Harplike lyrics
Paul Potts
The Collected Poems of Hugh MacDiarmid Vols I and II (Martin Brian and O'Keeffe £15) Hugh MacDiarmid, who died a few weeks ago at the age of eighty-six, was with William Dunbar and Robert Burns one of the three really important poets in Scottish literature. Some people, including MacDiarmid himself, thought him the first of the three. Although one can indeed enjoy MacDiarmid without being a Scot, one cannot realise how important he was to Scotland during most of this century unless one is Scottish. To call the work in these two volumes a magnificent achievement is understating the case. There are 1200 pages of verse, all of it interesting, much of it really splendid, the writing and making of which was spread out over six decades. There are a full number of poems here, especially in the first volume, that are of the very highest order. The editing and publishing of these two books is a small masterpiece in its own right. And Hugh MacDiarmid would have been delighted that a reviewer paused in his praise of his life's work to pay courtesy to Mr Timothy O'Keeffe; it is a delightful effort on the part of a small independent publisher.
MacDiarmid's early work, and especially the short lyrics in Scots, are by far the best things he ever did. The most beautiful ate in `Sangchaw' and 'The Drunk Man looks at the Thistle'. Someone coming to his work for the first time should begin with a poem 'Wha's been here before me lass'. Of course all the poems are not as good as this. But if MacDiarmid had written nothing other than the lesser poems, most of which are in the second volume, he would have still to be considered an important poet. MacDiarmid, during the fast twenty years of his life, won for himself a world reputation as a major poet without the aid of a professional publisher as without the help of other major poets. Even Ezra Pound, who concerned himself with the work of other real poets and artists more than any other man of such a stature, seems to have missed MacDiarmid.
In fact he was very like Pound in many ways, almost the reverse side ot the same coin, though Pound had a better mind. Unlike Pound, he never occupied himself with other men's work. Indeed he did not like other real poets, except Dylan Thomas whom he loved. His commitment to Stalinism was far stronger than Pound's to Fascism. He wrote to me in 1944 saying that he was neutral about the Jews — neutral in 1944! The nonsense, to use the kindest word possible, that gets mixed up with human greatness is frightening.
One can only say that anyone who has not read MacDiarmid is in for a feast and those who have will be delighted to have all his poems collected together. I wrote like this about his work while he was alive. That work and his reputation will grow with time. He is here to stay. The blending of a high intellectual quality with a harplike lyrical gift is as rare as a bookmaker who is a good loser.
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