The Poet's Legacy: Roger McGough's Archive and the Art of Letting Go
There’s something profoundly moving about a poet’s archive. It’s not just a collection of papers, drafts, and letters—it’s a window into the mind of someone who’s spent a lifetime crafting words into meaning. When the University of Liverpool announced its acquisition of Roger McGough’s entire archive, it wasn’t just a bureaucratic transaction; it was a cultural moment. Personally, I think this is more than just a preservation effort—it’s a celebration of a life lived through poetry, humor, and the kind of wit that only someone like McGough could wield.
Decluttering as an Act of Legacy
One thing that immediately stands out is McGough’s decision to part with his archive. At 88, he’s not just decluttering his house; he’s curating his legacy. What many people don’t realize is that letting go of personal artifacts is an act of trust—trust in the institution that will house them and trust in the future generations who will study them. McGough’s joke about selling empty filing cabinets is classic McGough humor, but it also hints at a deeper truth: the physical weight of a life’s work is often heavier than we imagine. By handing over his notebooks, manuscripts, and even his travel journals, he’s not just freeing up space in his home; he’s ensuring his voice endures.
Liverpool: The Only Home for McGough’s Words
From my perspective, the University of Liverpool’s role in this story is no accident. McGough’s roots in Liverpool are as deep as his poetry. As one of the Mersey Sound poets, alongside Brian Patten and Adrian Henri, he helped define a literary movement that was as much about place as it was about words. What this really suggests is that Liverpool isn’t just a city for McGough—it’s a muse, a character, and a stage. When he says, ‘Where else but Liverpool, really,’ he’s not just being modest; he’s acknowledging the symbiotic relationship between the artist and the city that shaped him.
The Archive as a Time Capsule
What makes this archive particularly fascinating is its breadth. It’s not just poetry drafts and published works; it’s a mosaic of cultural history. Correspondence with Victoria Wood, Eric Idle, Harold Wilson, and Philip Larkin? That’s a who’s who of 20th-century British culture. But it’s McGough’s relationship with Larkin that I find especially interesting. Larkin’s reputation as a ‘weird and miserable’ figure is well-known, but McGough’s memories of him as kind and encouraging challenge that narrative. If you take a step back and think about it, this archive isn’t just about McGough—it’s about the people who influenced him, the projects he worked on, and the moments that shaped his career.
‘Liverpudlianising’ the Yellow Submarine
A detail that I find especially interesting is McGough’s involvement in Yellow Submarine. The fact that he was brought in to ‘Liverpudlianise’ the script speaks volumes about his unique voice. What many people don’t realize is that the Beatles’ animated film was a cultural touchstone, but it was also a chaotic production. McGough’s role was to inject authenticity into a script that felt ‘too American.’ His willingness to work uncredited—and his casual acceptance of it—is a testament to his humility. But let’s be honest: if he’d gotten that credit, he’d probably be living in LA right now, surrounded by models on a beach. Instead, he’s in Liverpool, still writing, still laughing, still very much himself.
The Diaries: A Poet’s Everyday Life
One of the most intriguing parts of the archive, in my opinion, is McGough’s travel diaries. Hundreds of them. What happened to him, where he went, what he read, what he wore, what he ate—it’s the mundane details that often reveal the most about a person. What this really suggests is that poetry isn’t just about grand moments; it’s about the everyday. McGough’s ability to find humor and beauty in the ordinary is what makes his work so relatable. And let’s not forget his self-portrait from the 1960s—a brooding, undated piece that feels like a snapshot of his younger self, grappling with the world and his place in it.
The Broader Implications: Archives as Cultural Treasures
If you take a step back and think about it, this archive is part of a larger trend. Universities and institutions are increasingly becoming custodians of cultural history. The University of Liverpool already holds nearly two miles of archives, including Europe’s largest catalogued collection of science fiction material. Adding McGough’s work to this collection isn’t just about preserving his legacy; it’s about enriching our understanding of British culture, poetry, and the arts. This raises a deeper question: What does it mean to archive a life? And how do we ensure that these collections remain accessible and relevant to future generations?
Conclusion: The Poet’s Gift
In the end, McGough’s archive is a gift—not just to the University of Liverpool, but to anyone who cares about poetry, humor, and the human experience. Personally, I think what makes this story so compelling is its duality: it’s both a personal act of letting go and a public act of preservation. McGough’s words, his jokes, his memories—they’re all there, waiting to be discovered. And as he puts it in verse, ‘Honoured and Excited?’ Yes, we are. Because in this archive, we don’t just find a poet’s past; we find a piece of ourselves.
