21.7.17

the watershed

th’ fleety wud, a place-aware mapping of the Upper Teviot watershed from the source at Teviot Stone to the Rule Water. The blog combines tributree drawings of tributaries of the Teviot with texts from the forthcoming book.



model of consciousness
watershed

 

unique vascular pattern
watershed


fixed arrangement of nouns
in constant motion
watershed





a watershed is an imperative:
which way will you flow?





each watershed has one length
and a wide variety of widths


 



take the arboreal form of the watershed as a hint





rivers are syntax
hills are grammar





the climate crisis is a watershed



if you neglect your watershed then be prepared 
to heap sandbags




you can walk up or down the river, like a ladder,
from confluence to confluence
 




the waters are so nearly alike in their differences


the valleys open and they have a river before them




the rivers joint:
confluence




a confluence is a focal point
and a vocal point 




the water flows past its confluence without
any sense of attachment
 



some walk the watershed by confluences
others go to the source of every tributary
 




th’ fleety wud 
alec finlay with gill russell, 2017

the project will culminate in a publication in Autumn 2017

funded by Creative Scotland, and commissioned by the Borders Heritage Festival (co-ordinated/supported by CABN)

with thanks to Douglas Scott, Kate McAllan, Maggie Scott, Andrew McKenzie, Jenna Corcoran, Mary Morrison, Claire Pencak, and Paul Brough.




 
 

13.7.17

th’ fleety wud


'A river separates water and so it should.' – Gertrude Stein

th’ fleety wud is a place-aware mapping of the Upper Teviot watershed from the source at Teviot Stone to the Rule Water. It’s a new project that continues my collaboration with Gill Russell; we’re working with assistance from Kate McAllan, and referring to Douglas Scott’s online survey, A Hawick Wordbook, as a resource.  In a wider sense the context for the work is the turn towards understanding or reading the landscape anew, which I call place-awareness – if this movement is a response to cultural nationalism, then it's also, more importantly, a concern to understand human dwelling and our relation to earthothers  in the context of the climate change crisis.

th’ fleety wud extends my work with place-name translation as a means to pursue ecopoetics, looking into the specific issues of the watershed and flooding. My friends at CABN coordinated the project as part of a wider body of work in response to the damaging floods of 2005, and it will evolve in tandem with those – in other words, we will all be worrying about public art and wishing we could plant more trees.


the river has water in it
the rain has flooding in it



The title comes from one of the place-names I found in Douglas Scott’s Wordbook: th’ fleety wud, or Fleety Wood, as the name appears on the OS map. The meaning is most likely The Flooding Wood. This post includes photographs from our first field trip, a walk down the Slitrig Water from Shankend, along the old railway line, to find the wood, understand the name, and map the tributaries (or, the tributaries, of the tributary, of The Teviot).

 Fleety Wood and the Slitrig Water (KM)
 
It’s not Fleety Wood that floods but the haugh below. The Slitrig Water is described as an idyll in the old Gazeteer, as 'a troutful rivulet with shelving descents, bold green heights, and little haughs tutted with woods'; but its spates are part of the flood problem in Hawick. In my mapping I give the name of this rith as cut-a-way water, derived from W.S. Robson:

Jeffrey in History or Roxburghshire derives Slitrig from OE slitan, a narrow cut or cleft, and rig, a back or high line of ground. He says the name Slitrig signifies a stream which runs through a narrow opening or slit in the rig or ridge of hills, but this derivation is unfortunately based on a corruption of the river’s name. The earliest form is Slitrith and rith is OE for stream. The first element in the name may be OE slite, a straight and narrow cut or incision, or it may be a shortened form of Slittrer, to slide, to glide. In the latter case Slit rith may signify a stream that seems to glide. In the former case the word Slit may express the action of the rith upon the hills, literally a rith or stream that cuts it way through.

Cogsmill Burn (AF)

This is Scott’s summary of the names, most of which we visited.

The river rises in several headwaters, Flosh Burn and Leap Burn meeting, becoming Lang Burn and being joined by Langside Burn where the Slitrig proper starts. After that it is joined by: Hope Sike; Penchrise Burn; Gibby’s Sike; Cogsmill Burn; Barnes Burn; Pagton Burn; Horsley Burn; Acreknowe Burn; Flex Burn and the Smaile Burn…

Acreknowe Burn (AF)

th’ fleety wud is a critical analysis of the watershed itself, and the models of culture and consciousness that arise from it.


a map of kinship
watershed

a model of consciousness:
watershed

a unique vascular pattern
watershed



The watershed is also an invitation to walk in a different way. As Kate and I made our way down the Slitrig over two days of cloud and sun we both felt our awareness slip from the road and views of the hills, into the details of waters and sykes, burns hidden among umbrellas of Burdock, glinting in pinewoods, or wittering in a meadow. We had first of all to find the burns, crossing and re-crossing the Slitrig, climbing wire fences, finding gates, figuring out how the road followed the river that made the valley.

The mood sounds idyllic, and it was, but the import was the delays of the burn; how they related to spated alluvials; how that quality of slowness, that richness of vegetation, were the obvious biodiverse solutions to flooding. The microtonal is opposed to the monocultural; the solution is rooted in the banks of the river.

Our second day ended with a crossing of the Slitrig to find flowerless yellow flags by the confluence with the Pagton, and then flowers beyond that, and a fleet hare. And a final leap across rocks to the tiny Smaile or Small Burn, opposite the housing estate at the edge of town.

Pagton (AF)

This toponymic mapping project continues work I’ve done on the river-names as expressions of the force of water in the landscape, which can, in turn, be related to the current transition to renewable energy – the road north and skying feature the old Modernist hydro project, in particular the ‘water-garden’ at Dalchonzie, and my ongoing gathering project in The Cairngorms, discusses new community micro-hydro schemes, such as Corriemulzie.


waters focus the weather’s forces

the waters begin again and again
and again

the waters are all so nearly alike in their differences

in its motion the water adds time to the landscape



water-mint on Acreknowe burn: ‘the mint / makes islands / of our tongues’, (AF)

Gill and I have explored the river walk as one of the defining concepts of what I, teasingly, call The New Walking. A model for this is the naturalist William MacGillivray, who, in his writings on Upper Deeside published 1850, suggested the botanically minded should walk alongside a river to its source, making digressions, using the returning journey to carry out closer inspections of objects of interest. The learning comes in the to-and-fro, in the tasty details of ramsons, sorrels and water-mint, which slow the walk down.


the road goes from A-B
the path follows the burn
from S-B, to N-U, and R-

some walk the watershed by confluences
others go to the source of every tributary



the Slitrig Water at Fleety Wood, or Fluty Wud

The flow of water was something Stonypathians were acutely aware of. I grew up with a moorland water supply that turned baths brown every spate, was blocked by frogs stuck in the pipes every spring, and froze every winter. The folk of Hawick see the Teviot differently since the floods. Listening leads to learning.

when the witter’s doon the bath’s broon


‘look: the river is a water / listen: the river is a witter’ (AF)

Scott’s emphasis on Borders speech gives witter: Sc, water, i.e. river or loch, especially 'a watercourse, bigger than a stream but smaller than a river', and the witter-gate, which refers to a watershed ; also witter craw, Sc, dipper. Local voices define a poetics of the ear and tongue that is also knowledge of how things work. This is ecopoetics, not poems about nature, but knowledge embodied in sound and motion.


look
listen

the river is
the river is

a water
a witter


 Langburn, before it becomes the Slitrig Water (KM)

th’ fleety wud is a work of wittering. It is through an understanding of names that we remember the river speaks, and learn again to listen.


the water never finishes what it has to say

sometimes the water cannot contain itself

the bends of the river are amplifications

an alluvial arc marks the spate



 Horsley Burn (AF)

In my Cairngorms work I’ve come to appreciate the Gaelic analysis of waters offered by such terms as caochan, allt, alltan, and feith. Now I am learning the alluvials of Brythonic and Old English of Borders Scots names, such as syke and hope.


names colour the watershed

a sike is a wetted crease hid in pale grass

place-names arise from nature
and are entirely artificial

names are best understood in their places



word-mntn (White Hill, AF)

The same set of local rules extends to hill names, as with pen, which is Welsh for hill; similar to the Gaelic ben, beinn. The languages are, of course, referred to as P and Q-Celtic. The pen element is rare, but occurs in names such as Penchrise Pen – a double hill – and Ettrick Pen.


The Law is a harder climb for some than others

mind your P’s and Q’s: a pen is a ben

a life is composed of howes and knowes 



Stell, Slitrig Water (KM)

I’ve come to think of the localism of language, or dialect, as a form of technology: names given in local elements and speech patterns impart specific meanings that speak to contexts, natural forms, and the potential of the landscape.

I grew up in hill farming country and behind Stonypath, on the route of our traditional family walk, there were three sheep fanks. Hereabouts, in the lands of Teviot, the names change, just like the shift from allt to burn, giubhais to fir or pine, that Ken and I recorded in Perthshire, in the road north.


a dividing wall: fank or stell

each glen wears the shelter of its stell as a lucky ring

there were fir-stells as well as drystane-stells



 the Upper Teviot watershed from Teviot Stone to Rule Water: Gill Russell, with Alec Finlay, 2017

The Upper Teviot watershed covers an extensive area so I decided to focus on a single tributary, the Slitrig Water, which flows directly into Hawick. Below I have listed the names, from the confluence with the Teviot to the source, with my initial translations for those that are not personal names, and which I was able to do.

Barnes Burn, near Stobs (KM)

SLITRIG WATER

SL01        SLITRIG WATER  cut-a-way river

SL02        SMAILE BURN  small burn

SL03        FLEX BURN  flecked burn

SL04        ACREKNOWE BURN  crop-patch knowe burn

SL05        HORSLEY BURN  horsegraze burn

SL05.1     MARCH SIKE  boundary rill

SL06        PAGTON BURN

SL07        BARNES BURN  barns burn

SL08        COGSMILL BURN

SL08.1     NAMELESS WATER

SL09        GIBBY’S SYKE

SL10        NAMELESS WATER

SL11        PENCHRISE BURN  ringed hill burn

SL12        HOPE SIKE  dent rill

SL13        LANDSIDE BURN  longside burn

SL14        LANG BURN  long burn

SL15        LEAP BURN  lap burn

SL16        FLOSH BURN  mire burn


Some notes: Paul Brough helped us locate the Smaile Burn, based on Scott’s description of it ‘running underground from the Nipknowes to Haggishaa, with the original course being over the Vertish, and on to the Slitrig’. Williamson gives the Flex Burn as deriving from Scots fleckit, referring to broken, variegated land. The Acreknowe is, Scott says, probably from the Old English acweorn cnoll, meaning acorn hill, and indeed, he says there are the remains of an old oak wood. In contrast, in her thesis published in 1942 May G. Williamson gives this as OE æcer, cultivated land, or local dialect, aiker, sharp, keen, pointed, applied to the hill face. For now I plumped for the crop-patch theory, though these disputes are the poetry of toponymic studies, as we try to listen in to the speech of a distant era. As discussed already, Penchrise Pen is, Scott says, ‘a curious double use of the ancient p-Celtic root ‘pen’… a rare local survival of the old Brythonic or p-Celtic ‘pen’.' He supposes that the name possibly means the hill with the girdle, referring to the Iron Age fortifications, although the origin of ‘chrise’ is not at all clear. The DSL gives flush, flosh: piece of boggy ground, especially one where water frequently lies on the surface, a swampy place, a pool of water in a field.


Slitrig Water by Little France (AF)

Wandering through the OS map and the writings of Robson and Scott, I’ve begun to open up some of the playful, mimetic, and symbolic meanings of place-names within the region, revealing aspects of ecology and class, privilege and power, loss and potential. To me the significance of the names is that they suggest approaches to remediation and transformation, and offer a meeting ground for negotiating change.


a transformation
Hagburn to Hawk Burn

a change of heart
from Staney Burn to Honey Burn

an alteration in attitude
Hangingside to Hawthornside

a shift in perception
Woollee to Wolfelee

Wauchope
there are always names that refer to ‘them’, or ‘the others’

Laird’s Hill, exactly where you’d expect it
between Rut Head and Eldrig

planted in the right place
Cherry Cottage on Sunnyside


Some notes: Hagburn: Douglas Scott records this name in his Wordbook, meaning bird cherry (gean or hag), now Hawk Burn on the OS, west of Rubers Law. Honey Burn: Scott records the former name of this tributary of the Teviot as Staney Burn. Woollee: the change of name probably arose in the nearby farm, Wolfhopelee; according to Tancred’s Rulewater and its People. Wauchope: possibly from the name local Old English speakers used to refer to local Welsh speaking tribes by; hope, Sc, howe or hollow, and wahl, Old English, foreigner, serf. Rut Head and Eldrig are names relating to deer-hunting; an elrig, elrick, or eilrig is a natural deer trap.

Horsley Burn (KM)

every town once had its commonty… immemorially

in The Wightman Era we remember The Common Riding was a radical political action

bourtrees mark boundaries

over time Lover’s Loan becomes Lover’s Lane

a political sign:
the British Railways Boards hereby give note that this way is not dedicated to the public


Langside Burn from the viaduct at Shankend (AF)

the hill burn toddles down and falls
toddles down and falls
and falls
s

break the skin of the river

put your face though the water
listen to it witter


Penchrise Burn, by the railway (KM)

As an experiment, to close this post, I’ve gathered some of the orthographic renderings of the names – again, using Scott’s Wordbook as a source – to let the sounds have prominence.


h ar-s ık
leep-burn


fleks-burn
h op-s ık


rool-wi’-ur
weenz-s̄ık


sli’-rik wi’-ur
hu-nee-burn


how-din-burn
has-in-deen-burn


waw-chup-wi’-ur
wool-fup-lee-burn





th’ fleety wud
alec finlay with gill russell, 2017

the project will culminate in a publication in Autumn 2017

photography: AF, Alec Finlay; KM, Kate McAllan

funded by Creative Scotland, and commissioned by the Borders Heritage Festival (co-ordinated/supported by CABN)

With thanks to Jenna Corcoran, Mary Morrison, Claire Pencak, and Paul Brough.




10.4.17

minnmouth


From the roof of Humber Street Gallery there are glimpses of the broad expanse of the river – and it really is brown, like one version of the name’s origin.

Humber
Shadow-covered Water

Humber
Fortunate River


The name is recorded in Anglo-Saxon times as Humbre, and was formerly known as Abus, from the Latin abdo. to cover with shadows, conjuring an image of the dark river, from the tidal churn. Humbre, Umbri, umbro. Some prefer a native root, humbr-, one of the many words which mean river, or moving water – *ambri-, meaning channel, river, makes sense in proto-Celtic, like the common Avon, Britthonic *abona, the river, which could become *Su-umbro, good river, where *su-, good, has the same meaning as the Welsh *hy-, as in the mythic isles of the west, Hy-brasil – in my mythology the isle is an array of wind turbines on the sea horizon, the turning blades glinting in the sun.


SPURN HEAD, SPIKE POINT


m reachin oot mm– m inder ite mm–
m headin sooth mm– m widdar storm mm–
m an bit an bit mm– furr th marram mm–
m id awlready be mm– gawn mm– gawn mm– gawn...

Spurn Head is the spit of land that guards the mouth of the Humber. Here a medieval fishing village, Ravenser Odd, was lost to the depredation of the sea. Formed from shingle and sand, continually washed from seaward to landward, the entire spit reforms over time. The promontory is known as Spurn Head Spit, or Spurn Point, from spurn, ModE, spur, projecting piece of land. In my blues the dialect includes Inder, Yorkshire, in the. Flite, Northumbrian, fall lightly, showers. Marram is the well-known sharp-edged grass of the dunes, sometimes known as bents. This poem is from minnmouth.

Spurn Point, Guy Moreton 2017, c-print, 132 x 105 cm
 
The sea is, once again, a theme for our time. Our relationship to the coast is changing. Minnmouth bodes the inshot and ootshot tide: sea rise, coastal inundation, and the promise of marine renewables.

The poems are anchored by place-names; they are composed in and impelled by the regional languages of the East Coast of the British Isles, from the Out Stack of Unst to Great Yarmouth, including Orkney and Shetland Norn c.1800, recorded in the dictionaries of Jakobsen, Marwick, Stout Angus, and Graham, the poetry of Robert Alan Jamieson, and, traveling down the coast, Dictionar o the Scots Leid (Dictionary of the Scottish Language), and records of English regional languages, including Forby’s The Vocabulary of East Anglia, and Bill Griffiths’ anthology Fishing and Folk.




As well as a book of speculative language research, minnmouth is accompanied by tidesongs, a composition for multi-layered voice and vocal processing, composed and performed by Hanna Tuulikki and Lucy Duncombe, from elements of words and phrases derived from poems. The piece carries the listener from mouth to sea and back again. It can be listened to and purchased here. Listening through headphones or quality speakers is recommended.

The book and audio are an integrated piece; the book is available, priced £5, from Studio Alec Finlay, and the audio download can be purchased from bandcamp priced £4.

The artworks are being exhibited in 'Somewhere Becoming Sea', a Film and Video Umbrella curated exhibition in Hull, April-June 2017; and at 'FLOERS', a joint exhibition by Alec Finlay and Hannah Imlach at North Light Arts, Dunbar, June 2017.

 

‘People say a poem must be understandable. Like a sign on the street, which carries the clear and simple words “For Sale.” But a street sign is not exactly a poem. Though it is understandable. On the other hand, what about spells and incantations, what we call magic words, the sacred language of paganism, words like “shagadam, magadam, vigadam, pitz, patz, patzu"– they are rows of mere syllables that the intellect can make no sense of, and they form a kind of beyonsense language in folk speech. Nevertheless an enormous power over mankind is attributed to these incomprehensible words and magic spells, and direct in uence upon the fate of man.’

– Velimir Khlebnikov, tr. Paul Schmidt, ‘On Poetry’ (1919)

‘The poet’s justification is the richness of his vocabulary.’

Sadok sudei II, A Trap for Judges II, Russian Futurist manifesto , 1913, D. Buriuk,
E. Gure, N. Buriuk, V. Majakovskii, E. Nizon, V. Khlebnikov, B. Livchits, A. Kruchenykh


Russian Futurist or willbeist poets referred to themselves as wordmakers. I propose wavewright and windwright for designers of energy devices, and speechwright, for makars who follow the precepts of tidalpoetics. Minnmouth riffs on willbeist poetics, especially the inspired speechwright Velimir Khlebnikov, who grew up by the Caspian Sea among the Kalmyk people, ‘Mongol nomads of a Buddhist faith’, and of whom Shklovsky said: ‘his entire being pulsated with the future’. Vladmimir Markov explains that ‘the sounds of foreign tongues’ marked Khlebnikov’s zaum poetry, with its use of neologisms, dialect, and ancient languages, lending it ears for sound over sense.

The book includes three introductory poems that pay homage to the willbeists, including this riff on Khlebnikov’s famous zaum poem.


WAVECANTERIN (AFTER VELIMIR KHLEBNIKOV)

aye yu wavewrights, waveit furth
aye yu wavewrights, waveit rth
   wavo! wavo!
yuwho waveit inanoot
waveit oan wavily
waveit up rewavily
waveso th wavy wavily
ootwaves th wavethons
   wavo! wavo!
waviness o thwavin wavies
antiwave th waveairts
   wavo! wavo!
biwave, rewave, wavies, wavies,
   wavies, wavies
      ntidesangs



 These are followed by the minnmouth poems, which are composed in a phonetic synthesis of contemporary speech. Even though the vocabulary is sometimes archaic it agrees with Tom Leonard’s determination to ‘challenge that fixity of word by site-specifying it in the mouth of a particular speaker...’.

The poet and folklorist Peter Buchan denied there was any such thing as ‘the fisher tongue’: there are, or were, as many linguistic variations as fishing villages. Speech need not be a formula to make a gang of people, and some of the richest languages have no state. In an interesting sense this project rebalances my work supportive of Scottish independence, for, ultimately, my politics are those of innovative localism.


Minnmouth seeks a potential vocabulary that exceeds conventional orthography, and which could, speculatively, evolve into a locally-aligned resource aligned with offshore technology.

Design is metaphorically engaged with the sea in marine devices such as The Oyster – seen here in the process of installation for tests at Billia Croo, in a photograph by Alistair Peebles from  2009 – and Pelamis’ Sea Snake. This new book follows on from Ebban an Flowan, which includes photographic documentation of devices being tested on, or off, Orkney.

The folk-myth, common to the Northern and Western Isles, of how the tidestream originates in a quern that grinds all the salt in the sea, offers a foundation myth for marine turbines. Energy landscapes like Orkney and Scoraig are sites of power that exemplify localism in a way the Brent Oil Field arguably does not.

Their local wavewrights and windwrights are an island avant-garde in their approach to design – Scoraig may be attached to the mainland but the journey there by boat makes it an honorary isle. Annabel Pinker characterises the design philosophy of Hugh Piggott, which de nes life on Scoraig, as ‘deliberately working with materials that aren’t already adapted to one another, nding ways to build relations between them – to make them commensurable. The frictions between the parts is – partly – what makes the technology so vibrant and alive’. Pinker and Piggott could be speaking of the poetics this project aspires to. As isolated as these places may seem their influence is international, remote only to The Palace of Westminster.

The third volume in this ongoing engagement with language, coastal culture, and renewable energy will be titled Broken Flowers, and appear this Autumn. It explores the Western Isles, which are about to become an extractive site for devices developed on Orkney. The tensions between the renewable energy industry and the creative localist approach of a figure like Piggott will be wrestled with in that book.


As Vahni Capildeo says, there are still people who think they have no accent: their speech has a hold on power, but it lacks energy. The sequence of detached sentences that minnmouth contains is my way to propose a fluxus, from poetic devices to energy devices, sketching a history, part-lost, part-imagined, whose roots are bedded in the experimental analysis of wind by EW Golding, at Costa Head, Orkney, in the early 1950s, and which stretches forward to today’s wavewrights working at Billia Croo and Fall of Warness, Orkney, and Bluemull Sound, Shetland.

My fictional movement, Tidalpoetry, dreams of an alliance of wavewrights and speechwrights, energy devices and poetic devices, to create comradely inter-disciplinary spaces for energised speech production, to apply poetics to problems of design (and vice-versa), to counter petrolio, and forge a post-carbon culture – or, at least, devise a poetics for a drowned world. There follow some of the sentences that were left behind by the tide.

 
‘…his tidalpoetry was a blend of Roman Jakobson and Jákup Jakobsen
(Davy Polmadie)

non-standard speech is technically innovative

dialect is the order of words as much it is their orthography

dialect’s drift / song’s fetch

Schwitters was the Magellan of TidalPoetry

writing in dialect is a way to bathe – most poetry prefers to lounge by the pool

some may speak of dialects, dictionaries, and the renewability of the auld leid, but really we’re still struggling in the dinghy of the lyric trying to unclip our lifebelts

with typography the problem is always: how do you get the waves in?
with handwriting the problem is: how to keep the waves out?

a placename is a sequence of sound – wave-crest-trough


This is the opening sequence of poems in the book, exploring minn, Scots, minni, Shetlandic, the mouth, a child’s word. Mynnye, Old Scots, moy, Yorkshire, mother, a child’s instinctive utterance; also bay or inlet, sound or strait. This confluence of meanings was the root for the book.

BANNA MINN   TETHER MOUTH


Burra teddirt by ða sandy rib )
puckerin ða lip skoarnin ða bod

soondsa mooth nammas ða childers
murmurashen needfu r mynnye


Burra, tethered by a sandy tombolo, puckering the lip, (scornfully) imitating the waves – sound is a mouth, and amma is the children’s discontented murmuring, needful for their mum, minn


SCORE MINNI   MOTHER SOUND


soondsa scar / markéd i / ða sea- / boddam

ða brimtuds øddin ða mooth   fuwi sounds
faain       laumin       swinklin       baetin
apo ða chord                                 oða aert


sounds is a scar marked in the sea bottom – the bay of tidal breakers is the mouth, as it lls with sounds, falling, owing, splashing, beating, on the chord of the earth


BLUEMULL SOUND   BLUEMOU SOUND


staundin alane bi ða desolat sund
did yi glint ða bloofyns tirlin?

has du tocht backlins
frae ða shoormil   tae ða moder-dye
recantin o dir saatie querns origin?


standing alone by the desolate sound, did you glimpse the blue ns turning? have you thought back from the shoreline to the mother-wave, returning in your mind to the origin of the salt quern?


MINSMERE   MOUTHAVEN

Lida                                    shippn out suffn deep in th blue O

Hredmonath                     or havn maw offa bowl a suffn tidal


(July) shipping out something deep in the blue O [the sweep of the sea’s horizon]. (March) or having more of a bowl of something tidal [the safety of harbour]. 





Minnmouth was commissioned for Hull UK City of Culture 2017 and North Light Arts, Dunbar

The book was designed by StudioLR with Alec Finlay

I would like to thank to Harry Giles, Katrina Porteous, Ian Duhig, Peter Trudgill, Alistair Peebles, Leonie Dunlop, William Patterson, Laura Watts, and Ken Cockburn for their guidance in terms of Orkney Norn, Scots, Northumbrian, Yorkshire, East Anglian, and Danish words and names. Harry Giles’ Orcadian version of Rimbaud’s ‘ Vouels’ was commissioned for this project. Thanks to Golden Handcuffs review for publishing some of the poems. Thanks also to Hanna Tuulikki and Lucy Duncombe, Pete Smith, Amy Porteous, Jenna Corcoran, Annabel Pinker, Caroline Wickham-Jones, Kat Jones, Vahni Capildeo, Peacock Visual Arts, Lucy Gray, Dave King, and StudioLR; and to Steven Bode, Hull UK
City of Culture 2017, Susie Goodwin North Light Arts (Dunbar), and Creative Scotland for supporting the project.

Minnmouth is a companion to Ebban an’ Flowan, a book made in collaboration with Laura Watts and Alistair Peebles, published in 2015, available for £10 from Studio Alec Finlay.