But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
The son of a weaver, William McGonagall is remembered these days (by far too few) as one of Britain's worst poets. Even during his lifetime he was engaged to give readings of his work for audiences who delighted in his terrible poetry the way sci-fi nerds make a game of The Eye of Argon.
And yes, his poems are terrible. Some only grudgingly rhyme (even in his Dundee accent), all are bereft of linguistic sophistication, and on those occasions where he's moved to actually try his hand at metaphor or at least non-literal imagery the result is a plodding disaster. Universally, his poems' meter defies human scansion.
But I plumb love this guy.
Just as the terrible opera singer Florence Foster Jenkins, whose absolute lack of musical facility, sensitivity to tone, breath control or emotive delivery couldn't deter her from renting concert halls and selling tickets to very select groups of friends, McGonagall just wouldn't quit. And the literary world is just a little richer thanks to his tenacity.
As a struggling weaver of 52, with a snapper for a daughter to make life just a little more inconvenient, he discovered himself to be a poet.
"seemed to feel a strange kind of feeling stealing over [him], and remained so for about five minutes. A flame, as Lord Byron said, seemed to kindle up [his] entire frame, along with a strong desire to write poetry."
Until his death just after the turn of the 20th century (in his birthplace near Edinburgh, rather than Dundee where he'd spent his life) he was mocked, disparaged, rejected and sometimes rather cruelly pranked. He sought his fortune first in London and then New York, returning from both with empty pockets, but his chin held high.
The pinnacle of his career as a poet came when he hired out his services to a local circus, where he earned fifteen shillings a night for reading his terrible poetry while the audience were permitted to throw food at him. And this suited him fine. When the local magistrates shut down these disorderly events he wrote a public protest (of course, in verse) and this more than anything illustrates why I love this old coot.
He was indomitable.
Any writer who plucks up the courage to share their work or submit it for publication faces the very real risk of rejection. We're gradually hardened against it, but every fresh "no" chips away just a tiny little bit on our confidence.
And then here there is William McGonagall, who was genuinely terrible, and received gentle rejections, cease-and-dissist missives, open mockery and utter rage from publishers and audience alike, and he simply never quit.
Maybe his worldview was a bit skewed. Modern students of his work suspect he may have had Asperger's Syndrome. Who's to say.
Not only did he take rejections in stride, he apparently read them with rose-tinted glasses (with an anti-glare coating made of concentrated optimism). He wrote to Queen Victoria, hoping to secure her patronage, and was tremendously encouraged by the rejection letter he received from a functionary because he took "Thank you for your interest" as a great compliment to his talents. When an obviously fake letter from representatives of King Thibaw Min of Burma told him that he had been knighted in absentia he took it at face value and proclaimed himself a Sir from then until his death in penury.
Very, very few of us can hope to suffer such persistent insults to our talents, such frequent requests for us to please, please stop writing. Sure, we may not ever be satisfied with the size or the responsiveness of our audience, and we may water down our whiskey with manly tears when we receive another "thanks, but no" letter from a publisher.
"Sir William Topaz McGonagall, Knight of the White Elephant, Burmah", a weaver's son and a Dundee boy, should be an example to us all: if you believe in yourself, honestly and sincerely, then you'll live and die proud and happy -- and the world's barbs be damned.
- Alex.
Full text of the Tay Bridge Disaster here: http://www.taynet.co.uk/users/mcgon/disaster.htm
Selected bibliography here: http://www.taynet.co.uk/users/mcgon/
