Poem: 'Glasgow Flourishes' | Calum Rodger | TEDxGlasgow

This afternoon I'd like
to present to you a poem

in which I celebrate
Glasgow's cultural life

in all of its manifold contradictions.

Now - by way of introduction,

I'd like to call to mind
that famous wee Glasgow rhyme

that describes the four elements
that comprise the Glasgow coat of arms.

I'm sure many of you know it.
It goes like this:

"There's the tree that never grew,

there's the bird that never flew,

there's the fish that never swam,

there's the bell that never rang."

Now, first impressions,
that sounds kind of negative.

(Laughter)

In actual fact, it refers
to a series of miracles

performed by our founding father
and patron saint, Saint Mungo.

So it's actually a cool wee story,
but I'm kind of skeptical

of this association
of Glasgow and miracles.

You hear about it
in the arts all the time.

People talk about the Glasgow miracle,

as if our cultural success is the product
of some kind of divine intervention.

It's nonsense, and besides,

it fails to acknowledge
the talent, the labour,

the camaraderie, and the sprit

that go into making
our cultural life so vital.

So in a small effort
to counter these tendencies,

I'd now like to present my poem entitled
"Glasgow Flourishes."

I hope you all enjoy it.

There's the tree that never grew,

the bird that never flew,

the fish that never swam,

the bell that never rang.

Some would have it thought
that Glasgow's wrought from miracles.

They're wrong.

It lives in stone, souls, song,
and syllables.

So if the tree never grew,
then it blossomed,

Burst into the colour of a sunrise
over the Clyde,

Flowered in the streets
where the pavement cracks,

and in the weather torn fissures
of the tenement flats,

whose stones,
if we listen to them closely,

keep clutched tightly
the sooty echoes of our history.

Brick mingles with memory
and every building in the city blooms.

The Kingston bridge
and the Finnieston Crane

flourish in the sunlight,

or, more than likely, in the rain.

And into this glory of
sun, stone, rain, and river,

we are the figures who animate the frame.

Like a Mackintosh rose,
geometric and organic,

forms flow together,

This tree, our city,
in its blooming, grows.

And if the bird never flew,
then it nested,

blessed with a blooming branch
bearing the burden of home.

We took twigs tentatively twisted,
shaped, and sewn

into well-worn nooks from
Parkhead to Partick

and poised between past and future,
known and unknown,

flourished toward the sky
from whence the rain still pours

and it pours.

It pours on all of us.
Not one of us alone.

For our nests are connected
by the branches that bear them

and each lends a lyric
to a symphony of birdsong

that calls into the gloaming
of the encroaching night

and look! From the top of the lighthouse,
see the whole flock squawking!

We are the birds, who, in our nesting,

take flight.

And if the fish never swam,
then it fed,

nibbled on the coral of culture
'til its grey scales turned red,

enflamed by music, art, song,
and staying up way too long past bedtime.

We have seen schools
form under [unclear] streetlights.

Been born along by wild nights,
Scorned and too unruly

But truly, also played the fool ourselves
Under the stars of the Glasgow school.

Because we drank too.
Yes, we drank like a fish,

as if to hold onto the night like a wish
when all our truths are a myth.

But in the great cosmic scheme,
we're all little fishes.

And here in this shimmer,
the city flourishes

so we feed on what nourishes,
and together we swim.

So if the bell never rang,
then it tolled.

Told stories, told of the fishes,
the birds, and the tree,

a whole territory told
in the day-to-day tales

of those who chose to make it home,

who chose to make it theirs.

Where we are, where we speak,
and where we share our lives

is where Glasgow lives,

whether to flourish or survive.

For this we know:

No bagpipe plays a note
without its chanter.

The pulse of our city is first felt
in what we call with love "the banter."

It is a ruckus tune.

Yet dawn defines another drizzly day,

and this city gives clues too
of a quiet dignity.

The town tolls at Central Station,
in the folds of our commute,

A sincere and half-mute "thank you."

Because we say what matters
when it matters,

and so the bell rings on and true.

The tree blossomed and grew,

The bird nested and flew,

The fish fed and it swam,

The bell tolled and rang
and rang and rang.

Some would have it thought
that Glasgow's wrought from miracles.

They're wrong. It lives in stone,
souls, song, and syllables.

Thank you.

(Applause)