David C Purdie writes in both English and Scots and has been widely published over the years.
The Biggers was his first collection of poetry.
His experience of life as a joiner, an insurance agent, Kevock Choir member, family man
and proud grandparent, inform his work. He has an unerring eye for spotting the potential
for a poem in the ordinary and the extraordinary, tackling subjects as diverse as the building
trade, war, Midlothian and the streets of Auld Reekie.
A wry sense of humour is evident in many of his pieces. Anyone who has worked under
instruction from a journeyman will immediately recognise Big Dod in Levelling Joists,
a fine example of the poet’s pen portraits.
His images spring from many sources. The Daith Tree – with its arresting opening line,
Jesus wis a jyner – lang, lang syne, is one of the most powerful and has been read from
quite a few pulpits. For all those who love poetry, here is a selection from a fine makar.
A highly accomplished collection with hopefully more to follow.
Lydia Robb
The Godothin, with David reading extracts, featured on the Radio 3 programme 'In Search of
the Gododdin', introduced by Gwyneth Lewis, on 10 January 2010.
A major poetic achievement and a work of national importance - Donald Adamson, Markings
Sample poem from The Biggers:
The Daith–Tree
(For Pam Aitken)
Jesus wis a jyner – lang lang syne,
In Joseph's shap, in Nazareth,
The laddie ser'd his time.
He wrocht the bonny cedarwuid, the gopherwuid, the beech,
Wis skeily wi the cheisels, wis hantie wi the eetch,
Coud fettle plous or cairt wheels, coud kirn, coud scrunt, coud snig
Cuid scutch wi the Rob Sorby, snod an squerr an trig
His faither learnt the laddie tae kerve a bonnie yock,
Tae big braw rambust raughters an no lea onie brock.
Tae ken the weys o timmer, its navis-bores its awte:
Tae kep it happ't an caller tae stey oot daise an rot.
He learnt tae dunt the stobs hame, intil aik or esh or yew;
Tae mak a stuffie fixin, strecht an strang an true.
His wrists wis slee an soupil, his airms wis sture an teuch,
His shoothers braid an canty, his hauns wis gleg bit reuch,
Wi Simon an wi Andra He fushed on Galilee,
He kent whit wey the skiff wis colfed tae cowdle on the sea.
An whan He timmed the tables owre, tae skail the nipscarts' gelt,
He kent whit wey the jints wis duin an hou the buirds wis stell't.
Sae whan He humphed His daith-tree, He kent its wecht an lenth,
Coud cairry it fell aisy gin He'd ainly hid his strenth.
An whan they drave the stobs in, He kent hoo mony dings,
Wad dunch them throu the shackle-banes, hou mony hemmer swings.
They liftit up the daith-tree, He kent its awte, its spails,
Its rouchness doun His back-bane, the bluidie skaithin nails.
The lee lang day He hung there, stechin for His braith;
His bluid weezed oot the stob stangs: fell slaw an sair cam daith.
Jesus wis sair rackit on the ruid lang syne,
The bluid weezed doon the daith-tree,
Like roset dreeps doon pine.
Please note that The Biggers is now out of print.