What Place for Poetry in Politics? (+ ‘In Memory Of Doctor Angus Calder’ a new poem by George Gunn)
Angus Calder arrested at Faslane, 2003
Photo: (c) Kevin Williamson
This Saturday afternoon, as part of The Festival of Politics, Aonghas MacNeicail, Janet Paisley and regular Bella columnist George Gunn – three highly regarded writers, poets, playwrights and broadcasters – discuss political poetry and its relevance today. Does poetry have a place in contemporary political dialogue? Political song has moved nations and political poems can carry a message worldwide. But does it matter and to what effect? The session will be chaired by Jean Urquhart MSP. This fascinating event takes place in Committee Room 3 of the Scottish parliament, 3.30-4.30pm. Its FREE!
IN MEMORY OF DOCTOR ANGUS CALDER
by George Gunn
I remember when we climbed Ben Gulabin
to put a great soul to rest
& unfurled a banner there
to mark our chief & praise our best
& most loved co-joiner
Gramsci’s face high up in Glenshee
an eagle flew from a craig then
to set Hamish Henderson free
*
at this moment all I see was known to you
your taste was simple
you loved everything
in Orkney the wind is gentle
a grey Summers day is pulling
itself from island to island
turning the hoddan colour of its pulse to blue
you remember this so I can understand
*
when the simple war of catastrophe ended
you looked at what was left of the world
of who could not stop & who could not kill
four black Shetland ponies unbridled & wild
gallop across a green hill
you never claimed a great peace had been born
or that freedom had been truly defended
you wrote the truth & bore the scorn
*
the skull hollow buildings along Europe’s coast
stare out in disbelief & wonder
& the sea-traffic of memory
is both aid-relief & plunder
& of itself what else can it be
now that memory approaches & fades
gaining in intensity what it has lost
in the private grief of public cheering crowds
*
it fades but still stubbornly remains
in the pages of the notebooks that you kept
when you believed in something
a thing so beautiful that it wept
to find itself fading
the Churchill barriers guard nothing anymore
the block-ships rust stains
the seal claimed Scapa shore
*
a flock of white birds like the souls of the dead
fly over the stone memory of the lives lost
for those who grab & those who release
the useless victory which is the cost
of this present age which knows no peace
only the power of money & its corruption
there was nothing false in anything you said
you were the true hearts welcoming son
*
you saw all this in the brown smoggy mess
of the autumnal nineteen fifties
when tired men turned to the light
to fashion the future out of memories
but memories are far too slight
& about them the future will not care
my love she moves through Deerness
seven red stirks follow her
*
“What’s water but the generated soul”
suggested Yeats to his young republic
likewise we move from fear to the oil field
to reassure where the British state sews panic
so will Scotland force or England yield
who is it that eats Time’s cherries by Waulmkmill Bay
to watch our culture climb into a hole
to neither champion freedom or sing of liberty
*
at Hakon’s round kirk in Orphir
where bulk tankers sit & humans sleep
they will burn the flame of the sagas out
with no examination very long or deep
integrity is a cartoon & art in a pout
the silicon delirium of the age
emptied of fire & topped up with torpor
the blood of nothing on the page
*
no use to you Doctor Angus Calder
your delirium at least was sincere
a skein of geese flying into the Sun
how ever did our country get to here
where the robbing banksters need no gun
to fleece the people out of their estate
where is the social retribution dear professor
where is the love to heal the hate
*
who will read the rhythm of the world in the waves
or taste it & hammer it out so Scotland is free
of history & compromises & bribes
this Northern sea will place our poetry
in the ashen mouths of the coming tribes
we will watch it wither salt-dry & die
all the dead poets rise up from their graves
& the sea will hear their cry
*
I remember when we went to Sanday
an island full of light
the June chorus of the birds
put all our anxieties to flight
Angus it was a chorus of words
that no ignorance can stop or start
all that you knew & felt & loved was in that day
for you carried Scotland in your heart
*
Doctor Angus Calder away!
I call you away
I would say this, but poetry has a place in everything, and politics is nae differ. It serves to distill, to encapsulate, and to transcend everyday boundaries between the public and the personal. It doesn’t replace or offer an alternative to serious political commentary, but is a powerful complement to it. “Rule Britannia” for example didn’t create the British Empire, but the crowds belting it out in the Royal Albert Hall every year at that “concert” (not to mention those in certain football stadia) evidence its power. Some beautiful pictures in George’s poem here will stay with me, and if they don’t I’ll come back to them. Thanks very much.
Saturday promises to be an interesting debate given the way poets have helped shaped Scotland, Scottish politics and Scottish identity over last few centuries. It could be argued that Robert Burns and Hugh MacDiarmid did more than any two individuals to defend, reinvigorate or even forge a unique cultural identity. Language is always the foundation of any culture. Poets in Scotland have always been way ahead of the political curve. The political elites play catchup. But who are the young Scottish poets of today with the flame of radicalism burning bright in both bellies and verse? I know a few but feel free to point us in their direction.
KW
Street poetry is alive and well in Dundee.
Check out Gary Robertson. 😉
Brilliant! Ate them aw.
It’s all good, good, good, and what a great image of Calder, grinning between the cops.
Here’s one I did a while ago after doing a few ‘Creative Writing’ sessions with a group in Airdrie called Men With Pens –
Would memory be lost, nae history kent?
Wur lifes a huff an’ puff ay effort spent?
Nae trace remainin for the bairns tae scan
When comes their time tae take or be a man?
Aye, mibbe, but for men wi’ pens.
The landed, tyrants, monied,
Aye hoarded monks and scribes,
Cried them shamen, blessed magic-makers
When they were just some men wi’ pens.
But whit a power in thae words for sure,
Tae bind a man tae wife, or work, for life.
Tae make him laugh, or dream anither’s view,
Tae conjure hell or heaven at a stroke.
Such power had thae men wi’ pens.
Noo, yon secret sacred art has spread aw ower,
An thae wee squiggles maun gie up their power
Tae uncles, papas, sons an brithers,
Grannies, sisters, aunties, aw the ithers.
Aye. Noo we’re aw the men wi’ pens.
An whit a power we hae noo,
Tae tell wur tales of dreams fulfilled and dashed,
An love,
Ay strangeness, friendship, aw the things we see,
The folk we were, the folk we tried tae be.
Mere memories aye melt, like mist,
Breathe in, breathe out,
Forever lost and gone.
But thae wee squiggles outlast us,
On paper, or on stone, so –
Bide lang.
Bide lang, wur scratches oan the walls ay Time,
These marks we make,
Us men wi’ pens.