Selected Poetry

by Hugh MacDiarmid, Alan Riach (Editor), Michael Grieve (Editor)

This volume includes the full texts of In Memoriam James Joyce, Three Hymns to Lenin, and The Kind of Poetry I Want. Included are long poems and intense lyrics.

Genres: Poetry

324 pages, Paperback

First published July 27, 2012

About the author

Christopher Murray Grieve, known by his pen name, Hugh MacDiarmid, was a Scottish poet and cultural activist.

MacDiarmid was instrumental in creating a Scottish version of modernism and was a leading light in the Scottish Renaissance of the 20th century. Unusually for a first generation modernist, he was a communist; unusually for a communist, he was a committed Scottish nationalist. He wrote in English and literary Scots (sometimes referred to as Lallans).

Reviews

[Victoria]

Scottish normal fucking rockwell

[Joseph]

A very good, though not exhaustive, selection of MacDiarmid's works. I bought my copy in Edinburgh Books on the recommendation of my English professor, who wrote his PhD on MacDiarmid's works and influence. I extend the same hearty recommendation to anyone considering picking up MacDiarmid, especially if they have any interest in Scottish history or culture. Modern Scotland as it is today passes directly through MacDiarmid, and gaining a thorough understanding of his life and influences grants one a clearer picture of the forces and stresses that have pushed Scotland to where it is today. This all goes without mentioning the vastly understated importance of the longest poem included in this collection: "A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle". MacDiarmid's epic poem blends the scotch-addled ramblings of a Scottish man who stumbled into a ditch on the side of the road with a cutting and thorough interrogation of Scottish history, culture, language, and drink. The Scots can be a bit of a barrier to those not familiar, but translations are provided at the bottom of the page and after some getting used to the words flow along pleasantly. Sic transit gloria Scotia.

[Sam Uglow]

For me, it was like reading Bukowski in Scots dialect. Nothing against the form or style or even the dialect (one which is becoming more familiar), but this collection didn't really do that much for me. Some of the poems seemed really contrived. Some of them just seemed to drag on and on like drunken ramblings. It was satisfying to say I read it, but this isn't one I'll be revisiting.

[Victoria]

I love "On a Raised Beach".

[Jeffrey Greggs]

Robert Burns, meet TS Eliot. Commingle uneasily.