Mr MacCaig Came To Stirling

When I was the Scottish Arts Council writer-in-residence in Stirling, I invited Norman MacCaig to do a reading at the town's Central Library. The event was a great success and I later wrote a poem about it.

Here is his letter of acceptance (stressing that he hates being photographed):

 

And here's my poem about the reading (January 1991) and our journey back to Edinburgh:

 

 

Mr MacCaig Came To Stirling 

 

I was the would-be entrepreneur; he

without doubt, the star. Unfolding, he smoked

below my big No Smoking sign. Then

dragging a leg, he faced his crowd. A joke

 

as dry as finest malt, then Mr MacCaig

was away, off through a world of short walks

that ended with long conclusions; then sheep

and stone; mortality; and trains. He talked

 

a complete hour, with measured words,

quick gleams and perfect pauses. In his streets

and hills, we saw with his eyes, knew Scotland

and eternity. He even stood to treat

 

us all with Hints About His Writing.

How long did he take to make a poem?

He answered well, but didn't tell. Some folk

called him Norman, as though they were at home

 

with an uncle or old pal. And the stags

stood quiet by the birch wood, while the white horse

bared its teeth at the wind. Later, I sped

through the night with Mr MacCaig. The view

 

from the train was ourselves: me, and his long head

smoking and talking, through Larbert, Falkirk,

Linlithgow. Until he started to sing

to me, as though he'd know me forever -

 

but Norman could sing for almost anyone.

The train rolled on; it slid into our station.

Shutters were shut; the clock's hands close to midnight;

but frosted pavements shone like constellations.

 

   

Published in WILL I EVER GET TO MINSK? (HappenStance, 2012),

THE SCOTSMAN (1999),   

THE HERALD (1997).

First Prize in the UK section of the Scottish International Poetry

Competition (1996).

 

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