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ionnsaigh
There you sit, beside green hills,
Hills rolling, silky soft sweeping, gentle sway,
Covered in fresh green bracken,
Sheltering, buffeting a cauld cutting wind,
Filtering smog, allowing the clean crisp air,
Glasgow wae lungs, called Campsie.

Then the water, we call the Clyde,
A Southern Uplands baby, born gurgling,
Fae bubbling mountain burn, pit pat pit,
Intae the erms of Glasgow, we cuddle Clyde,
Mighty grown, spitting fish, intae west,
Building ships an Working Men, hame tae Working Women.
ionnsaigh
Absolute shite ........ try again.
boots
Rather hard on yourself, don;t you think Ionnsaigh? We haven't met so I.ll introduce mysell...I'm boots,I too have some stuff on hereand when I read it, I can usuallu see room for improvement and I wish I could get more constructive criticism even"What the hell are you talking about" can really be helpful so now suppose for a minute that I was the author of this poem, is that the criticism you would offer me Quote "Absolute shite, try again" What's constructive? fter a put-down like thatTrying again might seem like a waste of time and I'm afraid if you talk to yourself like that, you will eventually believe that you are writing shite and youll stop. That would be a great pity because you know you can write.

Please accept my unsolicited critique Line 1 "There you sit beside green hills" sound some what harsh and angry to meand I almost expect "Get up off yor rear and sweep them" you descriptionwas much gentler and wrll, more poetic.

I'd like to suggest you sit or lie down where you can be comfortable, then read this poem over several times, sothat you're not only thinking about what you want to say but also feeling it. You have a pretty original thought there , the Campsies as filters/lungs to the city. Work on it, it just needs editing and I'd love to read it when you're happy with it. boots
Dave Grieve
perhaps change "sit" to 'where born'
Jupiter
Or just sing,The song of the Clyde.Never fails to cheer me up. rolleyes.gif
Heather
This is one of my favourite Glasgow poems.


Oh where is the Glasgow where I used to stey?
With white wally closes done up witg pipe cley,
Where you knew every neighbour from first floor to third
And to keep your door locked was considered absurd.

Where are the weans that once played in the street?
Wi' a jorrie, a peerie, a gird and a cleet.
Can they still cadge a hudgie or dreep aff a dyke,
Play hunch cuddy hunch, kick a can , and the like?

And where is the wee shop where I used to buy
A quarte of tatties, and a tuppenny pie,
A bag of broken biscuits, a wee soda scone,
And the woman aye asked, "How's yer Maw gettin on?"

Where is the Tally's that I knew so well?
That wee corner shoppie where they used to sell,
Hot peas, a McCallum, ice cream in a poke,
You knew they were Tallys the minute the spoke.
Dae ye want da raspberry awe oer yer ice cream.

And where is the cludgie, that cosy wee cell?
The string frae the cistern, I remember so well,
Where I sat wi' a caun'le , and studied the rags,
A win for the Gers, a defeat for the Jags.

Where s the tram car that once did a ton?
Up the Great Western Road on the Ol' Yoker run,
The conductress aye knew how to deal with the nyaff,
"If yer gaun then get oan, if yer no then git aff."

I think o' the days o' my tenement hame,
We've got fancy hooses, but there just no the same,
I'll swap yer gizunders, flyover and jams,
For a tuppeny ride on the old Glesga trams.

Gone is the Glesga that I used to know,
Big Wullie, wee Shooie, the steamie, the Co.
The shilpit wee bachle, the glaicit big dreep,
Yer Baw's on the slates, and yer gas in a peep,

These days werny rosie and the money was tight,
The wages hauf finished by Seturday night,
But still we came through it and weathered the ruts,
The reason is simple - Our parents had guts.


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