We are approaching the end of a very peculiar year for our group activities, having been unable to meet apart from the beginning of the year, But we have virtually all chosen to stay in touch, to stay connected, through the rudimentary means of emails. I would like to thank everyone for their interest, and of course their contributions, and specially Mary-Rose for presiding over us with such a gentle and literary touch. A particular mention too of Owen Manning, no longer with us; such an original spirit and if I sit quietly for a few moments I think I can hear his high tenor voice worbling away in his characteristic fashion.
As what is probably a last contribution for the year I have chosen a particular favourite of mine, Alexander McCall Smith (AMS). I don’t think he claims to be a poet, but I find a lot of his writing is ‘poetical’. AMS is nothing if not massively productive, and one of his series, the 44 Scotland Street books, is a special favourite of mine. Each of these books usually ends with a Christmas party given by one of the characters, Angus, an artist, together with his partner, at their Edinburgh home. It has become customary for their guests to expect Angus to close the party with a poem. The author makes this more a poetical utterance, but then that is his style.
So here we are, at the end of the book, with Angus responding to the call to make his contribution:
“He was hesitant, but there were things that he wanted to say. Looking out of the window at that moment, with the late evening sky still light, an attenuated blue, and so high and distant and so empty, he thought about how he loved this place, these friends, this city, this country; and the words came to him, easily, and from a place that he thought was probably his heart, and they said something that he had wanted to say for some time but had refrained from doing so until the moment was right, which it now was. And this is what he said:
When I was a boy, not yesterday of course,
When life, I thought, was a whole lot
More certain than it is today,
I made a list of those I thought
Liked me as much as I liked them -
For at that age we’re loved
By just about everybody
Whom we care to love; how different
It is in later years, when affection
Has no guarantee of reciprocation.
When we may spend so very long
Yearning for one who cannot
Love us back, or cares not to,
Or who lives somewhere else
And has forgotten our address
And the way we looked or spoke.
The remarkable thing about love
Is that it is freely available,
Is as plentiful as oxygen,
Is as joyous as a burn in spate,
And need never run out.
And yet, for all its plenitude,
We ration it so strictly and forget
Its curative powers, its subtle
Ability to make the soul-injured
Whole again, to make the lonely
Somehow assured that their solitude
Will not last forever; its promise
That if we open our heart
It is joy and resolution
That will march in triumphant
Through the gates we create.
When I look at Scotland,
At this country that possesses me,
I wonder what work love
Has still to do; and find the answer
Closer at hand than I thought –
In the images of contempt and disdain,
That are still there, as stubborn
As human imperfections can be;
In the coldness of heart
That sees nothing wrong
In indifference to want, in dislike
Of those who are different,
In the cutting, dismissive
Turn of phrase, the sneer.
Love is not there, in all those places,
But it will be; love cannot solve
Every human problem, but it makes
A start on a solution; love is the only compass-point
We need to learn; we need not
Be clever to know it, nor endowed
With unusual vision, love
Comes free, at least in those forms
Worth having, lasts as long
As anything human may last.
May Scotland, when it looks into its heart tomorrow
If not today, see the fingerprints
Of love, its signature, its presence,
Its promise of healing.
Let us hope that ‘the promise of healing’ will show itself in the weeks to come. Thank you everyone for your interest, and your contributions, and best Christmas wishes to all.