GEORGE
MACKAY BROWN
BARD OF ORKNEY 1921-1996
80
quotes
from GMB in celebration of the 80th
anniversary
of the beginning of his journey
~ 17.10.21 to 17.10.2001 ~
Page 2 of 2
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| This second door stood open only a
short while. Now close it gently. from Elegy for a Child, pub in Travellers, 2001 |
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| Storm and sea loss and sorrow is all An old mouth at a rock. Tomorrow's wave will cover that boy and his yawl An old mouth at a rock. from Time a Stone, pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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| There is enough stone in Alps, Urals, Himalayas To quarry a million cornerstones. But always, in winter, under stars like thorns The wanderers wait, the breakers of icicles, the homeless ones. from A Poem for Shelter, pub in Following a Lark, 1996 |
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I never dared hope that one day my
poems would be published in a book.
I remember that John Cook (teacher) typed one or two of my
poems; to see them in
typescript sent a tremble of joy through me. from For the Islands I Sing, autobiog, 1997 |
| I have a deep-rooted belief that what has once existed
can never die: not even the
frailest things, spindrift or clover-scent or glitter of star on a wet
stone. All is gathered into
the web of creation, that is apparently established and yet perhaps only
a dream in the eternal mind. from Finished Fragrance, pub in Northern Lights 1999 |
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| A snowflake Came like a white butterfly on his nose, His mother's bucket Was blue splashings at the well. from Winter: An Island Boy, pub in Following a Lark, 1996 |
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| We are folded all In a green fable And we fare From early Plough-and-daffodil sun Through revel Of wind-tossed oats and barley Past sickle and flail To harvest home from Christmas Poem, pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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| I opened the door and sank knee-deep in
dazzlement. Stromness was
about a foot and a half nearer heaven than it had been on Tuesday. Transfiguration everywhere –
but it was my feet that bore the full enchantment.
I was wearing a pair of new shoes with smooth leather soles, and
that afternoon they dissociated themselves from the rest of my body;
they went off on an independent spree. First Snow, from Letters from Hamnavoe, pub 1975 |
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| They have drawn and dragged a keel, down wet stones, glim of a star on one stone. Dark water. Ropes glittered with night frost. The ship lingered, languid as snowflakes. from Voyage, pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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| Language unstable as sand, but poets Strike on hard rock, carving Rune and hieroglyph, to celebrate Breath's sweet brevity. from To a Hamnavoe Poet of 2093, pub in Following a Lark, 1996 |
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| The air is full of noises; sound is
thought to be a natural and acceptable background in the twentieth
century. Silence is the
thing to be dreaded. But
silence has always been precious to me. from For the Islands I Sing, autobiog. pub 1997 |
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| No school today! We
drove our gig to the town Grand-da bought us each a coloured balloon. Mine was yellow, it hung high as the moon. from Sonnet: Hamnavoe Market, pub in Voyages 1983 |
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| What it is to be an old one going with her rune On the long road between flower and star. from Neighbours, pub in Travellers 2001 |
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| Scan yesterday's prose-poem again;
only a shadow moves, here and there.
The greatest joy for a poet is when his poem comes off first
time: it must be one of the
supreme delights. from Shetland Diary, pub in Northern Lights 1999 |
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| Travelling even the short distances I have gone bores
me, and I am continuously (while the journey lasts) apprehensive.
I think, in a spasm of panic, I must be on the wrong train . . . from For the Islands I Sing, autobiog. pub 1997 |
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The Dounby Show breaks down barriers.
It is a foretaste of harvest and the year's plenitude.
All men exist by the fruits of the earth.
Here the creatures of the earth –
animals, fowls and folk – appear at their most splendid and festive. from Orkney Tapestry, 1969 |
| We sat, seven, in the high pew on Sunday. after the psalms, her paper poke* Made sweet thunders all through the sermon. from The Mother, pub in Travellers 2001 *paper bag |
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| On the third morning We came to the whale acre. No whales, the net Surged with a galaxy of herring. from Voyager, pub in Voyages 1983 |
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| One wonders how the quality of farmed salmon will be
affected now that their mysterious seven year circuit is cut . . . .
The salmon peregrination must be akin, somehow, to the force that
drives the blood through the veins and keeps the stars in their courses. from Shetland Diary, pub in Northern Lights 1999 |
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| Darkness when we sailed from
Shetland, in a still darkling sea. Then the brief flame of noon. from The Silent Girl from Shetland, pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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| To lose one's own will in the will of
God should be the true occupation of every man's time on earth. Only a
few of us –
the saints –
are capable of that simplicity. from For the Islands I Sing, autobiog. pub 1997 |
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The cathedral (St Magnus, Kirkwall) and the
reason for its building, and the building of it, and all that happened
in it, have quickened my imagination again and again. from For the Islands I Sing, autobiog. pub 1997 |
| And here I am Setting my basket of cod on the pier steps, Alive and in love, Just before the old women come in a flock with flashing tongues and knives. from The Young Men, pub in Travellers 2001 |
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| A house never looks so happy as when you've been out of
it for a few days - as if it was glad to see you. from Shetland Diary, pub in Northern Lights 1999 |
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| While poets like columns of salt stood Round the oaken Abbotsford bar. from Stella Cartwright (for her birthday, 15th May 1982) pub in For the Islands I Sing, autobiog. 1997 |
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It was not an entirely doleful day, going back to
school at the age of twelve. After the lightness and freedom of bare
feet all summer, to put on stockings and boots and clump about in them
gave you a certain dignity and importance.
Besides, we were moving from the Primary to the Secondary.
New mysteries were about to be unfolded to us:
geometry, Latin, science. from Orkney Tapestry, 1969 |
| How many thousands of years she has travelled To come to this place. Above, burning wind Broken stone and water. from Henry Moore: Woman Seated in the Underground pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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| (Stella Cartwright) died suddenly in her flat . . . .
somewhere in the great music she is lost:
but lost is the wrong word of course.
She wrote nothing herself, but what she truly was, her rare and
lovely unique essence, is a part of the literature of Scotland.
May it be well with her, who loved and suffered so much. from For the Islands I Sing, autobiog. pub 1997 |
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| As the 'Hamnavoe' made for the mouth of the harbour an
immense blue-black cloud launched itself from the north-west, and we
crossed Hoy Sound blind with rain.
But by the time we reached RAF 'Stromness', lying in the Bring
Deeps between Graemsay and Hoy, there were splashes of wan sunlight
again. But oh, that ship's ladder we had to climb.
It was steep and it seemed to soar into the clouds.
Through every open rung, as up I went, I could glimpse snarling,
ugly sea far below. To one who is troubled with agoraphobia on a firm street on a
fine day, it was a nightmare ascent. from Letters from Hamnavoe, pub 1975 |
photograph by Sue Tordoff
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| An eagle, circling high. the swaddled child Lay in the bronze Shadow of a barley stook. The mother, Bronze-throated, bent and gathered and bound. from Eagle: child stolen from the harvest field pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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| God said, 'All things I leave in your hands, man, For praise and profit But never leave the dance.' In the end the man turned from the music. He studied numbers. He forged a key to open the golden door of the sun. from The Journey, pub in Following a Lark, 1996 |
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| I first heard the magic name Celtic at the age of seven
or eight, and for no reason at all gave them my wholehearted allegiance. from Letters from Hamnavoe, pub 1975 |
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| Realism is the enemy of the creative imagination. from For the Islands I Sing, autobiog. pub 1997 |
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| The skald tuned his harp. The riff-raff Lounged between the barrel And the hearth. from The Long Hall, pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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Stones seem to have been the
giants' only weapons. They
were inordinately stupid creatures, incapable of imagining arrows or
axes. They sometimes tried to build bridges between the islands,
but they always failed; usually
the stones for the building slipped from their backs into the sea, and
that is why there are so many skerries and holms around Orkney. |
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| The three kings Met under a dry star. There, at midnight, The star began its singing. from Epiphany Poem, pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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| Our donkey danders Up small roads To poor crofts. We offer cheap enchantments. from Twelve Days of Christmas: Tinker Talk pub in Wreck of the Archangel, 1989 |
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| An old man withdraws into a narrower circle, just as in
November the light lessens. from For the Islands I Sing, autobiog. pub 1997 |
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| To have got so far, alone Almost to the seventieth stone Is a wonder. There was thunder A few miles back, a storm-shaken Hill and sea, the bridge broken from One Star in the West, pub in Following a Lark, 1996 |
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| Here is a work for poets – Carve the runes Then be content with silence. from A Work for Poets, pub in Following a Lark, 1996 |
GMB sauntering towards Loch of Harray
photo by G.Gordon Wright
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