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I Burn, But I Am Not ConsumedKarine Powlart15 January 2018 |
Karine Polwart
On January 21, 2017 the Scottish singer/songrwiter Karine Polwart had something to say about the events that had taken place the day before in Washington, DC. In a song she composed specifically for the opening night of the 2017 Celtic Connections concert at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, Polwart, backed by the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra, delivered a moving musical commentary about the man with Scottish ancestry who had just become the 45th President of the United States. It was not complimentary.
Inauguration Day — January 20, 2017
As we lurch toward the 365th chaotic day that Scotland's “son of Lewis” has been in office, it seems like the perfect time to share “I Burn, But I am Not Consumed” by Karine Polwart. The song, another contender for my Best of 2017 compilation, is a poetic and dramatic cultural observation — which also makes it an excellent choice for the Happy Medium Song of the Day. Since Karine has a wee bit of a Scottish brogue that can be difficult to understand at times, I’ve included her story and lyrics. (Please use the comments box to share your thoughts.)
Karine Polwart
I Burn, But I Am Not Consumed
On May 11th, 1930, a young woman called Mary Anne MacLeod, from Tong on The Isle of Lewis, stepped aboard the RMS Transylvania from Glasgow to New York City, in search of a better life. There, she met Frederick, whose father had emigrated to America from Germany as a 16 year old boy.
And together, Mary Anne and Frederick raised five children.
Mary Anne’s middle son would return to Scotland years later, the home of his MacLeod ancestors, whose clan motto is: “I burn, but I am not consumed.” And here - in the name of progress and profit - and executive golf - he would pit himself against time and tide, and in his wake, the shifting dunes at Balmedie in Aberdeenshire would never be the same.
The marbled, metamorphic rock of Lewis is two-thirds the age of Earth - amongst the oldest on our planet. It knows about power, and it’s seen a lot. And so I wondered: what might it have to say about the Inauguration - tomorrow in Washington DC - of the 45th President of the United States of America - Mary Anne Macleod's middle son, Donald? And this is what the rock told me.
Oh son of Lewis, lonely boy,
hewn from granite, salt and sky
upon a foreign shore:
the ocean is a mirror gleam
in which you see yourself,
and nothing more.
Three billion years of gravity,
of strata forged in fire and earth,
the stone crib of your mother’s birth,
in which your forebears lie.
I am alive. I am a tomb.
I burn, but I am not consumed.
I burn, but I am not consumed.
Fish may swim at your command
across The Atlantic to the land
of dreams and self belief and boundless chance.
An exile tale. An immigrant dance.
You’re captain of a frigate now,
So set your compass, raise the mast,
Blow up the sails,
Erase the past, and future, if you must.
Together we can stand
and watch the peat-land turn to dust.
This is your apprenticeship:
The Gulf Stream doesn’t know your name,
nor does the splendid, blazing sun
that alters how the currents run.
The North wind never heard you roar:
You’re fired! You’re fired!
My back might burn, the blaze run wild,
but I am not consumed, my child.
The Minch whips up a spindrift storm.
The machair shifts. The machair moans.
From Uig Bay to Luskentyre,
the gale blows fast, the tide flows higher.
The shore erodes and disappears.
And, meantime, you are stoking fears
and stacking hope into a pyre.
You strike a match.
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Your mother was a wee girl once,
who played upon my rocky shore.
And you, you are broken boy,
and you want more and more and more.
You build a tower. You build a wall,
You live in fear that they might fall.
You who see nothing but your own face
in the sheen of The Hudson River.
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
A balancing is yet to come,
although by then you may be gone
and leave a desert to your sons and daughters.
Still, these waters, they will rise,
the North Sea haar will cover your eyes,
despite your appetite for lies.
and your disregard for truth.
Three billion years of gravity,
of strata forged in fire and earth,
the stone crib of your mother’s birth,
in which your forebears lie.
I am alive. I am a tomb.
I burn, but I am not consumed.
I burn, but I am not consumed.
© 2017 Karine Polwart
And together, Mary Anne and Frederick raised five children.
Mary Anne’s middle son would return to Scotland years later, the home of his MacLeod ancestors, whose clan motto is: “I burn, but I am not consumed.” And here - in the name of progress and profit - and executive golf - he would pit himself against time and tide, and in his wake, the shifting dunes at Balmedie in Aberdeenshire would never be the same.
The marbled, metamorphic rock of Lewis is two-thirds the age of Earth - amongst the oldest on our planet. It knows about power, and it’s seen a lot. And so I wondered: what might it have to say about the Inauguration - tomorrow in Washington DC - of the 45th President of the United States of America - Mary Anne Macleod's middle son, Donald? And this is what the rock told me.
Oh son of Lewis, lonely boy,
hewn from granite, salt and sky
upon a foreign shore:
the ocean is a mirror gleam
in which you see yourself,
and nothing more.
Three billion years of gravity,
of strata forged in fire and earth,
the stone crib of your mother’s birth,
in which your forebears lie.
I am alive. I am a tomb.
I burn, but I am not consumed.
I burn, but I am not consumed.
Fish may swim at your command
across The Atlantic to the land
of dreams and self belief and boundless chance.
An exile tale. An immigrant dance.
You’re captain of a frigate now,
So set your compass, raise the mast,
Blow up the sails,
Erase the past, and future, if you must.
Together we can stand
and watch the peat-land turn to dust.
This is your apprenticeship:
The Gulf Stream doesn’t know your name,
nor does the splendid, blazing sun
that alters how the currents run.
The North wind never heard you roar:
You’re fired! You’re fired!
My back might burn, the blaze run wild,
but I am not consumed, my child.
The Minch whips up a spindrift storm.
The machair shifts. The machair moans.
From Uig Bay to Luskentyre,
the gale blows fast, the tide flows higher.
The shore erodes and disappears.
And, meantime, you are stoking fears
and stacking hope into a pyre.
You strike a match.
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Your mother was a wee girl once,
who played upon my rocky shore.
And you, you are broken boy,
and you want more and more and more.
You build a tower. You build a wall,
You live in fear that they might fall.
You who see nothing but your own face
in the sheen of The Hudson River.
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh
A balancing is yet to come,
although by then you may be gone
and leave a desert to your sons and daughters.
Still, these waters, they will rise,
the North Sea haar will cover your eyes,
despite your appetite for lies.
and your disregard for truth.
Three billion years of gravity,
of strata forged in fire and earth,
the stone crib of your mother’s birth,
in which your forebears lie.
I am alive. I am a tomb.
I burn, but I am not consumed.
I burn, but I am not consumed.
© 2017 Karine Polwart
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