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The Many Days: Selected Poems
First published in 2010 to mark the centenary of Norman MacCaig’s birth, The Many Days aims to strike a balance between representing the much-loved poems that any reader would expect to find in a selected MacCaig, and other less familiar verses.
The collection is arranged to show the range of the poet’s work in all its variety, from his love of nature and the landscape of the North West Highlands to his life in Edinburgh; from his care for animals and human friendship, to his moments of joy and grief, creative delight and occasional creative dread. Time and again MacCaig returns us to that good place we know as the world, but hardly ever seen so clearly as we do in these marvellous poems.
The collection is arranged to show the range of the poet’s work in all its variety, from his love of nature and the landscape of the North West Highlands to his life in Edinburgh; from his care for animals and human friendship, to his moments of joy and grief, creative delight and occasional creative dread. Time and again MacCaig returns us to that good place we know as the world, but hardly ever seen so clearly as we do in these marvellous poems.
128 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2010
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About the author
Norman MacCaig
55 books26 followersMacCaig was born in Edinburgh and divided his time, for the rest of his life, between his native city and Assynt in the Scottish Highlands. He registered as a conscientious objector during World War II. In 1967 he was appointed Fellow in Creative Writing at Edinburgh. He became a reader in poetry in 1970, at the University of Stirling.
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Displaying 1 - 21 of 21 reviews
January 24, 2011
I'd not want 2010 to end without remembering Norman MacCaig. This year has seen the centenary of his birth, and many tributes.
I was privileged to be his student for a time, although I am sure it was his misfortune to encounter yet another gushing sentimentalist with virtually no ear for poetry, and no inkling then of what his poetry would come to mean to me when I eventually grew up. Still, I remember his universally noted courtesy to everybody and even then greatly appreciated his acerbic wit.
I was given at Christmas the new selection of his poems, The Many Days edited by Roderick Watson, Emeritus Professor at Stirling now, and a colleague and friend of MacCaig for many years. The book is in nine sections, each titled with the poem that begins it. As Watson notes in his introduction, the poems speak "among themselves, to set up the best kind of creative dialogue, section to section, poem to poem." So much has been written about MacCaig this year, I just have a few words to say about one aspect of three poems from the first section, Ineducable Me.
Although he described himself as a primary school teacher, was a classics scholar, and taught at universities, he had a view of 'education' that was as unadorned and 'simple' as his poems appear to be, as his empty desk and bare walls in his university room, uncluttered. The poem that begins the selection, Ineducable Me has the lines:
I learned words, I learned words; but half of them
died from lack of exercise. And the ones I use
often look at me
with a look that whispers, Liar.
The section beginning with Among Scholars is about his 'real' education with the people and landscape of Assynt and the Highlands. Fitting with his ice-perfect imagery, elegance of language, often astonishing gymnastics of metaphor and meaning is, I feel, a lightness of touch that's delicate because for part of him there are things that have far more gravity, and there's no contradiction here. He sometimes reminds me of Wallace Stevens' return again and again to the impossibility of expressing, holding 'the thing itself' with those very tropes and near metaphysical weavings of language that do reveal an exceptional groundedness, an immanence within the world as it is, each startling and amazing detail unfiltered through ornamentation 'unadded to' - perhaps an ideal rather than a possible task of noticing, yet the poems bring the reader, if only negatively, to consider seeing what is rather than projecting any of the whole gamut of possible cognitive jiggery-pokeries that the human mind is capable of. Humorous it may be, but when he described himself as Zen Calvinist there's a wisp of ludic truth to it.
It isn't only the tension between experience and expression that is evident: there is so often the man peeping through the poet. Many of MacCaig's poems are 'about' identity, frequently through a linkage between place and mind, or obliquely through the imagery of travelling between. However, there is also a certain existential tension too (the phrase reflects my own inadequacy of expression rather than a wish to set him spinning with derision in the place he never believed in). There is the man in Private who (as an analogy to his poetry) is but partly "that comfortable MacCaig whose/ small predictions were predictable." And the total man who may use words instead "in order to say what they mean/when they mean me". Whatever such words would reveal, his friends, his outward relatings, "How they would wish back/ the clean white bandages/ That hid those ugly wounds."
Whatever the wounds may be they occupy the same disturbing opposition as in Journeys where there is the dark knowledge of and attraction to that other place:
There are bad journeys, to a bitter place
I can’t go to – yet, I lean towards it,
tugging to get there, and thank God
I’m clogged with the world. It grips me,
I hold it.
There is a tension between the clear, pure, certain apprehension of immanent 'reality' and the underlying threat of dispersal. Better to be 'clogged' and restricted than to go God knows where. The same idea comes in the poem On the Pier at Kinlochbervie which begins with a typically brilliant MacCaig image then moves towards "My mind is struggling with itself." The poem ends:
I want an extreme of nearness.
I want boundaries on my mind.
I want to feel the world like a straitjacket.
I was privileged to be his student for a time, although I am sure it was his misfortune to encounter yet another gushing sentimentalist with virtually no ear for poetry, and no inkling then of what his poetry would come to mean to me when I eventually grew up. Still, I remember his universally noted courtesy to everybody and even then greatly appreciated his acerbic wit.
I was given at Christmas the new selection of his poems, The Many Days edited by Roderick Watson, Emeritus Professor at Stirling now, and a colleague and friend of MacCaig for many years. The book is in nine sections, each titled with the poem that begins it. As Watson notes in his introduction, the poems speak "among themselves, to set up the best kind of creative dialogue, section to section, poem to poem." So much has been written about MacCaig this year, I just have a few words to say about one aspect of three poems from the first section, Ineducable Me.
Although he described himself as a primary school teacher, was a classics scholar, and taught at universities, he had a view of 'education' that was as unadorned and 'simple' as his poems appear to be, as his empty desk and bare walls in his university room, uncluttered. The poem that begins the selection, Ineducable Me has the lines:
I learned words, I learned words; but half of them
died from lack of exercise. And the ones I use
often look at me
with a look that whispers, Liar.
The section beginning with Among Scholars is about his 'real' education with the people and landscape of Assynt and the Highlands. Fitting with his ice-perfect imagery, elegance of language, often astonishing gymnastics of metaphor and meaning is, I feel, a lightness of touch that's delicate because for part of him there are things that have far more gravity, and there's no contradiction here. He sometimes reminds me of Wallace Stevens' return again and again to the impossibility of expressing, holding 'the thing itself' with those very tropes and near metaphysical weavings of language that do reveal an exceptional groundedness, an immanence within the world as it is, each startling and amazing detail unfiltered through ornamentation 'unadded to' - perhaps an ideal rather than a possible task of noticing, yet the poems bring the reader, if only negatively, to consider seeing what is rather than projecting any of the whole gamut of possible cognitive jiggery-pokeries that the human mind is capable of. Humorous it may be, but when he described himself as Zen Calvinist there's a wisp of ludic truth to it.
It isn't only the tension between experience and expression that is evident: there is so often the man peeping through the poet. Many of MacCaig's poems are 'about' identity, frequently through a linkage between place and mind, or obliquely through the imagery of travelling between. However, there is also a certain existential tension too (the phrase reflects my own inadequacy of expression rather than a wish to set him spinning with derision in the place he never believed in). There is the man in Private who (as an analogy to his poetry) is but partly "that comfortable MacCaig whose/ small predictions were predictable." And the total man who may use words instead "in order to say what they mean/when they mean me". Whatever such words would reveal, his friends, his outward relatings, "How they would wish back/ the clean white bandages/ That hid those ugly wounds."
Whatever the wounds may be they occupy the same disturbing opposition as in Journeys where there is the dark knowledge of and attraction to that other place:
There are bad journeys, to a bitter place
I can’t go to – yet, I lean towards it,
tugging to get there, and thank God
I’m clogged with the world. It grips me,
I hold it.
There is a tension between the clear, pure, certain apprehension of immanent 'reality' and the underlying threat of dispersal. Better to be 'clogged' and restricted than to go God knows where. The same idea comes in the poem On the Pier at Kinlochbervie which begins with a typically brilliant MacCaig image then moves towards "My mind is struggling with itself." The poem ends:
I want an extreme of nearness.
I want boundaries on my mind.
I want to feel the world like a straitjacket.
May 4, 2025
Thank you Mr MacCaig. For these poems made me rather happy.
𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦: '𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘴.
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴.'
𝘐 𝘥𝘰. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘵,
𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵
𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘺𝘭𝘦, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥.
𝘚𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯.
𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.
𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦
𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦,
𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥
𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘬.
𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦: '𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘴.
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘴.'
𝘐 𝘥𝘰. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘵,
𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵
𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘺𝘭𝘦, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥.
𝘚𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯.
𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.
𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦
𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦,
𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥
𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘬.
February 2, 2012
It just doesn't get a lot better than this. MacCaig is very much a Scottish poet, and for that we can be thankful. His work is beautiful at times, surprising at many others, and always satisfying. It reveals the Scottish countryside, and certainly his beloved Edinburgh, in ways that perfectly reflect the place. It speaks of love in a way that is never stale. It causes you to look at these things with new eyes, and in the process shows you something about yourself.
What else can be asked of a poet? This is an exquisite collection.
What else can be asked of a poet? This is an exquisite collection.
January 9, 2013
This is my favourite collection of poetry. MacCaig's poems move and inspire me more than any other poet has done. He is a modern metaphysical master, always journeying into lucidity (something he was determined to do) and describing nature and human relations in the most startling ways, without ever being pretentious or verbose. I love him. I come back to this book time and again when I need inspiration for my own writing, or when I simply want to remember how to look at the world. I urge you to read this book.
April 20, 2013
I loved this collection of poems. MacCaig is an excellent poet. These are the first of his poems I’ve seen - but I’m struck by the consistency and excellence of the collection. The images are strong - and his take on the world is rich. HIs poems in celebration of his wife, his marriage, and his friend: the poet McDiarmid, are terrific...but the whole collection is terrific. He looks at the world and his life with wonder...even the painful parts.
January 4, 2019
Una delle più belle esperienze letterarie degli ultimi mesi. E la gioia di scoprire un autore, di scoprire miniere di splendida poesia capita sempre più raramente man mano che le terræ incognitæ smettono di essere tali.
August 9, 2012
Varying hugely in style and subject, MacCaigs character shines strongly through these poems.
April 10, 2020
I don't really feel qualified to review this, as I've never read much poetry, and have been in the "huh? doesn't rhyme" camp most of my life. My brother suggested this, as a good gateway book, and he wasn't wrong.
I've been reading a few poems a day during lockdown, and found myself looking forward to it each morning. Some poems I stumbled on, but there are some which are like a lightbulb going on, the way he evokes a feeling, a place, or an experience. The ones clearly written after his wife died are poignant and moving.
There are some great turns of phrase. One of my favourites is "cutting the pack of memories, and turning up ace after ace after ace".
I've no idea whether 4/5 is fair or appropriate, but by my rubric, that's what it gets. I can imagine I might come back and upgrade it to a 5, but won't be notching it down to a 3.
I've been reading a few poems a day during lockdown, and found myself looking forward to it each morning. Some poems I stumbled on, but there are some which are like a lightbulb going on, the way he evokes a feeling, a place, or an experience. The ones clearly written after his wife died are poignant and moving.
There are some great turns of phrase. One of my favourites is "cutting the pack of memories, and turning up ace after ace after ace".
I've no idea whether 4/5 is fair or appropriate, but by my rubric, that's what it gets. I can imagine I might come back and upgrade it to a 5, but won't be notching it down to a 3.
July 11, 2019
Maccaig is by far my favourite poet - simple yet powerful language which manage to turn the everyday into something really special. Maybe I’m biased as so many of the poems visit Edinburgh and the Highlands but every time i read his work I find something new there.
March 7, 2022
A beautiful collection of MacCaig's poem. I particularly enjoyed the ones about Assynt as they reminded me of a holiday we once had in the area. Also Assisi which took me back to reading it at school and then the poem I wrote in response to it for English came back into my memory.
March 9, 2025
Inspired by a BBC documentary with Billy Connolly on Maccaig to read this.This is one of the few books that makes me jealous of people that live in the country; beautiful poetry of the Scottish countryside. There is a real range of emotion in Maccaig’s work that makes me want to come back for more.
August 14, 2018
I loved this. I really enjoyed reading it.
December 7, 2021
MacCaig is an absolute delight.
August 6, 2024
savoured every single poem. Essential by-the-bed reading every morning/night
October 14, 2024
A book of very gentle poems, some quite sad.
My favourite poem was Praise of a Man on page 109. It reminded me of someone.
My favourite poem was Praise of a Man on page 109. It reminded me of someone.
June 27, 2016
Took this with me to read on the train, quite by chance, the day the referendum result voted that Britain leave the European Union. I was so stunned by this, that my concentration wasn't good. And this was the first time I'd tried reading any of Norman MacCaig's poetry.
My first impression was that they were just easy reading.
However, they are beautifully crafted, some about NW Scotland, an area I know well.
And "Five minutes at the window" with it's closing sentence:
'I am back in the world again
and am happy in spite of
its disasters, its horrors, its griefs.'
Really spoke to me.
I will be reading more of his poetry.
My first impression was that they were just easy reading.
However, they are beautifully crafted, some about NW Scotland, an area I know well.
And "Five minutes at the window" with it's closing sentence:
'I am back in the world again
and am happy in spite of
its disasters, its horrors, its griefs.'
Really spoke to me.
I will be reading more of his poetry.
November 4, 2012
Sometimes funny, sometimes serious, but always poignant, this collection makes you feel for the poet within the author...
August 29, 2016
My favourite poem, & the reason I bought the book, remains 'So Many Summer'. 'Frogs' & 'Visiting Hour' are good too.
November 28, 2016
My favourite book of poetry. He is the master of metaphor and wit and animals and lucidity and longing. I love him.
May 30, 2023
essential reading for people who love nature and poetry
Read
May 14, 2019A favorite poem among many.
BETWEEN MOUNTAINS AND SEA
Honey and salt — land smell and sea smell,
as in the long ago, as in forever.
The days pick me up and carry me off,
half-child, half-prisoner,
on their journey that I’ll share
for a while.
They wound and they bless me
with strange gifts:
the salt of absence,
the honey of memory.
BETWEEN MOUNTAINS AND SEA
Honey and salt — land smell and sea smell,
as in the long ago, as in forever.
The days pick me up and carry me off,
half-child, half-prisoner,
on their journey that I’ll share
for a while.
They wound and they bless me
with strange gifts:
the salt of absence,
the honey of memory.
Displaying 1 - 21 of 21 reviews