McGarrigle's Glasgow.

    Since posting The Clutha And John McGarrigle I have been touched by the number and content of the comments and emails I have received, below is the latest.

    I found your blog today as I was looking up John McGarrigle. I heard about his death first thing this morning - was the first thing on my radio. I'm a poet too and was struck by his death, so looked him up, and discovered that he was also working class like me. I was struck even more, and wanted to write few lines to commemorate him and his poetry (I've included some references to his work).

    I don't know whether his family would like to see it, but from your blog I note that you knew him. If you think it would be a good idea to show them this, please do. I've attached it and put it below too.

Take care

Laura Taylor

McGarrigle’s Glasgow

One of the scribes was taken tonight.

One of the seers, one of our own.

One of the prophets will write no more lines

in radical rhymes

nor preach them to people like us.

He struggled against his emptying days,

though yearned for contentment and calm.

Thought he had lost that angry young man,

but McGarrigle – words never die;

they’re beyond a stillness of pulse.

You spoke of a Glasgow unknown to the rich,

of the Cross, of a town built on sweat.

In the Clutha, the Scotia, the folk and the verse -

dance of the underdog, lies of the land –

were given a life in tune to your truth.

Tonight in a town made of working-class gold,

in the midst of McGarrigle’s Glasgow -

the artists and players, singers and sculptors,

poets and prophets and pipers and drummers

remember the heat of your heart;

raise their glass to the fire within.

May your flame spark gently in unsurpassed sunset tonight.

Laura Taylor.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

A Poem In Memory-----

     After posting the article "The Clutha And John McGarrigle" I have received several comments and email, I particularly liked this email and have re-posted it with the sender's permission, she wishes to remain anonymous.

In Memory of John McGarrigle

On his barstool throne he sat content, the southside poet of the Vaults

And on that homely spot he supped his last, amongst the wit and Glesga patter

Amidst familiar words, wae well kent characters an' aw their thoughts

And there was no Waltzing Matilda, just the grit and grime of aw life’s matter

In our first, in our in-between, and our very last beating moments of the heart

Some things can only be measured in spirit and soul

Human warmth, kinship, music, love…………a last dance before we part

Kind words, a helping hand, a prayer, a smile, a story told..........

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

The Clutha And John McGarrigle.

       By now everybody will have heard the tragic news of the police helicopter crashing onto the roof of the Clutha pub in Glasgow. All our thoughts, for some considerable time, will stay with all those friends and relatives of the injured and the dead. The Clutha along with the Scotia, just across the road, were much more than places for a drink, together they formed an institution, an oasis of poetry, music, debate, banter and laughter. Those who visited either of them once, usually became life members of both, you could slip seamlessly from one to the other, perhaps even several times in a night. I was a great fan of the Scotia poetry nights, and it was there that I met John McGarrigle. John didn't have an easy life, but he lived it with energy. I always thought that in his poetry, he could capture the full spectrum of human emotions, he could come up with the witty, ridiculously funny, stupidly funny and the profoundly moving. Sadly he will write no more, as John was one of those who died in that dreadful event. 

Old Young Man.

Unemployment. Rising prices

Never bothered me before

Now, struggling for subsistance

I slowly realised my wasted years

steeped in ignorance

The brashness of youth has gone

Leaving behind an emptiness

not easy to define

Old before my time

I yearn for contentment

Where has the young lad gone

That angry young man

That shook his fist in careless anger

At any unfair society?

Shall we ever see him again

Write Nice Things.

last night

as I sat by my typewriter

a junkie 

climbed in my window,

I was writing a poem

a very interesting little poem

about a flower that I'd seen

that day,

the junkie battered my wife

stole all of our money

and when he left

took with him

my television set

and my hi fi unit,

this unfortunate little incident

rather disturbed me

it really put me off writing

my little poem

about the birds and bees

and the flower that I'd seen

so, I wrote about the wind and the trees

instead

Two of John's poems from his little book, Glasgow's McGarrigle. Fat Cat Publications, ISBN 187 1009 014

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

Pipe Dreams.

      Today we are back in Glasgow for our poem, it's from a wee book called Glasgow's McGarrigle, ISBN 1871009014 by Fat Cat Publications. It is the work of one of Glasgow poets of the 80's, John McGarrigle, the introduction to the book by Dominic Behan, states;

    "---McGarrigle's work is filled with anger and bitterness. It is bitter without being brittle and angry without self destroying angst. It is conceived in his soul, compressed in his wit and dedicated to what Mayakovsky thought the greatest cause in the world, "The liberation of mankind". He doesn't know about envy or despair but he does know what he has been denied a share of. John McGarrigle's mind lives on hope for the future, love for his fellows and the certain unshakable knowledge that its all gotta change. That's what makes him a great poet."

Pipe Dreams.

another burst pipe

another broken window

sometimes I think I'll scream

but usually end up

lost in a dream

of living in a nice house

somewhere

quiet and serene

away from the squalor

that I'm living in

but, I'd probably

end up lonely

for my friends and family

and end up

back in Castlemilk

dreaming of a nice house

somewhere

quiet and serene.

ann arky's home.