Mancunian minstrel Mike Garry
When I tell people I moved to Scotland to harness my English writing voice, they have a bit of a laugh, a giggle, a cackle, a chortle. "You'll probably not even understand what they are sayin, luv". And it's true, a pub quiz for me is about decoding the question, rather than figuring out the answer. Scottish English and Scots are not simple, I knew that from the first time I set foot in Scotland. "You could have gone to the US or Canada" to speak with a voice that when spoken, is understood. You could have gone to Berlin or Amsterdam, confront yourself with its art and artists. Have a shot in places that believe in poetry, that pay you for putting sensitivity at the core of your existence (and paycheck).
But they are not akin to me. They don't feel like skin to me. Scotland is much closer to home than you might think. Rain and mist replace oxygen while weeans inherit their parent's singsongy way of speech. Ni bother, pal was just the next obvious step after Ghe manca ria, stelin. I wanted to be in a place where words are still echoes of lost worlds and visions. That still collect traces of every person who thought or spoke them aloud. That embodied what people understood of the world, what they cherished, who they hated and who they loved. I wanted my English to be localised as it has been a victim of domestic violence, transatlantic journeys and intimate dispersion.
But that's not all that I found. To my surprise, it's more than just Scotland that is localised.
My voice was enriched as it received the gifts of many: Devon, Cornwall, London, Lincolnshire, Kent, Merseyside, Greater Manchester, Northumberland, Tyne and Wear, my beloved Yorkshire. Each bit of my speaking is inhabited by every life I have listened to this past year. The UK is an interesting place, especially for how it speaks about the world it lives in. The poets who taught me here have been my friends, my school mates, my writing companions, my cavers, people on bar stools, women under the rain.
Now I say: grim, rank, reckon, trolleyed, knobhead, innit mate? Aye.
However, there are many British writers and poets who embody this, who have shown me where British English lives.
Mike Garry is one of them. I discovered him when I went to see John Cooper Clarke perform in Edinburgh. I had taken myself out on a date. I had a lie down midway up Arthur's Seat. I had a glass of wine. I waited. Mike Garry was opening for Cooper Clarke. The two are friends.
Mike Garry is a librarian from Manchester. Like Cooper Clarke he writes about Manny, has the voice of Manny, sees things like people from Manny do. The world is a horrid place and that makes you laugh if you're from Manny. But Mike Garry has some sort of sweetness and tenderness, something that Manchester might try to keep hidden. When I heard him speak about what life had shown him, what I heard was that existing, whether it be grim or gracious, is a precious state of being.
Here are two videos of poems by Mike Garry. I hope you enjoy how Mancunian angst meets tenderness and care. The first one is a bit more sentimental. It's the eulogy Garry wrote for his mother (this is the poem that made me fall in love with Garry. I'm just a silly sentimental girl and sucker for a manc accent, what can I say). The second one is a more angsty manc poem, about the wonders and horrors of Northern England. "Love just bled from this woman, the likes have never seen". Absolutely brilliant performance. Defo recommend this one first. If you fancied it, you could also check out God is a Manc.
Enjoy :)
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