Stonehaven's wee gaitherin of fine talents share poetry

The opening of The Wee Gaitherin poetry festival in beautiful Stonehaven spoke to this.

A jingle of a tambourine. A quick introduction. And then we’re off.

To a fiery start with Jim Mackintosh. Passionate and angry, the political poet draws our attention to migration and the genocide in Gaza. His poems are calls to action, condemnations of those complicit in murder and urges to join the mob – those acting against injustice. Free Palestine.

We pass swiftly on to Kathryn Metcalfe who recounts tales of her Irish grandmother settling in her native Paisley. We hear of her grandmother’s struggles in writing her own name while her children carved copperplate script and the ghosts of memories that linger on.

Charlie Gracie also tells of his Irish heritage but with a disconnect by dating each poem. Nevertheless, they carry a spark of working-class Glasgow pride – and being “green wi’ a twist o’ orange”. He draws from family stories – a young worker lamenting to his boss about how he’s not like the other wee boys, he’s a good Christian. Treat others how you wish to be treated? That commandment died with the boys in the factory.

The picturesque storyteller Mairi Murphy (below) follows her fellow Irish Glaswegian relatives from the boat to the mills – facts hitting hard as a granny was turned away from work with an Irish name but welcomed in with open arms when offering a Scots name instead. They’re emotive, hard-hitting.

A brief interlude. Folks titter.

The atmosphere is as warm as the hot room.

RS Kendle tells tales of their life through the lens of folklore. Beautiful metaphors interweave with the Cailleach, Persephone, Medusa and tell tales of a battered past ready to move on to fulfil an impossible legacy.

Leigh-Anne Brown’s grasp of different poetic forms is mesmerising. She uses surreal mysticism to describe her migraines – explaining the inexplicable. One initially comedic poem about being unable to see red flags turning from a silly anecdote into an excuse into a quiet reprimanding of self as relationship becomes abusive. Giggles die down slowly until we’re left solemn and silent.

Scots expert Kris Haddow explains his thesis on his native Dumfries Scots and crafts poetry by responses to Alexander Anderson and Robbie Burns. He answers Anderson’s call about why the bairnies cannae cuddle doon as they carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. They know too much and can be children no longer. Another nod to Gaza.

Genevieve Ray impresses with improvisation. Ray’s heart is with the musicality of poetry, what the artform is and can be like. She personifies doubt and the inability to write until the witching hour and the muse disappearing with the light of the sun. Though dark memories may haunt us, artists can turn those into light. Ray has it down to a T.

The softly spoken Nazaret Ranea conveys a level of comfort as she shares with us her family. Her father, grandmother, sister – she wants to keep them safe, and you do too. A true makar in the making.

Chatters erupt. A child builds lego while we’re lost in conversation. Are you ready for more?

The Mearns writers are a Doric lot. Poets weave the leid into their poems as we go from pastoral walks in the park and through the turbulent history of Glasgow to rhythmic gibberish and a beat poet in the making. Famous Scots are reimagined as having a scrap in a schoolyard, a ghostly story is admirable while we learn the true pandemic of the Covid era was capitalism. An ode to Stoney. A tribute to an aunt. A nod to a day in Codona’s in the 1950s. We take walks along the beach to find hidden treasures, call on the sea to return lost souls, explore a mind struggling with misophonia and see a future children’s performer. A talented group and a taste of my childhood.

Judy Taylor does what pastoral poets long to do – she captures nature vividly. You can feel the sun on your back on a walk through the forest and see the ugly urban scrawl next to the beauty of nature. She calls on the romanticisation of being lost and urges us to create art instead of relying on AI. Artists create. AI replicates.

Hannah Nicholson brings the Shetlandic tongue to Stoney. The character it brings to her voice – why should she speak English when Shetlandic exists? Her softened leid celebrates the midnight sun, the northern lights, the queer community and her island’s national dish.

Renita Boyle is another true performer. Lifts spirits as she sings, mixing word … with action. An alphabet poem brings predictability and then breaks it. Lullabies are spun into movement and simple stories about hares and herons become mesmerising. If Ray captured how poetry feels, Boyle captures how dreams feel.

Ann Craig rounds us out by showing the inherent magic of a Glaswegian childhood. Witchy supplies explore a family dinner, a mother’s words to her daughter about what the future holds and the stages of getting over a relationship – complete with bones for broth.

A fiery end to a phenomenal night.