Ian McMillan is one of the UK's best-loved poets and performers, and his new verse memoir exudes an easygoing warmth. This is a self-deprecating self-portrait, in which McMillan presents himself as the innocent bystander to a surreal life: in one episode he finds himself fronting a folk band called Oscar and the Frog, playing Acker Bilk songs on a watering can for a crowd of heavy metal fanatics (The Worst Gig Ever, June 1979).

Degree is another laugh-out-loud-funny poem about his experience of working on a building site. He quickly learns that working-class solidarity can be a one-way street (“They used to set fire to my Guardian in the cabin; / It was funny for the first three weeks”), and he soon acquires a new nickname: “We'll call thi degree cos tha's got a degree”.

On a second reading, you feel the poignancy behind the humour; Degree is describing bullying after all, and there is a melancholy undertow throughout. The book begins and ends with elegies for the poet's mother, and several poems hint at the isolation that any especially bright child will experience. Adult Fiction is a hymn of praise to the library where, as a child, McMillan was often the only customer on summer evenings. The poem ends with the librarian locking up for the night:

And then she would turn the light off and lock the door
And go to her little car and drive off into the night
That was slowly turning the colour of ink and I would stand
For two minutes and then I'd walk over to the dark library
And just stand in front of the dark library.

Occasionally poignancy tips over into sentimentality, something the younger, spikier, McMillan would not have allowed. But the book's casual ease is the secret of its success. The best poems here have an attractive unbidden quality, and McMillan conveys their gift status to the reader. Dam Flask Days, 1965 is a short prose poem that describes a childhood memory of a rainy fishing expedition. The poem ends as follows:

Better than work my dad says, and for some reason he's laughing so much he's crying. Uncle Jack is cracking eggs into a cup and adding brandy. Uncle Jack fought in the war and he remembers General Mark Clark driving past him in a jeep in the desert. My dad fought in the war and he remembers carrying naked sailors back from brothels through the streets of Shanghai. But let them enjoy their eggs in the rain.

As the oddly touching last line makes clear, McMillan is reluctant to intrude on the scene: we don't find out why his father is laughing, and those hints about war memories are not pursued. Talking Myself Home has a relaxed generosity and it is impossible not to be charmed by it.

Talking Myself Home by Ian McMillan
John Murray, £10; 96pp Buy the book here

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