Remembering Adrian Mitchell

I was delighted to see that the book of poems commemorating Adrian Mitchell, Adrian — Scotland Celebrates Adrian Mitchell, edited by Chrys Salt and John Hudson, which is being published and launched in late October, has made the news. The article in the Times makes play of the book's claiming Adrian as Scottish - his father was - but also acknowledges Adrian's view of himself as a blend of many influences - he described himself as "a socialist-anarchist-pacifist-Blakeist-revolutionary".

I don't remember Adrian as being anything but Mitchellish - the United States of Mitchell being a utopian headspace anyone who was gentle, angry, joyous and kind-as-often-as-possible could join if they had a mind to.

He was one of a few of my father's friends whose presence was always welcome in my life. A sometimes stern but always genial avuncular figure, whose approach to poetry most influenced me at an early age, his words were the ones that followed me to and from school and at nearly all points in between.In my teens I used to go to parties at his house in Hampstead with my father - parties which could have been overwhelming events for a teenager, given that they were stuffed with actors, poets, musicians and any number of other interesting people, but for the fact that Adrian's generosity, presence and good nature swiftly evaporated all feelings of over-stimulated nausea. I remember one, aged 15 or so, at which I bumped into Jonathan Pryce on the stairs. I'd not long before seen Terry Gilliam's Brazil and stood there looking like a fish struggling with the angler's hook, until I was coaxed away by Adrian.

In the early 1990s, just as I was beginning to find my feet as a poet, Adrian became poetry editor at the New Statesman. I nervously sent a few poems to him - so nervously that I neglected to include a stamped addressed envelope. He wrote back, gently telling me that the poems showed promise but weren't going to be published and that, in future, it would always be looked upon kindly by harassed poetry editors if the submission came accompanied by an SAE. I don't think I've been told off so sweetly and caringly before or since - I wish I could find the letter.

I saw Adrian infrequently in the last ten years or so, but it was always a joy, be it at Glastonbury Festival's Poetry and Words tent (he was the one calm man in a sea of frenetic bacchanalia that year) or in Stroud, where he came regularly to read and see the poets Dennis Gould and Jeff Cloves. I miss his ebullient fire, though his books and recordings are a fine reminder of it.

I should add at this point that Adrian — Scotland Celebrates Adrian Mitchell - doesn't just contain Scottish poets. There's a few of his old non-Scottish friends, including my father, Pete Brown and Paul McCartney. And there's a poem by me, inspired by the memory of his parties. I can't claim any Scottish blood or connection (other than I like the country and have red hair - although that comes from the Jewish side of my family). I would, anyway, rather be Mitchellish than English, Scottish, Jewish or whatever.  It's an honour, though, to be in fine company, in a fine book, commemorating such a very fine man.

To read more about the book, and to order it online, click here.