William Soutar was born in Perth, Scotland, in 1898, son of John, a
joiner, and Margaret. At school, he
excelled on the sports field, and led a pupil strike. At Perth Academy, he began to develop his
literary skills. Later he would recall:
“That was my eighteenth
year while yet the shadow of war was unacknowledged. Then I was one of the
fleetest at the Academy; one of the strongest; first in my year at most things;
I was writing poetry; I was in love; I was popular both in the classroom and
the playing field. I never reached this condition of living fullness again
except in brief moments.”
In 1917, he joined the Navy and served for two years. By the end of his military service, he was beginning to suffer from skeletal pains. He went up to Edinburgh University, initially to read medicine, but then changed to
English. At this time, Soutar sent some of his poems
to Hugh MacDiarmid, who described him as already being in the top fifty Scottish
poets. Soutar's first volume of poetry was
published before he graduated in 1923. But by then his symptoms had spread from his legs to his back, which prevented
him pursuing his plan to become a teacher.
The family moved house to 27 Wilson Street, now a museum to the
poet. His condition continued to worsen,
and eventually he was diagnosed as having ankylosing spondylitis, an incurable
spinal condition. On getting his
diagnosis,
‘suddenly
I halted in the dusk beside the pillars of West St. George’s, Edinburgh, and
stood for a moment bareheaded, saying over to myself, “Now I can be a poet.” ‘
He would become a leading figure of the Scottish Literary Renaissance. As time went on, more and more of Soutar's poetry was written in Scots:
The Makar
Nae man wha loves the lawland tongue
but
warstles wi' the thoucht-
there
are mair sangs that bide unsung
nor
a' that hae been wroucht.
Ablow
the wastrey o' the years,
the
thorter o' himsel'
deep
buried in his bluid
he
hears a music that is leal.
And
wi' this lealness gangs his ain;
and
there's nae ither gait
though
a' his feres were fremmit men
wha
cry: Owre late, owre late.
By 1930, he was confined permanently to bed. His father made adaptations so he could live
comfortably at home in a ground floor bedroom with a large window looking onto
Craigie hill.
Whan Gowdan are the
Carse-lands
Braw are the Grampian
Mountains
Whan simmer licht is
still;
And gowdan are the
Carse-lands
Ablow the Corsie Hill.
Yonder the gowdan
steeple
Spires up frae the auld
toun,
And the brig wides
through the water
Owre far awa for soun’.
And its easy in this
quiet,
Sae gowdan and sae
still,
To lippen that a’ the
world
And your ain hert will
hale.
Soutar would lie propped up in bed, in jacket and bow tie, and receive a constant stream of visitors, many of them leading literary figures, and when they went away, he would write poems. He kept a diary, published as Diaries of a Dying Man, and one entry reads:
'I see eight people have called
this week...this means at least twenty hours at least spent in mediocre
conversation. My God!'
He yearned for emotional and sexual release, but lived under the
protection of his fiercely religious parents.
When his parents adopted a five year old orphan cousin, Evelyn, this
spurred Soutar to write poetry for children, what he called bairn-rhymes, a
volume of which were published in 1933,
For example:
The
tattie-bogle wags his airms: Caw! Caw! Caw!
He hasna onie banes or thairms: Caw! Caw! Caw!
He hasna onie banes or thairms: Caw! Caw! Caw!
We
corbies wha hae taken tent,
and whamphl’d round, and glower’d asklent,
Noo
gang hame lauchin owre the bent:
Caw! Caw! Caw!
For a long time, he was best known for these short verses for children.
Willie Soutar was a socialist and a nationalist. He wrote in 1932:
Willie Soutar was a socialist and a nationalist. He wrote in 1932:
‘My
life’s purpose is to write poetry – but behind the poetry must be the vision of
a fresh revelation for men.’
In July 1943, he was diagnosed with
tuberculosis, and by October he was dead, aged only 45. The editor of his diaries wrote:
“His poetry was the prize
wrested from a battle against death and despair which he fought for half a
lifetime.”
Seeing life with clear eyes,
knowing joy as well as bleakness, Soutar himself summed up life in a poem:
Autobiography
Out
of the darkness of the womb
Into
a bed, into a room:
Out
of a garden into a town,
And
to a country, and up and down
The
earth; the touch of women and men
And
back into a garden again:
Into
a garden; into a room;
Into
a bed and into a tomb;
And
the darkness of the world's womb.
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