Christine

Biographical Note

Christine De Luca, who writes in both English and Shetlandic, is a native Shetlander who lives in Edinburgh.  She was Edinburgh’s Makar or poet laureate from 2014-17.

Despite a full-time working life in education she has produced over a dozen books, mainly poetry, but also a novel and some children’s stories. Dat Trickster Sun (Mariscat Press, 2014) was shortlisted for the Michael Marks award.  Her new collection, Veeve (Mariscat Press) will be available from summer 2021.

She is active in translation and has taken part in literary festivals in many countries. Her poetry has often won awards in her native Shetland and a French bilingual Selected, Mondes Parallèles (éditions fédérop, 2007), won the Prix du Livre insulaire 2007 pour Poésie.  She also has bi-lingual collections published in Norway, Iceland, Italy and England.

Christine enjoys collaborating with musicians and visuals artists, most recently with Victoria Crowe (Another Place, Another Time, Scottish Gallery, 2021).

She is a long-standing member (since 1993) and current chair of Shore Poets.  Hansel Cooperative Press (supporting the arts in Orkney and Shetland) is also dear to her heart.

Click here for more information about Christine.
Click here for more information about Hansel Cooperative Press.

Veeve

Da wirld, shrukken tae window-peen,
hadds hits braeth.  A moarnin scene
wi licht – döless an dour – drittlin
trowe syer-cloots afore waarmin
peerie-wyes tae opalled scumble.

But, nose tae gless, a caald fumble,
a eence apön a time sense, blurry an frostit;
a inner wirld o nae paes, an half-haertit.
Mindin on flukkra-globes we’d shack,
waitin fur da snaa ta settle back.

Still spellboond an stumpsed,
an foo o hoop fur wir aert med new,
we stotter on; laek glinderin at dat sphere
comin at slowly, till veeve an crystal clear.

Veeve
The world, shrunk to a window-pane,
holds its breath.  A morning scene
with light – listless and dour – seeps    
through a muslin cloud before warming
gently to opalled scumble.

But, nose to glass, a cold fumble,
a once upon a time sense, blurry and frosted;
an inner world lacking peace, and half-hearted.
Remembering snow-filled globes we’d shake,
waiting for the flakes to settle back.

Still spellbound, bewildered,
and full of hope for our earth made new,
we stumble on; like peering at that sphere
unveiling slowly, till vivid and crystal clear.

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