Grant McKain was born in Irvine on the West coast of Scotland in 1982. He spent much of his childhood visiting Clydebank and Alva where his grandparents stayed and his gran still does in Clydebank. This is where he takes his inspiration. His memories of listening to their personal accounts of the war, the Blitz and the local communities have always stayed close to his heart as though he had lived those moments with them. After achieving an honours degree at the university of Bangor he worked as a buisness analyst in London and then moved onto credit underwriting and later became a fraud officer in Leeds for a leading bank. Grant has always been interested in writing, be it songs, short stories, poems or novels. He has spent the past 10 years concentrating on his band as a guitarist, drummer and singer/songwriter. Over the last decade Grant has pursued his musical career and has now decided to follow his dream as a writer. A passion of his and a hobby on the side that has always taken a back seat. Grant has completed a 10 week course in screenwriting with Douglas Dougan at the university of Edinburgh and also a 10 week course in creative writing under the tutelage of author Cathy McSporron at the university of Glasgow. Recently he has been published in the St Andrews parish church monthly magazine. Firstly with a poem dedicated to his late papa, who nurtured and brought out this creative streak of his. Secondly for a poem commemorating the Clydebank Blitz.

Red River

Red river, red river, how ye burn the night,
 An therr in the distance see the luftwaffe flight. The thunder of the parachute fallin as though a feather,
 then as it nears the ground wi eyes full of terror. Crack in the landscape, the dull and the pain,
 takes the face aff the tenements and the breath of the slain. ‘Son, get oan yer wey quickly an mind ye don’t faw’,
 ‘But where is ma faither, ma sister, ma Maw?’ The answer wiz gone tae the wind and the roar,
 as the next wave of planes did dive an then soar. …Read more

The Fit

Neck flexed, Stomach vexed, Cryin’ oot in vain, Held high, Bye bye, Cryin’ oot in pain, The fit. So low, Nae show, Hing yer heid in shame, Dim light, Short sight, Who’s the wan tae blame, The fit.

The Evacuation

It’s so quiet doon oan Clydeside, nae bankies walkin’, moved away, sent away, deid or broken, nae found or lost in an unmarked grave, where wull ah end up? Be sent tae Dumfries or Anniesland Cross? When aw ah want tae dae is see ma faimley, In Radnor Park or North Elgin Street, Wull ah join the hameguard? Or face the blitzkrieg o’ the devil his sel
, Sgt McKain Sir, ack ack, at the blast, Blazin’, Ye’d huv tae beloody mental  ah Bankie, whit ye never hit, we knocked doon oor sels.

Anti Psychotic Day Dreamin’

Jist naw cut oot furra modern world, Looks kin deceive, Find it haird tae breath, Kin ye recognise the signs? Naw surprises please, Naw sunrises when the dark comes doon, Hat pulled straight upon the brow tae cover the pain that the eyes reveal. Whit is real? Kin it heal? This is jist a question, Wan o’ the chosen few, So how does it annoy ye? Anti psychotic day dreamin’, When the mind did spin, Where tae begin, Upon the lang lie in, Wi’ the mooth so dry, Ye ask why? Anti psychotic day dreamin’, Watch the sugar intake, Fur …Read more

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