Preliminary remarks on the work of W T MacGonagall

The following is a rough-hewn foundation stone (or buttress) of what might become a rather modest contribution to the ongoing "debate" about the place of McGonagall in the pantheon of poets.

Exhibit A

Its form is that of stray (and possibly incoherent) observation; to be refined, refuted or ignored over the remaining years that humanity takes to burn its resources exchanging electronic ruminations on the world-wide-web.

Criticism of the work of William Topaz McGonagall (the poet who lived in Dundee) commonly falls into the category of "received wisdom" or worse, and more usually, cliche. Hooray Henrys are always quick with the label "worst poet ever" and betray either their own snobbishness or ignorance of what great poetry might be. McGonagall is routinely patronised by suggestions that he is now beloved (to a greater extent than all but the most famous poets) because of his heroic failures or his near delusional persistence.

What really makes great poetry? By what incontestable rule is poetry to be measured? And why does McGonagall's poetry survive?

It's true that even the meanest intelligence can respond to poetry and even commit to memory a fragment or verse heard in the distant past, but the mechanism that enables this to happen - rhythm, rhyme, story, metaphor, vocabulary - is little understood. Which is the most important of these qualities, the one that must be present to a necessary extent before a work can be considered "good" poetry?

I'm not certain that any of McGonagall's gallery of critics can say. They only think they know why he "fails".

Mostly they attempt (and succeed) in poor rationalisations of the involuntary laughter that can occur during a reading of his work. (As if voluntary laughter was a good thing.) If one laughs at a poem can it automatically be assumed that it is not good or great? [Aside] Is this the cross that comic writing has to bear. An art to be condemned when it succeeds, just because its critics are unsure why they laugh?... But I digress.

Men at the age of 52 may turn their minds to sports cars or other heralds of a mid-life crisis - but not McGonagall. Sports cars of course were not available to him. Instead he downed his loom tools, took up the pen and followed his fortunes - almost entirely on foot - as a poet.

In our present compromised century it is so rare to encounter someone with the ingenuous courage of their artistic convictions - that questions of how "knowing" McGonagall was inevitably arise. Yet the little biographical material that there is reveals no crafty hoax. Perhaps it says more about ourselves and our times that we view his apparent naivete with cynicism and distrust.

It's best not to take too much advice. A great many sites across the internet offer glimpses of McGonagall's work living on and maybe a little insight as to why. Just type "McGonagall" and enjoy.

William Topaz McGonagall

Exhibit A

The Poet Who Lived in Dundee :: gazbro.home