The equal skies

by Norman MacCaig

Genres: Poetry

64 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1980

About the author

MacCaig 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.

Reviews

[Boy Blue · Rating 4 out of 5]

MacCaig seems to have returned to form with this collection though given he's in the autumn of his years it is dominated by death. A section of it is dedicated to his friend from Inverkirkaig, Angus Macleod, and some of those poems are the best in this collection. MacCaig has handled death before but these poems are easily his best on the topic, some deeply moving in their simplicity.

Defeat

What I think of him,
what I remember of him
are gifts I can't give
to anyone.

For all I can say of him
is no more
than a scribble in the margin
of a lost manuscript.

This simplicity is found again and again in some of MacCaig's best work.

In Memoriam

On that stormy night
a top branch broke off
on the biggest tree in my garden.

It's still up there. Though its leaves
are withered black among the green
the living branches
won't let it fall.

Triple Burden is a stunner and the last 3 stanzas are mythic, they somehow evoke charon's ferry, Lord of the Rings, the travels of Sparrowhawk, and a mythic Celtic history all in one.

....For a boat has sailed into
the sea of unknowing
you are on board.

And somewhere another boat
rocks
by another pier.

It's waiting to take me
where I'll never know you again -
a voyage
beyond knowledge, beyond memory.

There's dozens more that will probably surface some emotions especially if you've recently lost someone. Dead Friend, A.K. Macleod, and Memorials. Or the poem dedicated to Charlie Ross...

Tighnuilt - The House of the small stream

In a corner of Kirkaig,
in a wild landscape, he created
a garden, a small Eden
of fruit trees, flowers and regimental
vegetables. Such labour. Such love.

It's still there, though he is not.

To remember him is to put that garden
in another place. It shines
in the desolate landscape of loss -
a small Eden, of use and of beauty.
I visit him there
between the mountains and the sea.
We sit by a small stream
that will never run dry.

Despite the looming presence of the grim reaper through much of this collection, MacCaig seems to have rediscovered his humour and there's some excellent humourous poems.

The last stanza of Equilibrist reminds me of Don Paterson's work, even though in 1980 that was still to come.

Equilibrist

....I had a difficulty in being friendly
to the Lord, who gave us these burdens,
so I returned him to other people
and totter without help
among his careless inventions.

The Kirk has MacCaig's atheist sympathies to thank for some more humourous verse

When he's not feeling too good, the Lord,
lounging by his infinite swimming pool, thinks
The sins of the father will be visited upon the children
and thanks God
that he is his own ancestor.

Other poems I loved were To Create What?, Rag and Bone and as has become quite common for MacCaig in his later years there's a lot of taking stock, of looking at his life as a poet. This one sums his career up in the sort of glib but touching way we've come to expect.

Adrift

More like a raft than a boat
the world I sail on.

I say I'm not troubled - I accept
the powerful hospitality of the tides.

But I write little communications and float them off
to anywhere.

Some are Ophelias witless and singing
among the foam flowers.

But others are Orpheus lamenting
a harbour, a house there, and a girl in it.

[Ken]

Sometimes you keep running into names. Tripping over them, practically. For me, it's the name Norman MacCaig. He's from Scotland and has quite a body of work. The third time his name got in my way was in the most recent issue of Poets & Writers. A columnist was singing his praises. Said columnist also shared an interesting anecdote about MacCaig. Seems he can write a poem in two cigarettes. Just like that. Phenomenal, the quality, but many look like they could use another smoke's revision or two. Well, can't have everything.

MacCaig is a breath of fresh air in that he is accessible. This is a word for poets who are not in Poetry magazine and a few others among the la-di-dah poetry presses. Here's an example:

"A True Pleasure"

Many's the stag I've seen running
behind his horizontal nose.

And cod, rubber-lipped, shabbily mottled
as though they'd lain too long in a dusty corner
of an antique shop at the bottom of the sea.

And sparrows that bustle and squabble
even when they're doing nothing--
each one a critic, and his own publisher.

I give them no pleasure.
But they give me a true pleasure
I can't explain, because it's without
superiority or humility.

See me smiling? I'm thinking of
the many grasshoppers I've seen
each crouched between the two triangles
of is own legs.


Like so, heavy on the nature aspect because, well, Scotland's chock full. And really, does Norman MacCaig subscribe to the erudite arguments over line breaks? He does not. He breaks wherever he pleases, thank you, and begs the pedants get over themselves.

You can see why I'm glad I've stumbled over the Scot, no?