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MacDiarmid's Disciple

Henry Mair

Kilwinning: Westward, 2001
£6.95
ISBN 0-9540474-0-0

Review by Deborah Tyler-Bennett
biography

The wonderful Orcadian poet, George Mackay Brown, wrote that some narratives, like the ancient sagas of Orkney, benefit from few words, carefully chosen. Reading Henry Mair’s astonishing autobiography and book of poems, MacDiarmid’s Disciple reminded me of the truth of this statement. MacDiarmid’s Disciple tells the story of Henry Mair, poet, factory worker, and founder of the Scottish International Open Poetry Competition, and his friendship with the Scottish poet Hugh MacDiarmid (Christopher Murray Grieve). It is a remarkable short book, which I think anyone interested in poetry, MacDiarmid’s life and work, and Scottish writing will enjoy. Like all good books, this one led me back to other books (in this case to Hugh MacDiarmid’s work and reminded me what a vibrant and singing poet he is). Due to MacDiarmid’s use of Scots, it seems to me, he’s less appreciated, outside Scotland, as a great modernist, than poets such as T.S. Eliot or Ezra Pound. Yet, as a British reader, I don’t see why this should continue to be so. His poems are accessible and often seamed with a rich ore of humour. They sing, glimmer, and have bite. If you love poetry, then his work more than repays perseverance. MacDiarmid’s Disciple reminded me how much MacDiarmid gave to poetry, and yet recalled how the poet often struggled for existence. As the focus of the narrative, the visits Henry Mair made to the poet’s cottage at Biggar are illuminating, and tell you as much about the poet’s disciple, as the poet himself.

For poets, I think the story of Henry Mair’s own life is as inspiring as are his meetings with MacDiarmid. It’s so refreshing to read a story where the poet doesn’t wait for things to happen but makes them happen. In a world where Oxbridge narratives of playing by the narrow rules of elite literary networks are ever present, reading a book where a poet decides on his own course of action and follows it is refreshing. It also perhaps points to the fact that poetry benefits from different ways of thinking. In 1972, Henry Mair had an idea for an exhibition of photo-poetry. Photographs and poetry were to be combined and toured round the country as an exhibition. In most cases, the poet would have applied for grants, waited, applied to galleries, waited some more, and maybe the exhibition would have taken years to happen. Perhaps it would never have happened at all. Henry Mair did not wait. ‘Creating was what I liked best.’ He says. ‘The art of creating.’ Poetry boards made, Henry Mair travelled to London to find a spot for displaying them. He visited galleries with waiting lists, and decided to find wall space instead. He got his wall space, visited newspapers and made himself a story. This was one of the parts of MacDiarmid’s Disciple that made me gasp. Then it made me consider how few narratives about writing, tell stories where the writer doesn’t wait for fate, or established presses to take a hand. Indeed, the book as a whole made me feel that maybe poets like myself could think differently about how poetry appears. Another great section of the book is Henry Mair’s account of his trip to Russia and the wonderful response his poetry received there.

There is so much in this book that I enjoyed. It contains many fascinating accounts of the way in which Henry Mair approached the idea of what poetry does, who gets to read it, and how it can be displayed. The stuff on MacDiarmid is really vibrant, and brings the poet to life. Also, the journey to Russia is stunningly recounted and really interesting for readers like myself who are fond of Russian poetry. Also, Henry Mair’s account of the founding of the Scottish International Open Poetry Competition reveals that he founded the competition with the same determination that achieved the exhibition in London, his first book, and the visit to Russia.

Lastly, the volume contains a selection of Henry Mair’s own fine poems. These are rhythmic, spare, and sing from the page. I could have done with more of them. A few are from his earlier book Alone I Rebel. My favourite of them was partly written in Romany, and titled ‘Gypsy Romany Mort.’ It is about Henry Mair’s Romany mother, and is a wonderfully lyrical poem. Another, dedicated to MacDiarmid, ‘MacDiarmid’s On That Hill’, is a lyrical remembrance.

Combined with the photographs, letters, and memorabilia that pepper this narrative, the poems make this a book worth owning and re-reading. I was glad that the volume was pocket sized, as I shall read it again soon, and it fits easily into a jacket pocket. As with George Mackay Brown’s autobiography For the Isles I Sing (London: John Murray, 1997) this is an intimate book, full of brightly hewn images, and a personal narrative that reminded me of that spark of ideas that made me want to write poetry in the first place.