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Popular Glasgow poet died when helicopter hit pub

A popular, working-class Glasgow poet has been confirmed as among the dead after a police helicopter crashed on to a pub late on Friday night. John McGarrigle, aged 59, had been sitting in his usual spot exactly where the pub roof gave way, his son and friends said. Nine people are said to have died, including the pilot and two police officers aboard the helicopter, when it hit the Clutha bar in Glasgow.

A blogger who knew McGarrigle wrote: “The Clutha along with the Scotia, just across the road, were much more than places for a drink, together they formed an institution, an oasis of poetry, music, debate, banter and laughter. Those who visited either of them once, usually became life members of both, you could slip seamlessly from one to the other, perhaps even several times in a night. I was a great fan of the Scotia poetry nights, and it was there that I met John McGarrigle.”

The blog quotes two poems from McGarrigle’s volume of poems, Glasgow’s McGarrigle. Fans of his poetry said he regularly performed live, according to a report in the Scotsman. He also contributed to compilations of poetry about Glasgow and its working class. 

As police search and identification efforts went on at the weekend, his son, also named John, showed journalists a picture of father and son together on his phone and told reporters: “He’s a regular and it came through right at his usual spot. I just know he’s dead. He is not answering his phone, he is not at his house.” His father's death was confirmd by police late on Monday night. 

 

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Comments

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Julian (Admin)

Thu 5th Dec 2013 17:23

Superbly done Laura. A fitting and very well written tribute. What a terrible tragedy. Talk about out of the blue. Terrible.

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Laura Taylor

Wed 4th Dec 2013 09:45

Thanks Is

The title of the poem is a take on John McGarrigle's book, 'Glasgow's McGarrigle', and I referenced some of his lines within my poem. Thought it would be nice to include his ideas in it too.

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Isobel

Tue 3rd Dec 2013 19:03

That's a lovely tribute Laura. It seems fitting that a poetry community like ours should celebrate a fellow poet's life in this way.

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Laura Taylor

Tue 3rd Dec 2013 16:56

Cheers Greg, and yep, one of us.

Weirdly, I researched first thing this morning, and spent some time today writing the poem. Came on here to blog it and found your article, using the same links I'd found!

RIP John McGarrigle.

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Greg Freeman

Tue 3rd Dec 2013 16:37

That's a fine piece of work, Laura, and thank you for it. You could get a sense of John McGarrigle from the words the blogger wrote about the Clutha and the Scotia. John was part of the wider poetry fraternity, not just Glasgow's. Simply, he sounds like one of us.

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Laura Taylor

Tue 3rd Dec 2013 16:29

The first words I heard on the radio when I woke up this morning were that 'the poet John McGarrigle' had died in this godawful tragedy. I was struck by the phrase, and the loss of a fellow poet, so looked him up, and was struck yet further by what I found out about him. Felt I had to somehow commemorate him, so here it is

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=40027

McGarrigle’s Glasgow

One of the scribes was taken tonight.
One of the seers, one of our own.
One of the prophets will write no more lines
in radical rhymes
nor preach them to people like us.

He struggled against his emptying days,
though yearned for contentment and calm.
Thought he had lost that angry young man,
but McGarrigle – words never die;
they’re beyond a stillness of pulse.

You spoke of a Glasgow unknown to the rich,
of the Cross, of a town built on sweat.
In the Clutha, the Scotia, the folk and the verse -
dance of the underdog, lies of the land –
were given a life in tune to your truth.

Tonight in a town made of working-class gold,
in the midst of McGarrigle’s Glasgow -
the artists and players, singers and sculptors,
poets and prophets and pipers and drummers
remember the heat of your heart;
raise their glass to the fire within.

May your flame spark gently in unsurpassed sunset tonight.


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