Gael Turnbull loved poetry. He wrote for most of his 76 years, always exploring new forms, new means of expression, always encouraging others, publishing writers from Canada, America and Britain. He loved performing, did not believe that poetry should be static, and was looking forward to busking in the Edinburgh Festival Fringe when he died. The tracks included on the CD were recorded in Geneva by Peter McCarey on 1 June 2003.
This reading is a realization – one of many possible paths, as Gael explains:
…[it] is constructed from a series of twenty-eight substantives, or proper nouns, and then another one hundred and twelve modifying phrases which can relate to any of the words. So it is just a series of words and phrases, but it allows all kinds of permutations and possibilities. …it can be used in different ways. It can be read as a love poem, for you, or for them. I read it once as a threnody for the dead.
…for us: that is, both for the hearers and the person speaking it; but exactly what will come up or how long it will go I never quite know in advance. Of course, it is designed; it is not just random. Everything in art is designed… designed to have multiple possibilities.
It is not the size of the peats
nor their number
nor anything particularly remarkable
about their shape or their quality
that sustains a fire
but it is their continued placing
without fuss and in due sequence
around the centre of the hearth
especially at morning and at night
so as not to starve or scatter or smother
so it is with our affection
decide to put it out if you choose
but don’t let it die
for lack of a little ordinary care.
acquires life
by grace of a string;
hovers, a hawk
in arrogance, then tumbles
undone by a gust;
darts at the least slack,
a hooked fish –
in its bondage making explicit
the intimate texture of the air;
skimming a thrust
from the bounty of the wind,
a tethered missile –
it swoops to display an energy
not its own yet flourished
in a paper tail;
and tugs at my hand
pleading to rise
that would fall
were I to release it.
bramble hedge roses
weave and unravel
wind and regather
loop and turn backwards
twist and curl inwards
scent of deep thickets
thick with rose brambles
tint of frail petals
pale on dark lattice
roses in tatters
scatter your blossoms
bramble hedge roses
Daft about Sally –
in bed or out,
snogging at a party,
slanging me about.
Daft about Sally –
but not so daft as not to know
she’ll see me when she want to
and when she wants to, she’ll go.
Daft about Sally –
who’s daft enough to be
sometimes, when she fancies,
a bit daft about me.
All the above poems are to be found in There are words Gael Turnbull’s collected poems, published by Shearsman in 2006
