John McGarrigle was one of the people in the pub who were killed. He was a poet.
First thing I heard on the radio yesterday was that 'the poet John McGarrigle' had died, and wrote this for him. Didn't know him, but was really struck by him and his work, and just wanted to commemorate him in some small way.
http://poetry-24.blogspot.co.uk/
McGarrigle’s Glasgow
One of the scribes was taken tonight.
One of the seers, one of our own.
One of the prophets will write no more lines
in radical rhymes
nor preach them to people like us.
He struggled against his emptying days,
though yearned for contentment and calm.
Thought he had lost that angry young man,
but McGarrigle – words never die;
they’re beyond a stillness of pulse.
You spoke of a Glasgow unknown to the rich,
of the Cross, of a town built on sweat.
In the Clutha, the Scotia, the folk and the verse -
dance of the underdog, lies of the land –
were given a life in tune to your truth.
Tonight in a town made of working-class gold,
in the midst of McGarrigle’s Glasgow -
the artists and players, singers and sculptors,
poets and prophets and pipers and drummers
remember the heat of your heart;
raise their glass to the fire within.
May your flame spark gently in unsurpassed sunset tonight.