Grimoire

by Robin Robertson

Longlisted for the Highland Book Prize 2020

From the author of The Long Take , shortlisted for the Booker Prize and winner of both the Walter Scott Prize and the Goldsmiths Prize.

‘I’ve long admired Robin Robertson’s narrative gift . . . If you love stories, you will love this book.’ Val McDermid

Like some lost chapters from the Celtic folk tradition, Grimoire tells stories of ordinary people caught up, suddenly, in the tales of violence, madness and retribution, of second sight, witches, ghosts, selkies, changelings and doubles, all bound within a larger mythology, narrated by a doomed shape-changer – a man, beast or god.

A grimoire is a manual for invoking spirits. Here, Robin Robertson and his brother Tim Robertson – whose accompanying images are as unforgettable as cave-paintings – raise strange new forms which speak not only of the potency of our myths and superstitions, but how they were used to balance and explain the world and its predicaments.

From one of our most powerful lyric poets, this is a book of curses and visions, gifts both desired and unwelcome, characters on the cusp of their transformation – whether women seeking revenge or saving their broken children, or men trying to save themselves. Haunting and elemental, Grimoire is full of the same charged beauty as the Scottish landscape – a beauty that can switch, with a mere change in the weather, to hostility and terror.

Genres: Poetry, Scotland, Fiction, Folklore, Mythology, Fantasy, Retellings

80 pages, Paperback

First published October 1, 2020

About the author

There is more than one author with this name in the Goodreads catalog. This entry is for Robin ^3 Robertson.

Robin Robertson is from the north-east coast of Scotland. His four collections of poetry have received the E.M. Forster Award and various Forward Prizes.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robin_R...

Reviews

[Tom Mooney · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was terrific. So dark and beautiful and lyrical, bags of atmosphere and pockmarked with vividly grotesque imagery. And the illustrations are fairly grim, too!

[Mark Redman · Rating 5 out of 5]

Robin Robertson’s Grimoire is a powerful collection of poems steeped in Celtic mythology, where the ancient and modern intertwine seamlessly. These poems delve into the brutal, violent, and bloody aspects of existence, exploring themes such as ritual magic, changelings, outcasts, the bond between humans and animals, and the very nature of humanity. True to its name, Grimoire functions almost as a spellbook, evoking spirits of the past and present through its evocative language.

Deeply rooted in Gaelic traditions, each poem feels like a vivid fragment of the culture it draws from. The bleak, visceral imagery mirrors the rugged landscapes Robertson portrays, creating a stark, haunting atmosphere. The accompanying illustrations enhance the experience, their evocative artistry complementing the collection’s raw emotional power.

While I appreciated the collection as a whole, a few poems stood out as personal favourites: By Clachan Bridge, Of Mùthadh/Mutability, In Easgann Wood, and At Roane Head. These pieces resonated deeply, showcasing Robertson’s skill in balancing beauty with brutality.

Grimoire is an unforgettable work, richly atmospheric and steeped in the traditions of Celtic storytelling—a must-read for those who enjoy poetry with an edge.

[Callum McLaughlin · Rating 5 out of 5]

I love all things inspired by the dark side of folk and fairy tales, so when I caught sight of this collection of narrative poems from Robin Robertson, I was instantly intrigued. From stories of ghosts, witches and doppelgängers, to tales of selkies and changelings, the poems draw on Scotland’s rich tradition of mythology and storytelling to explore themes of heartache, revenge, and transformation. Often focussing on those who are vilified for their differences, thematically the pieces pay homage to the classics as much as they resonate within today’s society.

The absolute standout piece for me was a gender-swapped piece about a woman who attempts to keep her half-selkie children safe from the prying eyes of their neighbours – and the wrath of her jealous husband. “For years she tended each difficult flame: / their tight, flickering bodies. / Each night she closed / the scales of their eyes to smoor the fire.” It’s a tragic and beautiful poem with an absolute knock-out ending that is all the more powerful for how subtly it is delivered.

Other favourites include the stories of a town cursed to suffer a brutal winter by a scorned woman; a boy attempting to outsmart a witch; and a couple whose son is snatched by faeries and replaced by a changeling despite their exhaustive efforts to keep him safe.

I love Robertson’s use of language. It’s lyrical yet always so readable, and I adore the way he weaves in Scots words throughout (there’s a glossary of these terms at the back for those unfamiliar with them, but the meaning of most can be gleaned contextually). He has a knack for creating stark, hauntingly macabre images perfectly suited to the subject matter. Take for example a decaying corpse, its ribcage “a rack of bones like a sprung trap”. Or this description of a girl obsessed with exploring the bodies of dead animals:

“[…] cutting up fish
to see how they worked;
by morning’s end her nails
were black red, her hands
all sequined silver.
She unpuzzled rabbits
to a rickle of bones;
dipped into a dormouse
for the pip of its heart.”

Simple yet haunting illustrations – provided by Robertson’s brother, Tim – are peppered throughout the collection as well. Compared in the blurb to cave paintings, these striking images do indeed possess an eerie timelessness that enhances the impact of the book as a whole.

As is to be expected with any collection, a few poems failed initially to land with quite the same impact as the strongest offerings, but the quality of the language and narrative drive is consistently high throughout. Plus, I’ve already been dipping in and out of this again and picking up on new details; my appreciation growing each time I do. A few individual poems are undoubtedly among my favourites from any poet, and it seems the more time I take to mull this one over, the more the collection as a whole is also cementing its place among my favourites.

I’ll leave you with another excerpt, as I think the best way to know if a poet’s style will work for you is simply to give it a try. So here is one of my favourite passages from one of the aforementioned poems, in which a mother accepts the painful truth that the baby she has been raising as her son is in fact a changeling; that he will never belong in their world, and her true son is gone. (Note: ‘north-dancers’ is a term for the aurora borealis.)

“Mother always said that we wear our dreams – all living things:
the goshawk shows on his breast a flock of geese,
the mountain hare becomes snow in winter; the mackerel
carries the streamoury of the north-dancers on its back,
the silver-green and barred black
that ebbs to grey when it’s taken from the sea.
So our son had eyes the blue of far off places,
and he wore his skin like water.

For some it’s not long, the waiting, for that
decay of light – when all is flown, all faded, washed away.

When I reached the cottage, the crib was still empty.
The crib lies empty still.”

[Brian Doak Carlin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Strange. The familiarity of it. The shapeshifting, the bewitchery. Lines as craggy as the Scottish coast. It feels like the making of us, in our folk-tales. This will stay by my bedside for a wee while.

[Paul · Rating 4 out of 5]

A gorgeous collection of creepy Scottish folk-tale poems, with matching creepy illustrations. I love the way Robertson writes. I’m not a huge poetry consumer but I’ll definitely be reading more of his work.

The most famous work in this collection and definitely one of the best is this one.

At Roane Head

for John Burnside

You’d know her house by the drawn blinds –
by the cormorants pitched on the boundary wall,
the black crosses of their wings hung out to dry.
You’d tell it by the quicken and the pine that hid it
from the sea and from the brief light of the sun,
and by Aonghas the collie, lying at the door
where he died: a rack of bones like a sprung trap.

A fork of barnacle geese came over, with that slow
squeak of rusty saws. The bitter sea’s complaining pull
and roll; a whicker of pigeons, lifting in the wood.

She’d had four sons, I knew that well enough,
and each one wrong. All born blind, they say,
slack-jawed and simple, web-footed,
rickety as sticks. Beautiful faces, I’m told,
though blank as air.
Someone saw them once, outside, hirpling
down to the shore, chittering like rats,
and said they were fine swimmers,
but I would have guessed at that.

Her husband left her: said
they couldn’t be his, they were more
fish than human,
said they were beglamoured,
and searched their skin for the showing marks.

For years she tended each difficult flame:
their tight, flickering bodies.
Each night she closed
the scales of their eyes to smoor the fire.

Until he came again,
that last time,
thick with drink, saying
he’d had enough of this,
all this witchery,
and made them stand
in a row by their beds,
twitching. Their hands
flapped; herring-eyes
rolled in their heads.
He went along the line
relaxing them
one after another
with a small knife.

It’s said she goes out every night to lay
blankets on the graves to keep them warm.
It would put the heart across you, all that grief.

There was an otter worrying in the leaves, a heron
loping slow over the water when I came
at scraich of day, back to her door.

She’d hung four stones in a necklace, wore
four rings on the hand that led me past the room
with four small candles burning
which she called ‘the room of rain’.
Milky smoke poured up from the grate
like a waterfall in reverse
and she said my name
and it was the only thing
and the last thing that she said.

She gave me a skylark’s egg in a bed of frost;
gave me twists of my four sons’ hair; gave me
her husband’s head in a wooden box.
Then she gave me the sealskin, and I put it on.

Some of my favourite snippets from this one:

* the bitter sea’s complaining pull and roll
* a whicker of pigeons
* she closed the scales of their eyes
* thick with drink
* relaxing them one after another with a small knife
* an otter worrying in the leaves
* a waterfall in reverse

So, so evocative.

[Saoirse · Rating 4 out of 5]

I feel like I've read a lot of poetry like this before but goddamn is it still very effective

[Johan Thilander]

Det finns något gammalt över denna text, liksom nedärvt och återberättat.

[emily · Rating 5 out of 5]

there’s something strange, dark and beautiful about this book. i’m kinda in love with it

[J.C. Reilly · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm not always sure what's going on, but I love the richness of these poems, and I love all the Gaellic terms thrown in because it helps situate the reader in a kind of other-worldly setting.

[Allie Morgan · Rating 4 out of 5]

This collection of new fables fits right in with the canonic folklore of my childhood. The mix of English, Scots and Gaelic took me back to my young days, of being warned about the "Fair Folk" in hushed whispers by my otherwise silent grandfather.

These poems are written in a leid that runs in my veins and for that I felt a dark sort of comfort. The tales themselves are the usual dark Scottish folklore fare: witches, selkie, deer spirits and so on.

I wanted to give this book 5 stars. Instead, I'd say it's 3.5, rounded up. The poems are rich. I could only consume one or two in one sitting before needing at least 12 hours to digest, to ruminate and interpret them. They clung to my subconscious deliciously, I even dreamed about a young boy reborn with the head of a goat.

My one problem? The depiction of women. In these tales, women are breeding mares. They exist to be defiled, impregnated and murdered. Most of the protagonists are men and every female character gives birth to something. The women of Robertson's poetry are walking wombs - vessels for the uncanny but never fully humanised themselves.

I had picked this book up despite challenging myself to read more poetry by women and reading 'Grimoire' reminded me of just why I'd set that challenge. I looked to this book for some dark escapism and instead was reminded that a good chunk of society sees me as little more than my biology, my reproductive capacity. I get enough of that in the real world.

That's not to say that it's all sexist, of course. It's not openly misogynistic. In fact, I rather enjoyed the gender-switched tale of the selkie. Still, I was disappointed in that regard. Perhaps if I were a man I would have enjoyed the book more.

I'd still recommend it to anyone even vaguely familiar with Scottish folklore, or looking to get a taste of the darkness of Celtic mythology. I was surprised by how few Gaelic words I needed to look up, being able to dredge general meanings from the context and somewhere previously forgotten in my childhood memory.

Savour the poems like a good dram. Let it go down slowly. Play with the glorious phrases like "a rack of bones like a sprung trap" and "The wellspring went milky as a dead eye/smoked with ice."

Just give 'Under Beinn Ruadhainn' a skip.

[Evelyn · Rating 1 out of 5]

A dark macabre collection of folk tales presented in poetry. Many feature violence and/or shapeshifters. They are accompanied by allegorical woodcuts which do not illuminate the tale.

Unless you are acquainted with the underlying folklore that gave rise to the poems, these tales make little sense, and provide little joy for the reader. The end result is an unsatisfactory read, and book.

[Mark Steven · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lovely collection of sinister *contemporary folk tales" in poem form. Beautiful and sinister, complimented by starkly creepy illustrations, this a great wee book and one I'll revisit often.

[Ted Richards · Rating 3 out of 5]

A lovely collection of Scottish Folk tales that are suitably creepy and authentic.

Robin Robertson's poetry has won a slew of awards and acclaim. This collection focuses on folk tales and strange myths all based around different parts of Scotland. As far as I could tell all the locations were fairly vague in the area where they happened, but Robertson was using slightly varied dialects depending on the region.

It is a strong collection. By Clachan Bridge and Beyond the Dubh-Chladach were my favourite stories for the more sinister takes that they had, as well as setting a distinct tone very quickly. Beside Loch Ifrinn also has some fantastic water imagery going on. However the creepiest and strangest of this collection probably goes to Under Beinn Ruadhainn. On the whole, people will have different favourites amongst these poems, but they all do an effective job of portraying a strange, rural and earthy version of Scotland.

One element I really struggled with was the rhythm of these poems. There is a lack of lyricism that you might commonly associate with poetry. All of these poems are written like tales, with an extremely high amount of cadence but with no metre to link each sentence together. The effect is that the reader might be dazzled by the quality and sound of the words or sentences used for each part, but the sum is slightly less effective for being without a sense of poetic rhythm. This is a stylistic choice by Robertson, but I still prefer the more songlike quality poetry can have.

Overall, this is a good and spooky collection perfect for anyone wanting a new type of poetry. It is gorgeously illustrated and an effective read.

[Mike · Rating 5 out of 5]

Under Beinn Ruadhainn
For Andrew O’Hagan

Three moons in the sky
the night they found him
drowned in Sawtan’s Bog;
just his cap, sitting there
and his wee fat hands poking out.
It was no loss
to the village, I told them
next morning,
and the villagers agreed.
Horn-daft, he was,
havering and glaikit
and scaring the children.
I mind that time
he picked up a mouse
and ate it, quick,
in two mouthfuls;
set the tail aside
on the ground
like a cocktail stick.

I used her well, after that,
his Jennie,
still in her widow’s weeds,
gilping into her
whenever I could,
in the barn or the boathouse
or off in the fields.
She slipped two or three out at least,
and sank each one in a lobster creel.
Her head was away
by the end, as mad as her man
and no good to me.
She sleeps now
under Beinn Ruadhainn, her face
covered in ivy,
scab, and sticky-willow.

The dreams came then.
Last night, the burning loch,
so full of bairns
they bobbed to the surface
with their hair on fire;
black snow; fingers
coming through the floorboards;
rain like razor blades;
the foosty-faced man,
there at every corner,
hands furred with grey-mould.
And her, as always,
star-naked, hatching
in the herring-nets.
The last I remember
was my body being driven
with sticks through the town
to Sawtan’s Brae, and hanged.

I broke from sleep and sat up sweating,
dream-fleyed in the dark.
I groped around for the matches
and the matches were put in my hand.

[Lizixer · Rating 5 out of 5]

A grimoire is a magicians spell book specifically for summoning the spirits of the dead and demons. Robertson’s poetry is the very definition of spellbinding. He evokes spirits, gods, devils, witches and tells grim tales of murder, madness and savagery through the narration of a creature that is supernatural, beyond good and evil, a figure of mythology. His language is beguiling mixing Gaelic, English, Scots to create poetry that begs to be read out loud, like a spell.

The simple and stunning illustrations by Tim Robertson recall the carvings on cave walls, figures painted on stone jars: mythological, twisted in pain or grief, tense with violence.

This is not a book to rush. Take your time to read the poem (out loud if you dare) then let the language and imagery settle in your mind. This is poetry that like the landscapes it draws upon is both sublime and terrifying.

[David Jennings · Rating 5 out of 5]

Most poetry is wasted on me, but I loved this. I was fortunate enough to hear Robertson read a selection of pieces from this at the online book launch, and the language, with inflections of Scots, crackles like dry wood on a campfire. Some years ago I read and enjoyed a book of Scots traveller tales about selkies (seal-human shapeshifters), and this reminds me of some of that folklore, mixed in with a pinch of Ovid's metamorphoses, and covered with a thick coating of Cronenberg icky goo. So not for weak stomachs. On top of that, the drawings by Tim Robertson, Robin's brother, are quite superb and worth the cover price on their own.

[Matt · Rating 3 out of 5]

Grimoire is a collection of short poetical stories, they're darkly magical and atmospheric stories full of vivid imagery that evokes feelings well. There are also illustrations scattered throughout the book, often flowing around the text that add well to the experience and tone of the book. Nothing is cosy here in these dark stories of doppelgangers, ghosts, changelings et al.

I enjoyed it but there's also no doubt that I'm not sufficiently well read when it comes to poetry to completely appreciate the depth of some of the work and it remains to be seen how much of an overall impression it will leave.

[Katy Wheatley · Rating 5 out of 5]

Robertson delves into Celtic mythology and draws up some fantastic (in all senses of the words) poems that feel both ancient and newly minted at one and the same time. These are spare, brutal tales of people who have sailed too close to the edge of reality and have found out what really happens when you mix with the fair folk. These are violent, bloody, wonderful poems with spare, inky illustrations by the artist's brother which add texture and meaning to already brilliant works.

[Amy Macpherson · Rating 5 out of 5]

I happened to spot this in a bookshop, read the first few poems and instantly fell in love with it. The stories are dark, beautifully written, clear and yet mysterious enough to leave a lingering impression. They all revolve around metamorphosis, the connection between human beings and the natural world around them and how easily the mundane can slip into the murky. An excellent read for anyone interested in myths and legends.

[Barbara · Rating 5 out of 5]

This slim volume is perfect for this time of year. Robertson has written poems that deal with the mystic, folklore and legends , and that are at times violent, and frightening. The poet uses English, Scots Gaelic, and the Scots dialect in the poems, and sometimes all free. The poems are deftly illustrated by the poet's brother.
A haunting book.

[Heidi (Heidi's Bookish Adventures) · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dark, violent, beautiful, lyrical. We meet familiar characters from Celtic folk stories, selkies, witches, changelings, doppelgängers, and explore the dark side of fairly tales and what happens when people get caught up in these truly extraordinary and terrifying stories. A very haunting and memorable collection and one that I will definitely be rereading in the future.

[Marla · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of my favorite poets, who never fails to delight when it comes to dark and melancholy poetry. Throw in some selkies, changelings, and mischief, along with some beautiful primitive, cave-like art, and you have a perfect book of poetry, as only the Celts can do. I had to order this from across the pond as it's not available in the US, but well worth the wait.

[Kali · Rating 5 out of 5]

A truly convincing collection of folk tales. Vivid, compelling, in places deeply disturbing. Weaving in Gaelic and Scots beautifully (there's an index at the back but you can glean the meaning of most words without it). Some of the lines are glorious and I read each poem/story twice in a row so I could savour them. The illustrations did a great job of heightening atmosphere.

[Alicia · Rating 3 out of 5]

I found this collection of stories a real mix bag. There were only three that I really enjoyed, the others I wasn't as interested in due to the way they were written and language used. I did enjoy the illustrations throughout.
I enjoyed Beside Loch Ifrinn, Near Glenn Nam Fiadh and Beyond The Dubh-chladach.

[Claire Steele · Rating 5 out of 5]

Full of dark brilliance and heartbreaking beauty. Robin Robertson is one of my favourite contemporary poets, and this is a superb collection, tender and harsh, quick with longing and terror. To be read and read again immediately

[T P Kennedy · Rating 2 out of 5]

A beautifully produced book. Without a knowledge of the underlying Scots folklore, the poems just seem grim and excessively dark. They're more reminiscent of Scandinavian legends. It's a nice short read but not a book I'd return to.

[Haley Chambers · Rating 5 out of 5]

This collection of poetry could easily be turned into a film that a24 would kill to distribute. The author weaves in gaelic and english to tell the haunting, scottish folk stories and it leaves the reader with a dark foreboding.

[Ian Leader-elliott · Rating 5 out of 5]

Narrative poems, eloquence hard as flint from an unforgiving cold world. Visually integrated on each page with spare, black wash illustrations by his brother, Tim Robertson. Grimoire carved a place in memory, drawing me back to experience again its strange enchantment.

[Fee · Rating 5 out of 5]

More beautiful writing from Robin Robertson (his version of the Bacchae is a fave). Deliciously grim and atmospheric: Scottish gothic, dark folklore, wet peat, seeing double, bad luck.

For fans of The Testament of Gideon Mac by James Robertson or Gaudete by Ted Hughes.

[Paul · Rating 3 out of 5]

A beautiful book.