The Original Welsh Border MorrisLogo

2004


Gael Turnbull

Doctor, Poet and Member of the Original Welsh Border Morris Men
Born April 7 1928 - Died July 2 2004


Gael on the 1998 Border Tour


There were Obituaries printed in both The Scotsman and The Guardian

The following is included with kind permission from The Scotsman



GAEL Turnbull was an original: imaginative, forthright and a passionate lover of poetry. He wrote predominantly
modernist poems, founded the Migrant Press, which introduced many American poets to this country, and also practised
as a medical doctor on both sides of the Atlantic. He lived for many years in America and Canada, as well as in England
and Scotland, and greatly enjoyed exploring new cultures, traditions and experiences with an inquiring relish.

Turnbull’s father’s family had long connections with Berwick-on-Tweed (the family were hereditary freemen of the city),
and he was in fact born in Tollcross, but the year after his birth the family emigrated to Canada. It was the first of many
resettlements that took place in his life. After school in Winnipeg, Turnbull read Natural Sciences at Christ’s College,
Cambridge and then studied medicine at the University of Pennsylvania whence he graduated in 1951. The year before he
had had his first poems published in various magazines including the Edinburgh Review.

For the next decade this jovial and passionate man lived in America and in Canada where he worked to publish French
and English poets in Quebec. In 1957 he was back in Malvern founding the Migrant Press, which championed modernist
poets on both sides of the Atlantic. He formed a close working relationship with the poet Roy Fisher, and Migrant
became a definite force in discovering and publishing new writers.

In 1989, with his second wife, Iles Norman, he moved back to Edinburgh and lived in Strathearn Place. She researched
the history of the Scottish glass industry and he continued to write. It was in the Eighties that he became fascinated by
what he called Kinetic sculptures. These were visual devices with a very personal energy and which he described as
"dynamism as opposed to static".

In 1997, after Transmutations, a collection of imaginative prose poems, appeared, he first "showed" at the Botanic
Gardens in Glasgow an "arrangement". The "site-specific" compilation comprised a large collection of phrases and words
round Kibble Palace in the Gardens, and Turnbull wrote of the visual experience: "it is the viewer/reader who must move.
Starting and stopping as they choose to do." For many years Turnbull was an enthusiastic member of the Edinburgh
Fringe. Each summer, in all weather, he displayed and gave recitations on the Royal Mile. Turnbull was a born performer.
On the High Street, he often appeared in slacks and shirt- sleeves and (typical of the man) wearing a black silk top hat
which added a certain colour and majesty to his one-man show. Turnbull also held kinetic experiences also in St
Andrews, London and Paris.

Turnbull’s poetry was characterised by his wide range of technical resources - emanating from his love of the Border
Ballads - and his spirit of invention. The Edinburgh Poem (2001) in many ways sums up his work. It is an affectionate and
amusing satire of the city and its folk. It celebrates his birthplace with, at times, an ironic air, (on occasions he encouraged
interaction with an audience) but underneath there was always a genuine love and affection.

Turnbull died while giving poetry readings in the West Country and Herefordshire.

He married Jonnie Draper in 1952. That marriage was dissolved in 1983, and that year he married Jill Iles Norman. His
second wife and three daughters by his first marriage survive him.
 



 

THE ABOVE ARTICLE WAS WRITTEN BY: ALASDAIR STEVEN





The poem EVERYONE WAS THERE by Gael was read out at the OWBMM Practise on Dec 4th 2004

Conjuring words was read out at a Memorial Service for him in Edinburgh


EVERYONE WAS THERE

Everyone was there
even those who couldn't make it
because of distance
or the car breaking down
or work
or anything like that
even they
were with us 
and knew
what I don't have to tell you
(but more of that later)
and everyone was high
really floating
with lots to eat and drink and smoke
and even crash out upstairs if you wanted to
and always someone else
you hadn't realised was there
suddenly appearing
and disappearing
with music and singing
and dancing and laughter
all at once and on top of each other
so you could hardly hear or move
(but could, just)
and even so-and-so
chatting up so-and-so again
and of course
a couple of people rather horribly pissed
and someone else being sick
(but outside)
and one girl having a quiet sob in a corner
(or it wouldn't have been believable)
but as I said
everyone was there
so there's nothing really to tell you
except
that if you weren't there
you should have been.
 

Conjuring words

im Gael Turnbull, 1928-2004

They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary.
Isaiah, 40 v 31

Today - so many Gaels: each from the same spring
of modesty, of graciousness, intelligence.  Even now
he settles like a butterfly among us; a bright sun still 
lighting him and the hills beyond, his final pathway.

There was always something of the conjurer about him:
busking the Royal Mile -top hatted; or minting meanings 
from ordinary words; or sweeping us up in the absurd;
or paying each the compliment of complete attention.

Three images remain: a piper playing a lament, leading 
the coffin to the graveside; a threat of morris dancers, 
from the faint tinkle of bells just as the hearse pulled away
and it was over.  And the story of his childhood fidelity:

a journey with his little sister, but money for just one ticket, 
and the young boy running, keeping up with the tram, 
re-assuring her with his steady wave.  That picture 
imprinted lightly on our day, our journeying, this finality. 
 
 

Christine De Luca
 


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or

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© The Welsh Border Morris Men 31/12/2004


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