You might remember Ian McRae’s story. He is a sheep shearer, and his day job is cutting slate somewhere in Vermont. He lives in the town that God forgot, Granville, N.Y., 30 or so miles up the road from us.

He is also a very good poet, but when he and I met a couple of years ago when he came to shear sheep, we butted heads in a contentious but good-natured way. He told me he couldn’t do it. I told him he could.

Ian told me one-night several years ago that he loves poetry, but he knew he could never be a poet or write the kind of poetry people might read.

Nobody had ever told him his poetry was good.  And he didn’t believe it.

He brought some to the farmhouse, and Maria and I were both dazzled, just as we were when our late and wonderful friend Mary Kellogg brought us poetry she had never shown to anyone for fear of looking strange.

This was also Ian’s problem, even though he was 22 and she was 80.

I am no poet, but I do know excellent writing, and Ian has the gift. He just needed to believe it, and that was our long-running argument. Earlier this year, he stunned me when he told me he was ready to come out and go to one of the dozen area readings I had been pestering him about and read one of his poems.

Ian is somewhat isolated in Granville; no other poets around support him and give him the feedback he wants and needs.

He panicked and bolted to one reading; he came to another just a few weeks ago – the quite famous Cafe Lena in Saratoga Springs – and he didn’t read his poetry, but the evening finally lit him up after persistent badgering.

Next week, on the 27th of October, he will do his first reading (we got the pandemic on the eve of his last effort). At the monthly poetry group meeting, he will bring his poems to a local bookstore.

He’s fired up about coming out and joining the poetry community, which is quite active around  here, locally, and in Vermont.

Last night, he texted me his latest poem; it’s a brilliant reflection on life in struggling Granville, a town that just can’t catch a break.

Ian couldn’t afford an apartment in Vermont, no one who isn’t wealthy can these days, but he found one he loves in Granville, the once great slate capital of America, a wreck now, for $650 a month, the lowest rent in the county. And it’s not about to go up.

There are advantages to living in Granville, even if there are no longer many jobs. Ian loves to shear sheep, but it is a seasonal job at best and pays little. And we all know poets need day jobs, although some make money online.

Here’s the poem; I hope he reads it at his coming out next week, the happy culmination of a three-year struggle. It has Granville all over it.

Ian is worth every bit of the argument; his poetry speaks for itself. He has the magic, and I think he’s beginning to know it.

________

“Warm Air In October“

warm air in October – jesus, October

rent late deep lethargy

window glass hot to touch

tea with scotch brings friends

floating down angel street

past young-minded boys on bmx

10 years removed

past stomach pit empty shelved

garbage bag by patio furniture

acquired from dead cousin no will

no love  hot tea and years, many years

my friends once more come to front door

only door – dead leaves tracing in gravel drive-

with no gifts, little love

I think of them I wonder

I’ll go bald I’ll go crazy I’ll get emphysema,

I’ll get M.D.; I’ll go crooked; I’ll lose my ears,

I’ll lose my feet, I’ll get diabetes, I’ll go broke

my landlord will evict me. I’ll die cockless

Save me, Mr. McRae!

Send check postmarked the 3rd.”

• Ian McRae, October 10, 2022

________

I am so grateful Ian didn’t just tell me to piss me off (actually, he did several times). He is, of course, a poet and will be one for the rest of his live. And yes, he will probably always need a day job.

I am reminded again and again of our need to encourage people who have the creative spark and need help in lighting it.

Many of our conversations and arguments were out in the barnyard after a sheep shearing.

Ian has become a cherished friend to us. The day after, we were struck with Covid on the same day, we found a wonderful food basket by the back door.

Ian is constantly texting me and offering food I can no longer eat – french fries and caffeine coffee. We had him over for dinner two weeks ago with the founder of the local poetry group. She’s coming to his first reading also. He is more than ready, he is bursting at the poetic seams.

I never doubted this would happen, he just had to wait until he was ready.

Ian had come all the way down from Granville to bring us this with a note that said, “thank you, you are the first people in my life to tell me I could do it.” He perhaps has no idea what a great gift that was to me.

Ian is a magnificent human – gifted, generous, tormented, courageous, nice, and empathetic. We will be there next week at his official coming out as a poet. (A celebration dinner first.)