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
