My poetry from days of yore....

Life is like a road" some say and you never know exactly what is around the corner. Life is like a road and the journey itself is home, that's another one, Basho this time, a Japanese guy.

Speaking of life being a road, it reminds me of a comedy TV show from bygone days. It featured this old guy who strolled out onto a veranda and gave a homely message of words that his old grandpappy used to say, ruminating upon their wisdom. At the final laugh-line an umbrella handle would appear from stage right and hook him round the neck and whip him off.

He appeared once and said:- "My old grandpappy used to say, life is like a road". At this the old guy nodded and ruminated with profound agreement. Then said:- "I mean, when you see those cats-eyes down the centre of the road they sort of suggest.........well, the tarmac on the road kind of reminds you of.........the paving stones each side of the road seems to........" Then the old guy exclaims, " Come to think of it, life ain't nothing like a road! " Then out comes the umbrella, hooking him off.

Well, is life like a road? I suppose, as Dogen (pronounced Dough-gan) said, "we are what we understand".

Whatever, the "road" is terrible at times, if not for us, then for others. Newsreels, and stories and pictures from any week. Little kiddies the same age as my own grandchildren, loved to bits. Other children bewildered. Children are resilient yet what do they make of our world, their road? Here I have the freedom so many there can only dream of.

Sometimes my mind turns to "Holy" books, of how we, the human family, can't even agree which book is the one, if there is indeed one at all, written by God. Then, among those who choose a particular book, again dispute its "meaning". All needing commentaries, study guides, and what-not. One of the books claims that eventually "a little child shall lead them".....which seems pretty far fetched. Possibly if the book said "Go to Bank and Collect £200" no commentary or involved hermeneutics would be needed. But often the book will simply say "love one another" or "be merciful" so we all reach for the commentaries, or hope that some guru or theologian will explain the technicalities. "Is that dual.....or non-dual".......or "what's in it for me?"

Well, a rather long intro to another poem of mine. Somewhere else I waffled about "authenticity" and of a comment by Dogen that no matter how "low" anyone's symbols were, if the person gave their all then they were "entitled to enlightenment". I was reminded of this when I found the following in my old books.....

[i]Love is where you give the most
No inner warmth or starry host
Eternal, waiting to be caught
Waiting for the words 'I ought'

All our lives spent searching for
A roaring wind , a Holy Law
When our love, all the while
Was in a word or in a smile[/i]

There is another old poem that I remember. (Relevant again now after another incident much the same very recently in Morocco) At the time of writing it I remember even now a great deal of anguish. It came from a news story, of a young boy, just five or so, who fell down a man-hole. His mother rushed to the opening but he was too far down. Soon a rescue squad arrived, a microphone was set up. His mother could hear the little boys cries. Calling for his mother. Eventually one guy went down on a rope. At one point his hands and the hand of the little boy clasped each other, but then slid apart because of the slime. The little lad slid away.

Basically, that is the end of it. I found it all shocking at the time and I think anyone will still find it so if they still have......what can you call it....... "imagination". I see from my old book the use of much tippex as I tried different words. But really, what words could ever be adequate?

The boy was called Alfredo, my poem "Alfredo is it dark?"

[i]Curled within your shocking tomb
As once within your mother's womb
(Alfredo, is it dark?)

On microphone, soul destroying
Hear the muffled fearful crying
(Alfredo is it dark?)

When you lie so far below
Can any stand and worship now.
(Alfredo is it dark?)

The horror of your mother's grief
Rips the heart of all belief

Far beyond the empty skies
The still and silent figure lies
Drawn the final muddied breath
Died, the tiny lonely death[/i]


At the time I was into Theodicy, the attempt to justify God in the face of our world's evil and suffering. Sometimes I thought that I had "the answer" but I now think any "answers" are virtually blasphemy. The "answer" does not rest in any "belief" but is found at another level of being (or non-being).

Well, little or no interest, but I'll carry on.

I quite like Samuel Beckett and possibly "Waiting for Godot" is most people's favourite, even the only play of his that they have heard of. Not exactly a bundle of laughs but it does have its lighter moments. But I was thinking of another, "Krapp's Last Tape". I think maybe Beckett was enjoying a bit of wordplay with "Krapp's" but I'll leave that aside, this being a family forum...😜

"Krapp's Last Tape" is about this guy who every few years or so records himself spouting off about whatever. Then, years later, he listens in. And finds he has lost connection with who he "was". His last tape is now being listened to and really, he can still make no real connection. Typical Beckett, a great writer. One of our finest, at least I think so. Me, I think we can try desperately to make "connection" with our past "selves" but then, who are "we"?

So here I am, reading/posting again poems written many years ago. I can recognise myself at times but there seems little point.

Here is another poem, written in a deliberately boring monotone (so what's different from the others I hear some say) About Current Affairs programmes that we can find ourselves listening to, genning ourselves up, the "concerned citizen", then we can pop off to Costa's and forget all about it.

[i]Those programmes are always the same;
Those Current Affairs programmes are always the same.
The editions that deal with some new war,
Those programmes are always the same.
First the historical background is given;
How historically the conflict arose,
How the crisis began - such information is given.
Then the World Perspective is given;
Everything is put into context.
The conflict is put into focus.
The Superpowers - all are placed in perspective.
The relevant politicians are referred to;
The words and attitudes of the relevant politicians are referred to;
A relevant speech of a relevant politician is referred to.
There is some in-depth analysis.
Then some film is shown of the actual battle area;
The areas actually touched by the conflict are shown.
Where the bombs have fallen - some film is shown.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then various solutions to the crisis are discussed;
Various proposals for resolving the conflict are discussed.
The various experts discuss the various proposals.
Those programmes are always the same.
[/i]

I remember once when the famous UK Red Arrows put on a display very close by where we lived. They roared overhead. Even though they were "friendly" the roar shook me and had a frightening aspect. I thought (and think now) the effect such noise has on young children in war zones, knowing that missiles of destruction can wipe away everything in an instance. I think of my own grandchildren. It's enough to make me weep.

I once lived next door to a couple who had a fairly severely handicapped son, Georgie. One day as I left my house a lady was chatting to the mother and the little lad was in his pushchair. As I passed by the lady reached down and tousled his hair and said:- "He's a little angel." I don't know why but I felt anger at her words, as if the little lad was being betrayed in some way.

Anyway, I wrote this....

[i]see no wings on georgie
else he would be bound
set no seal upon him
place no fences round

see him not as what he could be
what he should or what he would be
see him as he is before you
love the living truth, see georgie

hope for guidance, hold no answers
in the mornings when you wake him
as he casts his eyes upon you
your response can make or break him
[/i]

Since then I've spent a few days now and again at a Playground for Special Needs Children, where my daughter was supervisor. Once I asked her, about a particular child:- "What's wrong with that one?" and she just said: - "You don't have to know what's wrong with them, you just treat them for the child that they are."

I mentioned this to her once, saying it was something I had learnt from her. She told me that she had learnt it herself from the previous supervisor, a lady called Di. I had met Di once, and have a memory of her at the Playground being struck over the head repeatedly by an irate child. Di just went down slowly under the blows - they were a bit vicious but not life threatening! - and she had a smile on her face. A lovely lady, who died far too young of cancer.

We all went to Di's funeral service, a church full, many young children, a moving chorus of everyone singing "The Wheels on the Bus".

I'll finish here with a poem by another, Laura Gilpin. I always think of it when my mind turns to so called "special needs" children......I tend to think that we are ALL special needs.

The Two-headed Calf

[i]Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.[/i]

Often here on SW a post that involves Religion draws a few responses. So, rummaging through my back catalogue, a poem written about the dubious experience of a Church Service....

[i]Our breath like demons casted out
Our noses pinched by frost and doubt
We faithful wend our Narrow Way
Betwixt the graveyard's clodded clay.
Soon the cold stone church is reached
Wherein the Crucified is preached
Demeanours miserable as sin
With solemn gait we enter in.
Then, sought and found, a frozen pew
We seat ourselves, the Chosen Few
Beneath the stained glass windows glow
Black-bibled all, row on row.
Too soon the vicar comes (with style)
Replete with oily, plastic smile
And all resigned we hear him say:-
"Welcome all, now let us pray"
Heads all bend in pious prayer
The God Man's words fly thick and fair
(Some brethren muse upon Good News
Others contemplate their shoes)
Then heads are raised, the organ booms
Throats are cleared, the first hymn looms
Hymn-book pages softly rustle
Through the flock a gentle bustle
And then all sing of Love Eternal
Voices torn and cracked, infernal
All wondering at God's wondrous ways
That turns such discord into praise.
Watched by the Vicar's gimlet eye
More hymns and prayers pass by and by
Then to his pulpit, proud he goes,
To spout his Sermon's sundry woes.
It's "Woe to this" and "woe to that"
And "woe to those who chit and chat"
It's "woe to those who smile and sing"
Woe to almost everything!
But joy! yes joy! to those who mourn
To those whose yokes are bravely borne.
To everyone now graced by dread:-
"You can all start living once you're dead"
Then down he comes, another hymn
Its words unyielding, stark and grim.
But then at last! an end to woe!
Those Holy Words "You now can go"
We shuffle out into the aisle
Shuffle up it, single file.
Just one thing now to look out for
The silver plate beside the door.
We all approach it in a line
Each fumbling for our smallest coin.
The vicar's eyes speak loud and clear:-
"Please, no Widow's Mites in here"
And so we place a note instead
And passed the vicar proudly tread
And so on through the oak door where
We breathe once more the Lords fresh air.[/i]

I think I said somewhere that these poems were from my twenties, but one or two must have been when I was in my early thirties as they centre upon the Falklands War. One was written after that war had ended. The country was awash with the so-called Falklands Spirit. There was to be a Victory Parade. Margaret Thatcher declared that it was not possible to accommodate wheelchairs or the like, either in the parade or in the Church service afterwards. These days such a decision would have, quite rightly, brought outrage. Back then, it was accepted with barely a whimper.

I wrote this, "Falkland's Victory Parade"

[i]Keep well to the back there boys,
There's no votes to be won by you,
It's only the able in body and mind
We want in the public view.

No wheelchairs now, no white sticks;
I'm sorry - they must be banned,
To preserve the new found unity
That's spreading through our land.

We need just the beat of marching feet
That bursts the heart with pride;
Even, perhaps, a prayer or two
For the ones who fought and died.

So please, keep well to the back boys,
Let the healthy take your bow.
We all enjoyed the battle -
Don't go and spoil it now.
[/i]

Anyway, I found a short verse that was also written following the Falklands War. I wrote this after watching the news, another plane landing at the RAF base at Brize Norton with returned servicemen. A tape would be put across to hold back the families, women and children mostly. The soldiers would disembark and at some point the tape would be breached and the little kiddies would run towards their dads. Soon after came another news item, this from Buenos Aires, a funeral cortege for young airmen killed in the conflict. Following the coffins were the mothers, faces torn with grief, wringing their hands.

My poem is inadequate, so just one short verse, but thinking back, trying to make some connection for better or for worse, I'm glad I wrote it:-

[i]the faces of grief are on the march
far from where reunions bless
(where sons and daughters are lifted high
by arms returned to tenderness)[/i]

Anyway, enough for now. There seems little interest.

Others may speak of being "born again" and
the danger is, as I see it, declaring oneself so simply divides oneself from others, seen - even judged - as the once born. A "decision" seen as the decisive factor. a decision they have made, thus in effect, a "salvation by works" no matter how dressed up in theologiacal jargon. I'm happy with Trust, that nothing is concealed, that we are what we understand.

Yet though reality is transparent, though the only extension to the present is intensity and vividness, nevertheless deeper intimacy with Reality is on-going, to be forever penetrated. In theistic terms, faith seeking understanding.

So some can speak of having seen "beyond the veil", or of having "awakened", whatever. I have no idea what they are talking about and I hesitate to engage again simply because I don't think they will understand me. All a bit pointless.

The noise of others drowns me out. Here are a couple of poems wot I wrote (as Ernie Wise would say) , possibly they could be called Christian in some sense. Written about 45 years ago.

Palm Sunday

[i]I was standing on some low ground
Near the road to Bethany
When suddenly the distant sound
Of cheering came to me.

I looked up, saw a distant crowd
Where rocks and roadside met
But what was causing cries so loud
I could not see as yet.

Within my heart a wonder flowed -
A longing to draw near,
Yet as I reached the winding road
I found the way was clear.

The cheering crowds had moved away,
Left nothing to be found.
Just dust upon the beaten clay
And palm leaves scattered round.
[/i]

The second was "inspired" by another poem of one of my favorites, Philip Larkin, his poem "Church Going". I was experimenting with "half rhymes"......

[i]Once shield and witness to a faith
A platitude become
A church in silence offers now
No homage to the Son

So solitary building
Whatever be one's taste
More suggestive of bazaars
Than any saving grace

Impossible to comprehend
That stone of such reserve
Once shook in exaltation
As host to second birth

That offers now but of itself
No kingdoms to endow
No longer with compulsion acts
But as our saviour now[/i]

Thank you

I have often come in for some stick on various forums for my extensive use of Quotes. To quote (😀) A.A.Milne, the creator of Winnie the Pooh:- "A quotation is a handy thing to have about, saving one the trouble of thinking for oneself, always a laborious business. " We must think for ourselves, be ourselves, cry the ardent. Yes indeed!

My next ancient ode seems appropriate to the idea of "thinking for oneself", perhaps suggesting that I was ruminating on such things about 50 years ago!

I was struck once when hearing an office colleague offer some sort of response in a situation. Being instinctively judgemental I saw "fault", a lack of sincerity, a grasping after "received truths" and saw no "heart".

Anyway....

[i]Convention speaks
The heart is dead
Only the remembered said.

The mind revolves
Within its files
Choosing words
And picking smiles
To convey to watching eyes
If the heart laughs or cries.

But it does neither.
It is dead.
Only the remembered said.[/i]

Anyway, back to quotes, and of "being oneself", here is one of my favorite Dharma writers, Stephen Batchelor.

After speaking of a psuedo integrity that responds to a moral dilemma only by repeating the gestures and words of a parent, an authority figure or a religious text, he writes:-

[i]( we sometimes act ).... in a way that startles us. A friend asks our advice about a tricky moral choice. Yet instead of offering him consoling platitudes or the wisdom of someone else, we say something that we did not know we knew. Such gestures and words spring from body and tongue with shocking spontaneity. We cannot call them "mine" but neither have we copied them from others. Compassion has dissolved the stranglehold of self. And we taste, for a few exhilarating seconds, the creative freedom of awakening.
[/i]

We had relatives down in a small village near the coast. We would walk our then young daughter around a park. Often we would see a mother and her teenage son walking across the grass, I think between the village shop and their home. A bit ungainly, the young lad was a downs child. He was always holding his mum's hand. We mentioned to our relatives once that we had not seen the couple for a while and were told that the mother had died and that the young boy could not really understand. He kept asking where his mum had gone.

Anyway, at the time I wrote this....

[i]he did not understand where his mum had gone
his mind was childlike and fed upon
small things and the living of day to day
more than on what the religions say
that death came through Adam eating the apple
and suchlike - his mind just could not grapple
with justifications for evil and such
he could not be expected to worry much
and never did - just smiled as he walked
beside his mum and talked
to her - because only she could understand
the awkward shaking of his hand
and everything he had to say
and all he needed in each day

O Christ, it hurts to dwell upon
his simple question - where's mum gone?[/i]

Once I spent time at a sports club for the physically handicapped and when first there there were three downs youngsters. To begin with you see the obvious similarities of their features but in time they became what they were, unique individuals with their own names. It really is a blessing. The beauty of difference.

A final poem, just for a larf, a long lost poem written in honour of an old accounts office colleague, one who would be called today a fellow Team Member. This guy taught me all I ever knew about office work, including the best tip of all i.e. if you should get any document or piece of paper that you don't know what to do with, simply stick it in your bottom drawer and if no one asks about in the next three months, bin it. This one tip alone made my long office career so much more smooth and painless.

Anyway, Paul Hunter was his name. One Christmas time our boss - a lay preacher - invited us all up to the local pub for a Christmas drink. Paul however made his excuses and avoided the whole event. On our return to work our boss opened a packet of shortcake biscuits (of a famous brand) and walked around the office handing them out. He walked straight past Paul - this a quite magnificent witness to what I think is called "christian charity".

As the self appointed office poet laureate I composed the following to commemorate the event:-

[i]Now Hunter was an adder
In Marine Accounts A8
And twas the time for Christmas drinks
When Hunter sealed his fate
As all the office supped their ale
Old Hunter upped and missed it
Alas he had to pay the price
No Crawford's Shortcake Biscuit![/i]


Well, that is it.

Here is another, and while coming from yesteryear remains particularly striking in a very emotional way........this because eventually my own mother declined with dementia, and her last three or so years were particularly stressful in many ways. So my words, written before this happened, made me think of those who may have just passed my own mother by as she must sometimes have stood, bewildered and lost.


And When She Had Gone, Pity Came

[i]She seemed to have no yesterdays
And very little else
As she stood alone in the passing crowds
Staring, talking to herself.

I approached her with a numbing dread.
Would she turn to me and speak
And isolate me from a kinship made
With all others on that street?

But I had no need to worry -
Her mouth gaped and trembled wide;
So I passed her without a sideways glance
And left her far behind.

Yet looked back. She had moved at last
To the pavements edge, still lost -
(I remember thinking how strange it seemed
That she looked before she crossed)[/i]