Modren Makars: Yin...

A Review by Jim C Mackintosh

Modren Makars: Yin
Irene Howat, Ann McKinnon, Finola Scott
Tapsalteerie (2022)

Whit If? Scotland’s History as it Micht Hiv Bin
Hugh McMillan
Luath Press (2022)

WTF is normal anyway?
Jo Gilbert
Seahorse Publications (2022)

A Plain Glass
Harry Smart
Drunk Muse Press (2022)

Clarity: there is a scientifically proven point in January when you’ve just about managed to find the back of the Christmas chocolate stash and to lose the cheese mountain you have surrendered to the inevitable period of eating toasted cheese every day for the next six weeks. This is not cheddar cheese on toast. This is the random grilling of the mega- platter you needed for the twenty folk you thought were visiting over the festive fortnight. This is toasted manchego on a Mother’s Pride heel. It’s a thing; but what has this in any way to do with a review of poetry books? Well, two points – I like chocolate, I like cheese - both regularly fuel my writing and more relevantly for this article, the reading of poetry. In fairness and for full disclosure, I also like wine and this has been forever my leaning post for reading fresh poetry. So when the dull thud of a Northwords Now selection box landed on the hall floor I knew its contents would be anything but dull, but also knew I would find by the end of the adventure I wasn’t disappointed. I headed for the Thinking Shed armed with grilled roquefort on Warburton thins, a supply of wine and the four treats listed above.

Familiarity: I must confess to being an old pal of Hugh McMillan’s and central to that, a lover of his poetry, but I did try to read this latest offering with an open mind and a sharp pencil. To understand the premise of the book and its theme of Whit if? it helps if you imagine yourself in the pub with three or four pals and someone asks ‘Whit if? ‘. Personally, I imagined this to be the Galloway Arms in Wigtown and being one of the pals.

The ‘Whit If ’s’ for which the answers become more and more ridiculous yet bizarrely remain worryingly relevant. From that first puzzlement is the birth of a series of questions which are in themselves nonsense and the answers even more so. Or are they? That’s the joy of these poems. There is a basis of fact, albeit tenuous, to the poems, but they do have a habit of making you reason with yourself: ‘here, that’s a fair point, what if?’ and that’s it, you’re hooked.You need to and will read them all and I have no doubt have further ‘Whit if ’s?’ as a result.

The poetic puzzle of Whit if Alexander III haed Twitter has jangled with my reasoning since I first read it and even yet seek the detail of ‘Yolande’s pairty’ – aiblins the supplementary as yet unwritten poem is ‘Whit if The Sun wis a paparazzi rag even in they days?’.

And in the poem ‘Whit if whan the tectonic plates shiftit’ Hugh ponders of ‘Nae reformation. Nae Global Warmin’. Now there’s a whole day next to the fire on The Galloway Arms to answer that one.

It’s not really a criticism as such, but you do need to know a little about the subjects and characters underpinning the ‘Whit If?’poem titles to truly appreciate the depth of the poem itself. Personally, I’m okay with that, as it forced me to research, explore and refresh my memory on some of the subjects.

Yes, there is more than an air of fun in the concept but to file this book under ‘whimsy’ or ‘nonsense’ would be to completely miss the careful craft and considered structure that is so emblematic of Hugh’s poetry and which makes Whit If? Scotland’s History as it Micht Hiv Bin worthy of your attention and yer bawbees.

Brevity: my English teacher, the negative one of my dark 3rd Year and the one before the epiphanic one of my enlightening 4th year who would become my word dealer, an under- the- desk supplier of Heaney, MacCaig and Neruda with the occasional fix of Henderson, not the 3rd year doom- merchant who once told me my poetry’s brevity more than made up for its lack of quality. This youthful discouragement, reinforced later in life by the salutary tale of Hugh MacDiarmid sincerely informing Seamus Heaney his poems were not just short but very short, has left me with an irrational suspicion of ‘short’ poems.

I had no such need to be nervous when I read some of Jo Gilbert’s shorter poems in WTF is normal anyway? They are gems. The collection is stitched seamlessly together with a weave of short poetic answers to the question of ‘what is normal?’ Although they’re Jo’s answers, I’m sure you will recognise them unravelling in your own recollections of getting on with life. I certainly did, and her shorter poems are not, unlike those of my plooky youth, lacking quality in their brevity. The poems such as ‘If nithin changes, nithin changes’ with its tightly bound ending: A few less freens, lookin a bittie mare deid, agin yer een.’ and ‘In a side room, off the ward’ with its all too familiar reminder to us all of our vulnerability, bind the reader willingly to her anchored soul.

But to give the impression that all of Jo’s collection is a bundle of very short poems would be mistaken. It is not. It is, however, a powerful weave of recollections from Jo’s perspective through creative eyes of the problems, secrets, wrongs and flaws to which we can pretty much all relate. The thing is – she does it well, with searing honesty and just enough humour to make you feel it’s okay to laugh, or as your Granny would say – if we divna laugh wid be sair greetin, until, as Jo claims ‘silence waits, tone noticed’.

I first became aware of Jo’s poetry three years ago and was chuffed when she contributed a poem to the George Mackay Brown anthology Beyond The Swelkie which I was co-editing. And I was even more chuffed when I learned of her first collection ‘WTF is normal anyway’ which would allow more folk to share my love of her work. It was heartwarming to find she’d remained true to her roots and published her poetry in the Doric. Its lyrical beauty sings off the page and ay, ah divna ken aa the wordies, but it’s okay tae hae a puckle chuckies in yer language shoes. They divna stoap yer unnerstaunin or the lichtsome joy waftin aff the page. An onyweys, WTF is normal?

And coincidentally, my first dip into Harry Smart’s A Plain Glass was the ‘short’ poem The Day of the Armistice. Its three stanzas of solid energy could easily be mistaken for the brief synopsis of a stage play or TV drama, such is the powerful economy and rich depth of vision in their words. Yet they deliberately leave enough space for the reader to search for their own outcomes in ending - love and hate, father, the weight of both at the same time.

Intensity: Beyond the intensity of imagery, Harry generates an enviable pace in his verse, great focus, great energy and a decisiveness in its delivery that comes with the hard-walked miles of someone like himself, whose experiences have determined his route in life. His poetry maps it out in exquisite detail. His poem Ma Mere l’Oye (Mother Goose) has had me in tears too many times with its weave of loss and loved ones fading by painful measures every day. For me it’s Bach; for Harry it’s Ravel, yet the final movement, the grace of things forgotten and ultimately the moment the gentle brass comes in like bells are snapshots of precious memory we all must hold close. Harry Smart - a fine poet you must seek out - perhaps tells this better than most.

Parity: I have already confessed my love of chocolate and the odd selection box of favourites that even in my crumbling years still make me smile at Christmas. Tapsalteerie’s Modren Makars – Yin is a welcome box of variety but contains much more than expected favourites.

Importantly, I must praise the collection’s editor, Christie Williamson, for considerately drawing these voices together. At first glance, it’s three poets writing in the Scots language, a word- choir dear to my heart. One would be forgiven for fearing it would perhaps stumble, lose its rhythm and sink under the weight of three fine poets separately pulling at the reins. This is not the case. From the opening stanza of Ann MacKinnon’s poem Occitania

It wis kent as the signal or senbol
an ye wir haunded it if ye hid
the impedence tae spake Occitan.
to the last stanza in the book, of Irene
Howat’s poem Tam’s Waur
Whan aa wis din
the meenister raxed up his airms
ower the yin whase king
hud nocht for him tae dae
an lippened Tam for aye
tae his Maister.

one finds this is a carefully selected box of poems, all wonderfully demonstrating the depth and beauty of our Scots language with all of its unique and distinctive dialects. There is a comforting yet refreshing balance between the different voices and the unique elements of each poet’s appreciation of the language comfortably occupy the same space – yin book wi three modren makars. Ann McKinnon with poetic ease captures the reader by understanding rightness in her words is far more important than correctness. Her poem Brexit nails this:

hoo muckle larger will oor hoose
haud oot agin the howlin stand aff
thon unco heckle blawin in oor face.’

Irene Howat, with no fuss, takes the reader with a lyrical flair infused with Ayrshire air on a journey gently inhabited by family and life experience which makes the reader willingly embrace her words with warmth. Her poem The Clootie Rug captures all of this perfectly.

And sitting easily in the middle of the book is Finola Scott, who I must confess to knowing forever. She continues to delight in her work with a seemingly unending love for her surroundings. Yet she is never afraid to poke the world with a sharp pencil when championing the causes close to her heart, especially ones we should all take time to defend. I was drawn to so many, but Scottish Horse Squadron eloquently weaves the sorry plight of our equine heroes in war with the struggle for women’s rights – ‘thon pair blinkered sauls sweat an tremmle unner men lik oor country’s wimmen’ and her poems ‘Faithfu Unner Tyranny’ and ‘Fanatics’ whaur the angels may luve sic peeity but it wisnae and remains no eneuch.

Finola can always hand me a banner to hold up to the world and I’ll always take pride in accepting it, although having reached the end of this Northwards Now selection box, we need a bigger banner. One big enough to loudly declare ‘Poetry in Scotland is alive and well in the hands of Hugh McMillan, Jo Gilbert, Harry Smart, Ann McKinnon, Finola Scott & Irene Howat’.