1 Roderick Watson Living with the double tongue: contemporary poetry in Scots The Edinburgh History of Scottish Literature, Volume Three: Modern Transformations: New Identities (from 1918) Edinburgh University Press, 2006, pp. 163-175. At the beginning of the 20th century literary renaissance one of the main drivers of Scottish writing was the socio-political need to establish cultural difference from what was perceived as an English tradition— to make room for one’s own, so to speak. In this regard Hugh MacDiarmid’s propaganda for the use of Scots to counter the hegemony of standard English has been of immense importance to 20th century Scottish writing –even for those writers such as Tom Leonard and James Kelman who would disagree with his political nationalism. More than that, MacDiarmid’s case was a seminal one in the development of all literatures in English, and his essay on ‘English Ascendancy in British Literature’, first published in Eliot’s The Criterion in July 1931, is a key —if often neglected— document in the early history of postcolonial studies. Nor would Kelman and Leonard be out of sympathy with the case it makes for difference, plurality and so-called ‘marginal’ utterance. By the 1930s MacDiarmid’s claims for a tri-lingual Scotland were well established and the case for linguistic and cultural pluralism has been upheld with increasing sophistication ever since. The use of a plural title for the magazine Scotlands in 1994 is a case in point, as is the slowly growing recognition since then that ‘Scottish’ literature might even be written in languages other than English, Gaelic or Scots as it is, for example, in the polyglot Urdu / Glaswegian demotic in Suhayl Saadi’s 2004 novel Psychoraag. In fact the critical impact made by Tom Leonard, James Kelman, Irvine Welsh, Duncan McLean, Gordon Legge at al, has led to more recent Scottish writers, such as Alan Bissett (Boy Racers), Des Dillon (Itchycooblue), Anne Donovan (Buddha Da), Matthew Fitt (But n Ben A-Go-Go) and Saadi himself, embracing a linguistically diverse and strikingly oral energy in their work with even more enthusiasm. And such energy seems to be celebrated for its own sake, rather than as part of any overtly nation- defining agenda. Nevertheless, questions of language and identity still haunt the work of contemporary Scottish writers. One might even argue that the linguistic pluralism inherent in Scottish cultural identity –in that original interplay between Scots, English and Gaelic— has made writers in Scotland peculiarly sensitive to how subjectivity is simultaneously constructed and undone in the precisions and imprecisions of language and in the tangled translations and transitions (and the political and social complexities) between utterance and reception. Such questions, however, are less likely today to be framed in terms of a national identity or as part of a literary enterprise claiming continuity with and the revivification of an ancient literary tradition. If identity is an issue among contemporary Scottish writers it is more likely now to be framed in the contexts of personal, existential, political or sexual being. Thus for example, Liz Lochhead’s ironic, hilarious and painful engagements with her generation’s experience of being a woman in Scotland have been followed by similar explorations in the work of Magi Gibson, 2 Jackie Kay, Kathleen Jamie and Meg Bateman who share a very contemporary sense of belonging and not belonging —often predicated on questions of race, class or sexual orientation. The prose writing of Janice Galloway shares the same perspective. Poets who left Scotland when they were young, like Kate Clanchy and Carol Ann Duffy also reflect on a borderline sense of ‘Scottish’ identity in terms that open up much larger questions about the unstable and liminal nature of identity itself. ‘All childhood is an emigration’, as Carol Ann Duffy puts it in her poem ‘Originally’, remembering that her family moved to England when she was five years old. ‘Do I only think / I lost a river, culture, speech, sense of first space / and the right place? Now. Where do you come from? / strangers ask. Originally? And I hesitate.’ Origins are notoriously untraceable, but issues of ideological and political hegemony cannot be escaped when a poet chooses to write in Scots or Gaelic in the face of cultural productions almost exclusively dominated by forms of English. An even more complex picture emerges in the case of those poets who are not native speakers, but who choose to learn the language in order to find a voice for themselves. This is the experience, for example, of fine Gaelic poets such as Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh, Christopher Whyte, Meg Bateman, Rody Gorman, Peadar Morgan, and the late Alasdair Barden. Such writing acts may have intensely local or national roots, but their relevance is much wider in that they also embody a political decision (conscious or otherwise) to commit to a form of expression that speaks on behalf of all cultural minorities in an act of resistance to the increasingly global domination of English. There seems to have been a more intimate motivation, too, for such writers whereby the shift to another language has also led to an untying of the tongue. This is a way of being creatively ‘carried over’ which is much more profound than any matter of simple translation, as with Sydney Goodsir Smith, for example, who was born of English parents in New Zealand and educated at Oxford, and yet somehow could only find his most necessary expressive outlet in Braid Scots. It is language, after all, that creates the subject, not vice versa, and to write in Gaelic or Scots (given that the medium is also the message) is to commit to a vision of self and the world that is simultaneously assertive and provisional, even perhaps embattled, and always already under threat of neglect, erasure or even extinction. And for some writers this has been like coming home. When C. M. Grieve took up arms on behalf of Scots in his ‘Theory of Scots Letters’ in The Scottish Chapbook in the early months of 1923, he was especially keen to align the project with English, Irish and European modernism, citing James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, Mallarmé, Proust and Dostoevsky, and arguing that the only reason for using Scots would be to press forward ‘the experimental exploitation of the unexplored possibilities of Vernacular expression.’ It was in this spirit that MacDiarmid’s early lyrics, not to mention A Drunk Man… generated the first and perhaps the most striking examples of ‘demotic modernism’ in Scots. In Devolving English Literature Robert Crawford has written well on the creative contribution made by so-called ‘provincial’ writers to early modernism. He cites the demotic usage of, amongst others, Eliot, Joyce, Pound and MacDiarmid along with the later ‘Barbarian’ sympathies of Douglas Dunn. But the particular and problematic role played by the Scots language in this evolution is worthy of still further study. In MacDiarmid’s early lyrics the vernacular voice and ethnographically specific folk expressions from Jamieson’s Dictionary meet with a modernist and expressionist 3 intensity whose perspectives link the utterly local with the cosmic —the stackyaird lit by lightning. The final effect of this memorable combination is very similar to the literary and linguistic effects that Viktor Shklovsky and the Russian Formalists called ‘estrangement’ or ‘defamiliarisation’. The lyrics in Sangschaw and Penny Wheep were far better Imagist poems than ever ‘les Imagistes’ managed in their anthologies between 1912 and 1917. An early reviewer for the TLS was not slow to identify these tendencies in Penny Wheep: While the new volume contains nothing quite so good as the best things in Sangschaw, it has, on the whole, the same merits—an unusual sense of the movement and changing aspects of the earth in its diurnal round, a gift for seeing familiar things from new angles and illuminating poignant situations by flashes of imaginative insight. But there are the old faults too — pretentiousness, bravado, an affected robustness, not to say coarseness, of taste, a penchant for ugly words and subjects, and that over-emphasis which has been the bane of Scottish literature from the first.1 For all its limitations, this review’s distaste for ‘coarseness’, not to mention ‘ugly words and subjects’, encapsulates a crucial insight into what has been, in effect, the historical role of Scots in the wider ideological context of ‘English’ literature. This role has been especially marked in the last century, when the interrelationship between Scots and English has been a significant factor in how literary Scots has come to be used as a uniquely creative medium. And it was precisely this quality that MacDiarmid evoked in his ‘Theory of Scots Letters’. A more than familiar passage makes the point: We have been enormously struck by the resemblance —the moral resemblance—between Jamieson’s Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language and James Joyce’s Ulysses. A vis comica that has not yet been liberated lies bound by desuetude and misappreciation in the recesses of the Doric: and its potential uprising would be no less prodigious, uncontrollable, and utterly at variance with conventional morality than was Joyce’s tremendous outpouring. The poem ‘Gairmscoile’ (from that ‘coarse’ collection Penny Wheep) goes still further and argues a directly Freudian case for Scots as a language which has particular access to the primal drives of the unconscious: . On the rumgunschoch sides o’ hills forgotten rough and rocky Life hears beasts rowtin’ that it deemed extinct, roaring And, sudden, on the hapless cities linked In canny civilisations’s canty dance prudent; neat Poor herds o’ heich-skeich monsters, misbegotten, irresponsible . Streets clear afore the scarnoch advance: tumultuous Frae every winnock skimmerin’ een keek oot window; eyes To see what camsteerie cast-offs are aboot.