Good morning, everyone. Today I thought I’d share with you one of the poems I recently read at Write by the Sea.
I’m someone who loves walking, and since my stroke in 2010, I’m also someone who has a disabled body. If you’ve read Handywoman, you might remember that a really formative moment in my understanding of disability occurred when, struggling to learn to walk as a disabled person, I looked back on all the nature and outdoor literature I’d previously enjoyed, and was shocked by the fact that limited bodies never seemed to appear in nature writing. Noticing that absence prompted me to reflect first on my own implicit ableism; then to begin to understand how resourceful disabled walkers might experience landscapes very differently; and finally to think about how a new kind of nature writing might begin to address the absence of disabled people and their bodies from the landscapes in which many of us walk and find creative meaning. A lot of interesting conversations are now finally being had about the strange homogeneity of nature writing and its issues of exclusion, and last year I was very pleased to be a small part of one such conversation with the brilliant people at Kendall Mountain Festival. Since then, I’ve found myself thinking about the many different ways in which language (and the English language specifically) might itself restrict endeavours to represent and celebrate disabled walking bodies (words like “lame”, for example, are loaded in such a pointlessly negative way). It was during one such train of thought that I opened up Amanda Thomson’s wonderful Scots Dictionary of Nature and discovered hundreds of wonderful Scots walking words: words in which the limitations of the body were never hidden, but vividly brought to the fore. This poem’s about my experience of discovering those Scots words, and you’ll find a glossary at the end.
Finster
On reading Amanda Thomson’s Scots Dictionary of Nature
Put in words, the walking body seems
so able that
it barely exists.
Forever
stepping out
beyond itself
but never
singing
its own soundness.
How could the body’s ease ever
be a kind of nothing?
Perhaps only for the awkward
does ease begin to mean.
Where, then
the grammar of impediment? How
might our mouths
move to shape
the morphology of
our lost footing?
The turned page
unearthed
a term
to affirm
asymmetry.
two appendages
unevenly matched:
hotchin-hippit.
Without pity or
contempt I
proclaim
myself
camshauchle
for mine is a hilchin’, hirplin’, howdlin’
body, a form
pleuch-fittit
that will often
hench awa.’
My feet
sclowf, staup, futtle
when I move I
skyte and sklitter
noop and knoit.
The stibblin’, staverin’, strummelin’ gait
bespeaks
the ordinary strain
of ambulation.
Words, raw and tender
for
the ingenuity
of being:
a gathering of limbs
twisted, broken, faltering —
routine.
With the ceaseless grace of
its own inelegance
each under its own load
the body haigles on
through time.
*
Words for the walking body, Amanda Thomson says,
belong to none of us and all.
Stones cast on the tide
of songs long before ours.
In speaking, we’ll turn them
smooth in our mouths.
Glossary
camshauchle – to walk lamely or inactively
finster – a discovery, something worth finding
futtle – to walk clumsily
haigle – to walk with difficulty, as one with a heavy load upon their back
hench awa’ – to move onward in a halting way
hilch – hobble
hirple – to move crazily
hotchin-hippit – having hips that cause clumsy walking
howdle – to walk in a limping, heavy manner
knoit – to amble or hobble
noop – to walk with downcast eyes and nodding head
pleuch-fittit – having heavy, dragging feet
sclowf – to walk with a heavy tread like a flat footed person
sklitter – to walk in a slovenly fashion
skyte – to slip about
staup – to take long awkward steps, to walk as a person does in darkness
staver – to walk listlessly
strummel – one who stumbles
swaver – to walk feebly as one who is fatigued
I love this Kate. You have a knack for poetry. I found myself reading it aloud as scots dialect is so expressive especially when it’s read.
Very well observed and point well made. 💕
LikeLike
You are a beautiful soul! Thank you, my dear! xoxo Regina
LikeLike
Such beautiful moving words. I have mobility problems and this poem describes things perfectly. Thank you very much for sharing these words with us all.
Keep safe – keep well
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ooo, such wonderful words. No wonder you enjoy saying them out loud.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
After loosing the full use of my legs over the last 2 years and being someone who has always walked, this says it all.
LikeLiked by 1 person
As a dog-lover, and someone who studied English Lang&Lit as it was called in my day, so intrigued by your expression of your movement through the world now, I’m interested in how your dogs might have affected / helped in your recovery. I loved to see postings from Bruce, but we’ve been missing him, and his newer side-kick for a while. Do they encourage you to get out? Do you learn anything from them? Are they – possibly? – aware of how differently you move?
LikeLike
Thanks Kate for another great post. I was lucky enough to attend Write by the Sea and so enjoyed listening to all your poems and seeing and hearing the story of your wonderful coat (I am the lady wearing the downstream cardy). What a privilege to be able to chat with you and Tom. Hope you and the KDDteam stay well in these difficult times
LikeLiked by 1 person
hi Maggie! It was lovely to meet you – I said to Tom just the other day that I wished he’d managed to take a photo of you in your beautifully knitted downstream – it is gorgeous
LikeLike
Thanks Kate. I am about to “re-teach” my 41 year old daughter to knit. Wish me luck 🧶
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for saying what a lot of us may experience but don’t know how to say it!! ❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
That was wonderful and so foreward ! I remember when I had a hip replacement and was so pissed off I couldn’t get out that I would go with the dogs on crutches!! Not safe but we made it :) My other ‘problem’ was I was SO angry when I saw people running and knew I couldn’t do that any more…….that took a while to get over but I did it. We do what we can when and how we can. You are our hero!! Thank you for these great words.
LikeLike
This is really lovely. It puts me in mind of Seamus Heaney’s The Names of the Hare and the Middle English poem he based it on.
LikeLiked by 2 people
“The gobshite, the gum-sucker,
the scare-the-man, the faith-breaker,
the snuff-the-ground, the baldy skull,
(his chief name is scoundrel.)”
Yes! a *wonderful* poem, Sarah!
LikeLike
Kate, This is a beautiful piece. Thank you for sharing. I have admired your ability to communicate your feelings of disability. Yet, it doesn’t enter my mind as I read your previous blogs and look at your pictures. I am a hand therapist ( PT) and a knitter, so I look to you to better understand how to encourage patients to move forward.
Christine
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you very much for this. It is so inclusive when I’ve often felt excluded due to my limited walking abilities. I love it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Reads like James Joyce! Beautiful, Kate, and very stirring to the soul.
LikeLike
Beautiful words that even without knowing their meaning, create understanding deep in ones soul. Like the Yiddish, they are words of feeling and intense connection. Thank you for that poem.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for this inspiration! Are there any words in that dictionary for visually impaired walkers? I find myself challenged to describe the ways I move in nature – glare and shadow, looking ahead and at my feet. Maybe I should create a vocabulary of my own…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Such a great idea.
LikeLike
I am astounded and delighted by the specificity of these words. They are all wonderfully explicit. Thank you for this post!
LikeLiked by 2 people
Your writing, and breaking my right ankle two years ago, has given me such an appreciation for all that bodies can do in the outdoors. I took it so much for granted before I found myself first confined to a chair for ten weeks, and then wobbling uncertainly and painfully back to my feet. This poem brought tears to my eyes as I thought about my mom, a former ballet dancer who suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, but still celebrates what her body can do. Thank you!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Amazing poem to wake up to, thank you. As one who has limits but hides it well (or so I believe) to society I greatly appreciated this reading today. Also, applies to talking and being able to use language easily. Be safe and stay strong.
LikeLiked by 1 person
There is so much excellent “Nature Writing” being published: writing I really enjoy reading. However I had never before, until I read Handywoman, thought about the lack of all kinds of diversity in our landscape. Thank you for this lovely poem.
from a hirpling knitter
(I sit too long knitting!)
LikeLike
Thank you Kate,
My Mun had a stroke last year and has struggled ever since with the frustration of it all. I will pass this on to her. Please keep up with the blogs. Highlight of may day!
LikeLiked by 1 person
please give my very best to your mum
LikeLike
That is so wonderful. As an able-bodied person (but, getting older) and appreciator of the literature of the outdoors, I am grateful for the heads-up of what I’m not thinking of. And the gorgeous words for what will surely be a part of my life eventually. Thank you for sharing!
LikeLike
Dear Kate,
Thank you for being a finster to explore, challenge, and support. Parenting a child who moves differently through the world can be a haigle at times. Thank you for lending your voice and speaking from the heart. We are all on a journey. May we always have kindness with us along the way.
LikeLike
Thank you so much, lifted my spirits.
LikeLike
Thanks for this, it’s great to be reminded of the wealth of descriptive Scots dialect, which I as an exile in the south of England, rarely come across nowadays. Hoping you long continue to find solace and enjoyment in the great outdoors. I am currently working on 5 knitting projects, including a Bledaig kit, to take my mind off current events. Best wishes in these uncertain times( not that times were ever certain) !
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. This resonates so much.
Our grown up son has hemiplegia, as he grew uo so much of the outdoors was been a challenge, but one he has taken on board.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
I’m really enjoying your uplifting blogs. They provide a welcome haven from all the bad news around us at the minute.
Many of the words in your poem are familiar to us here in Northern Ireland. My granny used to hirple around the house when she’d been sitting crocheting for too long. This takes me back. Take care xx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Kate, a thoughtful and stimulating start to my day. Having been partially disabled by arthritis, which prevented all but short walks on very flat ground, I had a total knee replacement at the beginning of February. It has been hard and painful but nothing short of miraculous. Today for the first time in several years I will walk my dogs, carefully, with Amanda Thomsons words in my head.
I will be thankful.
All blessings to you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
That is wonderful use of language. Can I just say how lovely it is to receive your emails during this difficult time, when we are confined to our homes. Words, ideas and images which allow our horizons to widen.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hear, hear.
LikeLike
I should like to hear you reading this poem. I’m sure I am murdering Amanda Thompson’s words.
LikeLiked by 2 people
You are so right, yet I never thought of that before I read your words.
Thank you!
Loved the poem, and I really hope there will be more like that in an immediate future
LikeLike