwary sailors

And hike them doun to stap intil his kist.

Whiles 'Arctic reek' taks on the orra shapes

O ghaistly ships-o-war athort our gait,

Garrin us rinram-stam to action stations

Then see them melt awa intil the air.

Ower lang this trauchle lasts throu the seas o daith,

Wi ne'er a sign o welcome at the port,

Nae 'Libertymen fall in!' to cheer our herts,

But sullen sentries at the jetty-heid,

And leesome-landsome waiting at our birth.

At length we turn about, and sail for hame,

Back through rouch seas, throu ice and snaw and sleet,

Hirdin the draiglet remnent o our flock

Bieldin them weel frae skaith o enemie.

But southwart noo we airt intil the licht

Leaving the perils o the Arctic nicht.



J.K. Annand

(The Edinburgh Book of Twentieth-century Scottish Poetry)