I always thought George Gunn was the northern equivalent of me, a writer pacing the ramparts of a forgotten and neglected part of Scotland, unaided by writers in residence, arts groups, funding etc etc. Its why I always had this notion that we should meet- whaur extremes meet- somewhere in the middle, some omphalos of Scotland, and have a tremendous drinking session. The truth is I think that George has been more active than me in promoting the cultural identity and uniqueness of his part of the world- Caithness- and its part in the world, than I have been in mine. And he has, for years, exhibited a great range, as commentator, essayist, playwright and poet. George has worked as a fisherman and on the oil rigs. He was for nearly 20 years Director of Grey Coast Theatre Company which had an outstanding record track record of over 50 professional performances till its funding was pulled. In 2012 George published an essay entitled 'What are poets for?' in which he quite correctly railed against the academic stranglehold on the poetry we are encouraged to like, admire and emulate, an incestuous world where the self appointed arbiters publish and review each others books, where linguistic "code breaking" is more important than communication. George comes from a school in which I like to think I occupy a desk: where poetry is seen as a way of conveying vital human truths not necessarily in a simple way but a way that speaks directly to everyone's head and hearts.
An Article in Scottish Field on 'A Poet's Caithness'
George's Website
The essay: What are Poets For? From Bella Caledonia
https://bellacaledonia.wordpress.com/2012/04/11/poetry-on-trial-1-what-are-poets-for-by-george-gunn/
A broken necklace of crofts
strewn across the sandstone floor
of the north Caithness coast
these sea-beat parishes where the fields
are sea-tang & the hay has herring-dream
in root & stalk
this is where Scotland stops & starts
here faces turn to check the Pentland Firth’s
anxious coupling of North Sea
to Atlantic Ocean
the incessant urgency of tide upon tide
& these same faces when the night
opens her black windows to them
look up to see the infinite cod roe
yes this is what poetry is for
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