PICTWORKS was published in 2015 by Gallus Publications. Author Ewan McVicar also designed and published the book. The poems and graphic images were created by Ewan McVicar in 1994 for a joint visual arts project with Ghanaian Kofi Gift Amu Logotse. The songs were created for various subsequent projects.
SALMON POEM Come, sweet salmon tailing up the bank, come to my whistle made from a brown bear's arm. Come, bright warrior, invade the net. My wife gave long black tresses to make it bind you. Come, firm meat, we will warm your cold blood on bitter juniper branches. Come, silver coins,we will strip your wealth and cast your bones back into the stream so you may grow another body. Come, friend salmon, come. The Salmon is on the Glamis Manse Stone.
SALMON SONG Come salmon come, come tailing up the bank. Come salmon come, come and grace my net. Silver coins, come and join me, Firm flesh, come and feed me, Cold oil, come and warm me, Come and grace my net. Heed my bone whistle and Come salmon come. Need calls you here and you must Come salmon come. Lead your fellows up the stream and Come salmon come. Feed my hungry family, Come salmon come. My net is fitting to receive you, My net is tied with long black tresses, My net is hung with shining pebbles, My net awaits your majesty. Come silver coins, we’ll strip your wealth We’ll warm your blood on bitter branches, We’ll eat your meat most reverently, We’ll fire your oil to light our darkness, we’ll fix your teeth into a comb, We’ll throw your bones back to the stream, So you may grow another flesh and Come salmon come.
THE HUNTER Last night a thing passed by. In the wood outside our little hut a thing cried out as it passed by. Pain and horror and a terrible aloneness limped by last night. I have hunted all the beasts there are. Wolf and weasel, bear and wild bullock, plover and pinemartin. No beast makes such a cry. My wife said "That is a woman", and went to the door to help, if she could. She says she saw nothing. We lay awake a long time. After a while a young man cried out. Three times. I shall not go to the wood to hunt today. Or tomorrow. The Pictish Beast or Swimming Elephant or Dolphin or Kelpie is on many stones.
THIS IS THE MEANING POEM This is the meaning of this. A moon boat was turned over by a lightning spear. Two laurel sprigs born to the wise woman of the crescent month. A pair of tongs catches the moment when the deer bellow. The daughter of the geese people will leap the fire in marriage with the son of the metal smith. This is the meaning of this. The Crescent and V-rod symbol is on many stones.
THIS IS THE MEANING SONG Laurel sprigs are growing fast, This is the meaning of this, At the house with the door of serpent eyes, This is the meaning of this, Where lives the woman of the crescent month, This is the meaning of this, A moonboat stabbed by a lightning spear, This is the meaning of this. This is the meaning of, This is the meaning of, This is the meaning of this. A pair of tongs from the Land of Youth, This is the meaning of this, Is catching the moment in the night, This is the meaning of this, When new-horned deer bellow deep, This is the meaning of this, A moonboat stabbed by a lightning spear, This is the meaning of this. The dark haired daughter of the people of the geese, This is the meaning of this, Will leap the fire in a marriage vow, This is the meaning of this, With the golden son of the metal smith, This is the meaning of this, A moonboat stabbed by a lightning spear, This is the meaning of this.
THE SCRIBE I was a captured slave, not a born slave if you please. I lived when young in a fine stone-lined cave-house made by my father in soft growing land near the Eastern Great Water. Like Patrick of Ireland I was cutting mussels when I was lifted from my own shore, pirated far away and sold to the monks of The Blessed Iona. One day as I rested from tilling the Field Of The Hermits' House I scratched a skua shape on my stick. Holy Finan came by, praised my eye and sent me to help in the scriptorum. After five years I was permitted to be free and a monk, and learned the glory of written words and the interlock of line and thought. Holy Finan took me with him when he went to rule at Lindisfarne, so I learned more of colour and brushhairs - they had sable and sea otter so fine! Then my time of wandering and preaching came upon me, and marched me North. I was pirated so young I had forgot my own tongue, but it returned to me in a fever one night, and I preached loud enough to bring down the snow. The people here are pleased to have a holy man who wants no sacrifice of blood spilt. Soon I will build a chapel house to add to my cell, and if God is good some day I will again have vellum to write upon. The graphic image used is a figure in the Book Of Deer, Buchan, 9th Century, perhaps a bishop.
THE PRINCESS I wait. I wait upon my lord and prince, to know and guess at his wish and hurry to obey. I wait to bear his beautiful child, and another, and pray to St Bechan for another yet. I wait for the pain Old Malley tells me will surely be there each time and I will not become used to it and will cry up curses upon my lord and will be forgiven them if I give St Bechan two wax candles and give The Goodman the feed of a field for a year. I wait to become a queen and do what I wish to, not to wait with silent short breaths to hear and obey the wishes of my mother and my lord and the king my lord's father and Old Malley and the priest teacher of the great house. I wait to be happy. I wait. The Mirror and Comb symbol is on many stones.. The speaker is the woman riding sidesaddle on the Hilton of Cadboll Stone.
THE CHRISTIAN CARVER My work is upon this cross. Chisel and mallet, mallet and chisel through the dark months, finding within the thrawn stone the angels who move the leaves to make the wind. Watching Tiberach the hunter lope off with his curs to cozen a seven pointer, and finding him and his beloved quarry inside the iced stone. Dreaming of knot within snake within dragon within knot, and finding them under the crust of the baked stone. Hearing the clerks sing of order and balance and ranks of cherubim and seraphim ascending and archangels wheeling sermons in lines of fire across the sky, and cursing the stupid stone that will not let me find such a glory within it. My lad who sharpens the chisels says I must teach him to be a carver. I tell him "Better try an honest trade like butchering. At least the butcher kills before he hacks the thing about. The carver hacks the living stone into an abomination of his thoughts, then turns his back on the stone's cry for merciful death." My knucklebones say "Can we not find work indoors in winter?" The Eassie Stone has a cross, four-winged angels, a stag, and a hunter with dogs.
THE PACKMAN What can I sell to you? Here are soft truegold coins from over ocean, wearing faces of god people and letters of magic power. This one shows a great horse with wings, this other a three-hooked fish-stabber. One coin will give you the horseman's hold and word, the other will fill your nets. Choose. I have more. Herbs and lotions to cure your back and sides, your innards and skin, your thoughts and deeds, your life and death. Cloth woven from the spittle of wondrous worms. Drinking cups cast from clear sand, combs cut from the teeth of leather-clad giants, needles sharpened on the thighs of salamanders. Pay me in shells, in dried fish, in shining pebbles. Any metal welcome - axehead, armband, scrap or hap, clink or clout. Come buy, come buy. The Serpent and Z-rod from Bradsbutt Stone near Inverurie.
THE DOCTOR I cupped your broken back until the flesh stood out like mushrooms. I bandaged your stomach so tight your worms were expelled forthwith. I bled you till you could not stand.I have pounded ginger with wild garlic and stinkwort to rub on your gouty knees.The quince vinegar is brewing that will restore your hair. I am just now consulting the cowrie shells to decide where the trepan hole should be made that will relieve your headaches for ever.And still you do not pay my fee. Where is your gratitude, sir? Where is your gratitude? The two snakes are on Woodwray Stone.
THE SMITH It was all right for Wailun the Smith of Smiths. He got to marry a goose girl and make jewellery all day. Fair enough, they did cut his hamstrings on him, but worse than that happens in many a fight, and he took full and sweet revenge on that crowsbait King Needad and his brood. Look here at me, full of all worries. I must worry about the colours of iron. Over-ocean iron can be worked even dark red, but if the blanks are that rough stuff from the southerons they must be sparked orange red before they will begin to take a temper, and that with a hammer bouncing two feet off the anvil. I must worry about the softness of leather. The bellows bags have to be double sewn and moistened with heather honey and sweet flower oil before they will begin to take a smooth enough rhythm to puff the fire to white. And if for once I should get the chance to work with gold, I must worry what the people of the hillstreams have mixed into it. They can cook up a nugget so well stuffed with lead it would fool Thorun himself. What test will work? Some swear by a solution of pee-the-bed leaves, others have it that a touchstone is a sure guarantee. My own rule is, if it looks a good nugget it is likely no nugget. I take my favourite little hammer, and delicately apply it to mash that nugget flat. If it be not gold, then the hammer can mash the seller a little. One must catch one's fun where one can. If it is true gold all through, then my work is well begun, for the mashed shape will speak to me of a tor c or of filigree work. A time to make something new. But mostly I must sweat swords out of grit-filled southeron iron all day. All day. The Anvil symbol.
THE HARPER POEM Daub and wattle eats the sound, even when my tree of strings wears tightened silver wire. My cruit sounds sweeter and truer played to stone walls. I shall harp and carp of Blue Crishana and the silly milkgirls no more to empty pockets and alefuddled fogies. Away with old stuff of backyard battle butcheries and the celestial drunks of Valhall. I'll go to the High King's Hall at Fortriu and play in slack modes to winebibbers, and try my skill against songmakers from across deep black water. I'll learn to sing of King Orpheo in the Fairy Hill, Alessandro The Mighty, the tall towers of Constantinium, the All-blessed Father at Roma and his wonder-working saints. I'll leave this place. I'll find me a sighted cripple and we'll go. I will. I will. See if I will. The Harper image comes from a non-Pictish graveslab at Keills, Knapdale.
THE HARPER SONG I'll harp and carp no longer here For leaden coins and heather beer My tree of strings no more shall sing I'll play no more for the likes of you. No more ballads of back yard brawls Where Jack of the Castle hits Jock of the Hall One fool rises, another fool falls I'll play no more for the likes of you. I'll play no more to empty pockets Though my eyes have empty sockets I have legs enough to hop and I'll play no more for the likes of you. I'll harp and carp no more for you I played my fingers sore for you My throat I ripped and tore for you I'll play no more for the likes of you. No more sighs for Blue Crishana No more lies of the Lords of Valhalla No more ancient stuff at all I'll play no more for the likes of you. I'll be off to the High King's Hall Where I can sing instead of bawl And bounce my voice off high stone walls I'll play no more for the likes of you. I'll harp and carp in triple time To knowing ears drunk on wine Who'll compliment my slightest line I'll play no more for the likes of you. I'll sing of the wife of King Orphey That the fairies stole away And I will make it last three days I'll play no more for the likes of you. You tell me I should play old tunes Play with yourselves, you old buffoons Beg a song from the Man In the Moon I'll play no more for the likes of you. After writing The Harper piece I noticed that on the Dupplin Stone overlooking the site of Fortiu is a harper - so he managed to get there.
THE TRUMPETER POEM What need of many notes? We hear that in other lands the trumpeters puff silly tunes as though they were blind harpers. Here we know the one true and right note, that summons and dismisses, calls dogs to hunt or lads to war, rouses the sun to dance at morning and lays the moon down to sleep. Here is our note. Who needs another?
THE TRUMPETER SONG Who has need of a many-note song? Words are nothing if the beat is wrong. Words are nothing if the beat is wrong. Words are nothing if the beat is wrong. Here is the note, the one true one. Summons to justice, raises the sun. Calls to the hunt, calls to the fight, Lays the moon to sleep at night. Rouses the sun to dance at morning. Stone cutter cut stone, stone cutter cut. Pebble in the stream rolling over. Lightning in the eye of evening. On the Hilton of Cadboll Stone two trumpeters play as a hunting party sets forth. Their trumpets look like the single note three metre long copper horn called the n’far, played by the Aissawa of Morocco.
THE SOUL WASHER To purify a king's soul is no light business. One must learn the seven secret names that demons may safely be addressed by. Herbs must be cut in the dark of the moon, wrapped in blue-dyed cloth, brewed with brown berries and drunk from just such a seashell with just such markings. Once you are fortified, a soul cake must be baked. Then the demons are called out and abjured to enter into the cake, which must then be broken into three equal pieces (the hardest part of the whole business) and each piece eaten by a different kind of pad-footed animal. Of course, that is only the usual kind of soul-washing. Greater troubles of the king's heart demand serious effort.
THE WINTER KING Bow, low down. Choke each sound In chill ground, Here comes the Winter King. Sing no song of summer sun, Summer’s time is long done, Summer’s fight is lost and won, Here comes the Winter King. Autumn leaves lie thick now, Black ground is sick now, Birds leave quick now, Here comes the Winter King. Have faith, spring will come, Heart warm if fingers numb, Spring will rise, spring will run, But here comes the Winter King. Bow, low down, Choke each sound In chill ground, Here comes the Winter King. The symbol is an Asante soul-washer's badge from what is now Ghana, looted by 19th C British soldiers. Amu Logotse, my partner in the initial exhibition project, is Ghanaian.
THE CATTLE LIFTER POEM I sing to praise little black cattle. Deft of foot, Deep of voice, Wild of step, Sleek of coat, Calm of face, Fierce of mind, Bright of eye, Dark of coat, Firm of meat, Sweet of milk, Sharp of bone, Warm of coat, Oh, how I love little black cattle.
LITTLE BLACK CATTLE SONG Oh, how I love little black cattle, Haud away Peter, come by Paul. Shining horns as sharp as thorns, A little black bull was my downfall. Fleet of foot are little black cattle, Haud away Peter, come by Paul. Sweet of milk and sleek of coat, A little black bull was my downfall. Here I lie in a bottle dungeon, Haud away Peter, come by Paul. The laird's black bull raised half the house, When it raised its voice by the tanyard wall. Tomorrow morning I'll see sunlight, Haud away Peter, come by Paul. I will sing a fine farewell And a little black rope will pay for it all. A little black rope, made of leather, Haud away Peter, come by Paul. It will fly me light as a feather, A little black bull was my downfall. To my brother John I leave my dogs, Haud away Peter, come by Paul. But who will drive my little black cows That came to me whenever I'd call? One of the Burghead Bulls.
THE SPEARMAN At Nectansmere we wait to stand the shock of horsemen. Heads and arms are clad in hard iron or crackling leather. Fingers polish sword hilts, check yet once more that the little gully knife sits safe at the breast. We sing funeral lays to trick Odin into choosing another. We cry to Christus to keep our shield arms strong. We mumble curses on our chief whose wisdom laid us here at the feet of The Hooded One. We watch for the clever raven. One side of the Aberlemno Churchyard Stone marks the battle of Nectansmere in 685.
THE AXEMAN The times are good for a soldier. Bald Oengus mac Fergus of South Pict Land has invaded Dal Riada, so One Eared Eadberht of North Humber Land has invaded South Pict Land, so Aethelbald the Fox of Mercia has invaded North Humber Land. I'm off to see the Cenel in Dal Riada, to ask to join the raid on Mercia. The Axe from the Barflat Rhynie Stone. The triple invasions happened in 740.
THE GENERAL In order to get things sorted out it is sometimes necessary to offend people. In order to get things sorted out it is sometimes necessary to insult people, - to threaten people. - to attack people. - to kill people. Once things are sorted out, one can afford to bandage people. Once things are sorted out one can afford to forgive people, - to befriend people. - to reward people. - to live at peace with people. But eventually there are new things that must be sorted out. The Eagle from Knowe of Burrian Stone, Birsay.
THE VIKER POEM The Ice Giants have built a blue bridge across my native fjord, and a hard skin covers my summer fields. So I and my fellows must come and eat your winter seed. If you will give us the pleasure of fighting, we will honour your dead and take only half your wealth. If you will not fight, you have no pride and we must take all and make you slaves. The helmet or the collar. There are no other choices.
THE VIKERS SONG Here come the long necks, Beat your wings, beat your wings, Here come the long necks Follow your leader on. Over land over sea, White waves battling eagerly, Over sea over land, Where seaweed tries to smother sand, Dove and raven see us come, Their eyes are bright, their throats are dumb, Follow your leader, follow your leader, Follow your leader on The hard heads are on the sea, Pull your oar, pull your oar, Starka varna vesta lee, Pull your oar bravely. We come to gather, not to fight, But if we fight we will be right, Back at home our children cry, We must feed them or they’ll die, The ice tries to kill our fields So we must come to take your yield, If you will not fight with us, Where is your honour? In the dust. The Goose from the Easterton of Roseisle Stone. Every winter the Bean Geese and Barnacle Geese come from Scandinavia to harvest our fields.
THE SCOT We fought our way here. In skin-clad boats we smashed through snarlings of silver-haired giants. On boggy land we wet our hairy breeks yet were the unafraid feared ones who took the Great Add Rock into our storing. Sinewed cousins came over to our feasting and stayed to claim fine fallow fields, conquering slaves for the sowing of new seed. Sharpening our fierce skills of speech we made and broke alliance, married and harried, traded and threatened and cozened and converted, til all was ours to till. We ground their tongue into powder. And sprinkled it upon our porridge. We hold this land now. It has our name and language now. Keep off. The Dogs from Meigle Stone 23. One meaning of the word Scot is 'bandit'.
FRONTIER LAND The Pictworks exhibition was shown in Govan Pearce Institute, with a performance in Govan Old Parish Church, which holds a remarkable collection of carved stone slabs, Viking ‘hogback’ gravestones, a sarcophagus, and the Sun Stone. Seven nations and their stones meet at Govan, at the edge of many kingdoms. Before all were the Beaker People, who cooked muddy clay into stony pots to bury the ashes of their dead. Then came the Britons, who heaped stones to build their little dun castles through the land, with a Great Dun on the Great Rock of the Britons, the Dun Briton, the Dumbarton. Up started the Romans to built their Antoninus Wall a little to the North, turve all on stone foundation, stone mileposts, stone altars. The Picts stood their eloquent symbols stones in the North and the East, but some Govan stones show the hand of their sculptors. Pict means The Painted People. The Scots flowed in from Ireland to tiny Dal Riada in Argyll, then rode the flood up the Clyde and brought along their saints and carvers of crosses. Scot means Bandit. The Angles of North Humber Land edged up the East Coast in to Edin's Borough and sidled across country. The knotwork of their carving men is on the crosses and sarcophagus of Govan. Last, the Vikings raided, raided again, then chose to settle. They upturned their boats to make roofs for their longhouses. When their old boatcaptains died there were no boats to burn them in, so they were laid under carved long stone roofs. Starka varna vesta lee! Stony Beaker pots. Stony British dun castles. Stone posts to count the miles to Roma. Pictish and Scottish and Northumbrian carvings all interlaced. Viking hogback roofs. All of Govan stone.
