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)