Helen’s Poems

HELEN’S POEMS

SUNSET BY THE NILE

(A memory of the time I spent in Sudan that helped ‘picture in words’ the leaving of New Cumnock – or any other time of ‘moving on/changing places’ )

I used to love sunset by the Nile,

We’d go, my friends and I, complete with picnic to sit by its banks

Drinking in the coolness of the day’s end

Laughing, talking, enjoying,

Watching the sun slowly drop through the sky,

Changing sky’s colours as it went,

Each shade mirrored on the wide river.

From pale, light sandy, to orange, to gold, to purple

Deepening and deepening

Until the darkness switched on the stars.

And all the while, the Nile flowed

Through these changing colours, stars seen or not,

Flowed on, even as next morning broke and the sun rose much more quickly than it set ushering in a white brightness,

The picnickers by now long gone and started into their new day.

It’s like that now, in many ways,

These last few weeks,

The Nile flows on and we gather by it

But all the while the sun is setting and we live, work, meet, play

in its changing light:

The pale, sandy light of the weeks when leaving

seems far enough away not to trouble us,

The orange that flashes a bright ‘watch out’,

this is going to happen, be prepared;

The gold – of mellow memories that flood your heart and mind,

And this deep purple, deepening and deepening

As sadness and a staring of separation in the face,

Colours what we do though we still do it as we’ve always done.

And one day not too far away, the darkness will switch on the stars,

All the stars of all the good times,

Things said and done, all the love, all the fun.

And the picnickers, in the bright light of a new day

Will wave at each other from across the river now

As the Nile still flows on.

THE SUMO WRESTLER

I have a Sumo Wrestler

Who shares a house with me,

Some folk might say we look alike,

(I beg to disagree).

She is quite shy, my Sumo friend,

I sometimes think I’ve dreamt her,

But then I see her clear as day,

Alive inside my mirror!

Now probably, my thin, trim friends,

You’ve giggled, smiled and laughed,

Well, giggle all you want, but mind

That laughing makes you fat.

And while you laugh, I’ll dream my dream,

Where the mirror on my wall,

Does not play host to Sumo,

But to – Davina McCall.

LOVE YOU, WISH YOU WERE HERE

Love you, wish you were here.

Not post card speak

(Not now anyway)

But what I say when I open up my laptop and there she is,

Looking right at me, larger than (real) life

Because that’s what happens when you take a photo and use it as ‘wallpaper’.

(She wouldn’t like that! Would think I’d plastered her to the ceiling!)

Larger than life, so the brown eyes are deeper brown like wells filled up to the brim,

The water sparkling, spilling over, though there is no water in these eyes,

Their sparkle comes from constant kindly love

And not just ‘caught on camera/frozen in time’ constant,

But the constant of deliberate, chosen, love of many years, never failing, never ever hesitant, even for a moment. Never.

And the frame for these lovely, playful brown eyes?

Skin deeply grooved.

Lines carved by time, but also carved by laughter, smiles, a million, million expressions – each line playing its part and the expressions matching perfectly the myriad tones of voice, semitones of feeling, mood, response, for respond she always did. Right up to the minute, nothing got by her, and her candle of curiosity first lit, (as with us all) in childhood days, had a long, long wick that burned right until the end.

I’d like to touch that skin, meet these eyes. But, for now, I can only look at them and say:

Love you, wish you were here.

Please don’t feel sorry for me, for I’m not sad, not at all; for there are times (And thank God there are) when, like train carriages, sadness is uncoupled from remembering, so that memories can run free, free in joy, the joy that, in time, permits us to turn to memories more and fear them less.

And then, because my laptop really is for work, I leave that face behind – documents and emails and all that stuff.

But not before I, too, become a well filled right up with cherished fond endearment and a fountainhead of gratitude and say out loud with all the love in the world:

Love you, wish you were here.

SETTLEDNESS

A rock pool – water shimmering in the sun,

Clear as clear can be;

The patterned smoothness of the sand beneath,

And in that sand we see a settledness.

But wait – along comes:

child with stick;wild wave;

tiny darting fish; scurrying crab

Sending the sand swirling, clouding the clear water,

Disturbing the peace; but not for long, and certainly

Not forever.

For if we wait again the swirling stops and, grain by grain,

That settledness returns.

And so with grief, that great disturber of the peace,

That sends the sandbed of our heart

Swirling as if never to stop.

But wait, and, in time, in the swirling rock pool

Of our grieving hearts, we will see, we will know

A settledness.

Oh, you can be sure, swirling will happen again,

That’s the way of grief,

For the grains of life shared, times remembered

Are not anchored, chained together

But free. Open to being disturbed. Vulnerable.

That’s the way of love.

So don’t fear the swirling grief, and neither fear that settledness

Somehow signals a losing hold of the one so precious.

For just as gone does not mean forgotten,

Settledness is not solid.

‘Praise be to ….. the God of all comfort’ (2 Corinthians 1.3)

l to r on the wall: Mary McKnight, Anna Copland, Roberta

Turnbull; inset (on the phone!) Helen Cuthbert Snr

MOTHER’S DAY’S END (AND GOODBYE, OLD FRIEND)

As Mother’s Day 2020 comes to an end,

An’ we say our ‘Good-byes’ to another old friend,

Let’s jist stop to ponder and give tae God thanks,

For the wonderful weemin’ we huv in oor ranks,

Whose mitherly hearts beat for everyb’dy’s waens,

Gie’in shelter, love, cheer, wisdom tae no’ jist their ain.

But spreadin’ that love and scatt’rin’ that cheer,

Tae yin an’ tae a’, as weel’s near and dear.

Aye, luck et the fowr o’ them, neebours a’,

The wan oan the phone and the three oan the wa’.

Sittin’ an’ singin’, daein plenty o’ yappin,

Wi’ licht-birsts o’ mirth, an’ geeglin’ an’ laughin’,

Luvin’ life, luvin’ folk, aye up fur a blether,

Gauin’ oot, when they can, whatever the weather.

Aye, luk et the fowr o’ them oan chair an’ wa’ baukit,

If ye want tae keep up wi’ them, ye’ll hiv tae get yokit!

Fur they’ve stories galore, that would laugh ye tae tears,

(I suppose it’s nae winner fur they’re weel up in years!)

Twa’ o’ them’s wae us, but twa, noo, ur no,

But we honour each one o’ them, so here we go:

Ma memries o’ Mary, will be o’ her fowr wheeler,

Staunchly steppin’ it oot when folk years and years younger,

Wid luk oot the windae at win’, rain, sleet, snaw,

An’ think tae thersels’ – ‘Gie oot in that?! Naw!!

But Mary’s life hings oan a much stronger threed,

She gets up an’ gets oan wi’ it, strives tae succeed

In daein’ whit she can, in gie’in in – never!

No’ e’en when her flair is turned intae a river!

An’ et that public meetin’ ‘boot the floods noo lang syne,

She gave East Ayrshire Cooncil a piece o’ her min’!

Ye’ll have seen Wimbledon, its spectaturs an’ a’

Their heads gauin’ richt, left, richt, watchin’ the ba’.

When Anna passes ma windae gauin’ tae the shoaps,

Ah really jist feel like they specatur folk,

Fur when she’s fit an’ able she whizzes along,

Mair often’ than no’ wi’ a poke in her haun’,

Wi’ some soup, or Eve’s puddin’, cup cakes, perkins, scones,

Fur this yin an’ that yin’, her list jist goes oan,

Back furrit, back furrit, oor dear Anna rins,

As I watch, ma heid weel oot its socket’s near turned!

Roberta, Roberta, no long since taen awa’

Tae the place prepared fur her by Jesus oor Lord,

Whit a wumman o’ hale, sparkling laughter an’ fun,

Wi’ a pure godly hert that did a’ a guid turn.

Stories and histories she kent an’ wid tell,

But she listened, thocht deeply aboot things as weel.

An’ Helen, though neebour fur jist these 10 years,

Fitted richt in, held the three o’ them dear –

Wi’ that phone! A hotline o’ communication,

Her an’ thaim gie’n me up-tae-date information,

Which wis usually first fae Grace Harrison passed,

Then roon tae Roberta, an’ wee mammy at last.

How did I keep an’ eye oan ma Pairish an’ flock?

Through’ the fowr o’ thaim’s motto: ‘It’s good to talk!’

The top-rankin’ spies o’ the great Superpowers,

Are nuthin’ compared tae the New Cumnock Fowr!

Aye whit a stramash in oor world we’re noo facin’,

Wull we come through it, is whit we’re a’ askin’,

Aye, we wull ah’ believe, trustin’ God as oor Faither,

An’ bein’ blessed in oor life wi’ sich winnerfu’ mithers.

Mother’s Day, March 22

In loving memory of Roberta Turnbull

And now (2025)in loving memory of the

‘ither three mithers’ –

Mary McKnight, Helen Cuthbert Snr,

Anna Copland

THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A MITHER

The world is fu’ o’ winnerfu’ things

That’s oors through God the Giver,

But oot o’ a’ these gifts divine –

There’s nothing like a mither.

The wan that sheltered us weel before

Oor first birth cry was heard

An’ cairried oan tae guard an’ guide,

By example an’ by word.

The wan that fed, washed, goat us dressed,

Gin’ we did that fur oorsels

The wan that telt an’ taught an showed,

Intae life’s riches helped us delve.

Kept us oan the straight an narra,

Wi’ a mix o’ froons an smiles,

An’ if we, by thrawnness went agley,

The wan that wid love us still.

So as ah said ah’ll say again,

‘bin jewels, gowd or siller,

Bin’ a’ that this world can provide,

There’s nothing like a mither.

Of course there’s folk wha bring tae us

The best that they can gie,

As brither, sister, faither, an mair,

As freens an’ family.

That lo’e us, mak life whit it is,

Bring joy when we’re thegither,

But oot o’ e’en the best o’ thaim,

There’s naeb’dy like a mither.

That special bond, that special love,

That strength, acceptance, pride,

O’ the wan, though seas atween us roar,

Is ever by oor side.

So as ah said ah’ll say again,

Friens, faimly or whoever,

E’n the closest cannae come near,

Fur there’s naeb’dy like a mither.

(Noo while ahm shair maist wid agree

Wae these sentiments maist fine

We huv tae be honest, dae we no’?

Some wid likely draw a line

Atween these admirable thochts,

That we have here expressed,

And their experience, sair tae tell,

O’ times they wurnae blessed,

Wi’ sic a love, wi sic a bond,

Wi’ ties sae fond an’ dear;

An’ there’s mony reasons, mony ways,

Trust an’ care just disappear,

Sometimes there’s faut, or distance, whiles,

Sometimes there’s nane tae blame,

Jist life’s aft cruel circumstance,

Or one or t’other o’ us ta’en Hame.

An’ at these times we thank the Lord,

Fur faithers, freens, sisters an’ brithers

That dae stick by through thick an’ thin:

The ithers we claim as mithers.)

An’ a’ this talk, ahm shair has pentit

Jist wan picture in oor min’,

An’ sculpted in oor hearts that form

O’ the yin by us ca’d ‘mither’, ‘mum’.

Wi’ lines unparalleled, we draw,

Add shades of love, unique, unmatched,

And with our gratitude then frame,

This heavenly gift, God’s work of art.

So as ah said ah’ll say again,

(An’ we’ll disagree wi’ yin anither!)

In a’ the airts, an’ a’ the ages,

There’s nothing, naeb’dy like MA mither.

FOLLOW, FOLLOW?
Intae ma mind has come this question
Noo whit, freens, ah winner, wid be your suggestion?
Whit fitba team o’ these fowr wid ye say,
Micht oor Rabbie support, wis he wae us the day?

A Glesca team, think ye, the Gers or the Hoops,
Or much nearer his birthplace he’d go, perhaps?
Wi’ his favourites fur certain bein’ the Honest Men,
Or wid Killie mak Rabbie tak up his pen?
Afore we decide which team’s Rabbie’s prize yin,
Let’s tak a bit time tae dae some surmizin’:

He certainly wrote a’ aboot the GREEN braes,
So is there some chance Celtic wid be his faves?
Or maybe since Burns is ‘Simply the Best’,
He’d favour the team that sang that song with zest;
Ye might think the team nearest sweet Alloway,
Would easily Rabbie’s allegiance haud sway,

Ye’d a’ be wrang!

Fur hae min fur Jamaica Burns nearly set sail,
When he thocht his rhymin’ had foundered and failed,
An’ jist et the time oor Bard wis fair skint,
The KILMARNOCK EDITION – it went intae print,
Whit a save! Rabbie Burns kept his feet oan Scots soil,
And fur mony a lang year did oor great poet toil,
Tae bring fae his hert the sweetest o’ rhymes,
Noo kent the warld o’er an’ huv stood test o’ time.

So wid Rabbie forget that braw First Edition?
That brought him sich fame, an’ whet his ambition?
Naw, naw, he jist couldnae, he widnae ahm shair,
Forget that Kilmarnock stood by him fu’ square.
So is Rabbie for Ayr? Celtic? Gers? Don’t be silly!
It’s plain: Rabbie Burns? He’d support Ayrshire Killie.

A POEM FUR THE POET

Cam tae the earth, by humble birth

This January 25th.

An Ayrshire body born and bred,

Gainst whae a bad word nere’d be said,

A body couthy and canty baith,

Wi’ wit, words, wurdy o’ mony a grace.

Aye, oft the muse wis oan display,

Wi’ canny sayins an’ poetry.

A body fed oan hamely fare,

wi’ a taste an’ a’ fur amber rare,

An’ no’ sae rare, as long’s twas amber,

An fae the barley grain dismembered.

An’ poems were no’ the only things

Were writ, but words fur folk tae sing,

Fine tunes fae roon oor Scotia’s pairts,

An’ ithers, wheels, fae ither pairts.

An life‘s fine lessons we could learn,

Frae tip o’ tongue and nib o’ pen,

Cherishin’ folk, an’ truth an’ love,

Like oor God, the Lord above.

An so we celebrate this day,

The Ayrshire poet wha’ cam oor way,

So raise yer gless an doff yer tammy,

Tae the Ayrshire poet: ma wee mammy**

** For disambiguation – this poem refers to Helen S Cuthbert from Kilmarnock It seems another Ayrshire poet who goes by the name of Robert Burns was also born on January 25th but was not from Kilmarnock.

THERE IS NO PROMISE

(A poem for the New Year)

(Deuteronomy 31.6; Psalm 23.4; Matthew 28.20. – and more)

There is no promise

that every day will be a good day,

There is no promise

That the sun will always brightly shine,

There is no promise

That the waves of loneliness

And grief, of worry and of fear

Will not surround us with their

Icy cold, tide upon tide, embrace.

There is no promise

Of good health, good times,

Good friends, sweet dreams,

A swiftly, surely rolling by of every cloud,

(Though these things we hope for

and pray for, work towards, live each day towards.)

There is no promise of an end

To the ills and injuries and all things harmful

Whose end alone will set us free

And let the smiles return.

There is only one promise

From the one true Promise-Maker:

I will be with you

I will be with you.

Helen Cuthbert 2021

ONE BY ONE

One by one

And it seems more

And it seems faster,

Our dear old ones leave us,

As if they’re in a queue,

Lined up, waiting.

Some of them are –

(Waiting, that is)

They know, for the most part,

when it’s time.

They’re anything but daft –

Life can’t fool them

And death can’t either.

And sometimes they tell us it’s time,

And sometimes they don’t.

And it’s no bad thing

(When it’s time, of course)

To be ready and waiting –

And how human it is when we know the journey’s

soon to start to be fed up waiting.

After all, we do that

for the least of journeys,

Why not for The Greatest?

But no bags packed on this one,

Quite the opposite,

For we can take nothing with us,

Except the hope of new clothes

And a new home

And Christ our Lord

Ready and waiting.

One by one,

And it seems more

And it seems faster,

Our dear old ones leave us,

And we scramble around

Trying, wanting at least,

Not to let them go

For we need these dear old ones,

We always have, like a wooden fence needs nails,

and home-made paper chains need glue.

How can we not fall apart

and come unstuck without them?

You may have thought that,

grown dependent they needed us more.

Not true.

For they, being dear and old

Had risen to the topmost of our lives,

The roof that kept and sheltered

And now, without them there,

We are exposed to all that they

once sheltered us from and

introduced too, to the frightening thought

that we now must rise to

the occasion and be that roof ourselves.

Dear old ones, leaving us one by one,

Like tiles leaving gaping holes in our lives

With each one gone, a changing pattern

of what no longer is –

one missing here, another there.

But who would deny them

Their freedom, in God’s time,

To loosen their hold on earth

And soar to the heights of heaven

Where all His dear ones – old and young

Are gathered home

Through Christ our Lord.

Helen Cuthbert 2020

In memory of Mary Murray