Not Quite A Coffee Morning

     On the last Wednesday of each month, myself and a group of like minded people, meet: to read and talk about poetry. It is all very leisurely; and no one is out to impress with their store of knowledge. In fact, the more far reaching technical aspects of poetry, are seldom discussed. People know what they like, and are often especially pleased when they make a discovery that they can share. And the poetry can range from highbrow to lowbrow. Here is an example of a lowbrow poem that at last months meeting gave pleasure to everyone; and as far as I recall, no one had heard of its author, Peggy Pool. The poem is, Taking Her Work Home:

The management would like to apologise
That the meal that should have arrived
At half-past six has, due to staff
Shortages, been unavoidably delayed.

This is a security announcement:
Will the daughter who left
A plastic carrier bag
In the middle of the stairs

Please remove it at once.
Failure to do so will mean
It will be blown up by a robot.
Unattended baggage is a hazard.

If Bob Reid is on the premises
- Sir Bob Reid -
Will he please come to the kitchen
Where he is urgently needed.

The moon, which is now full,
Shining through the window,
Will call at Melbourne, Liverpool,
Paris, Geneva, Montreal, Moscow.

And anywhere anyone might want to go.
Owing to the wrong sort of passenger
We have to announce the cancellation
f all future services from tomorrow.

_____

As the title of this poem implies, things are not going well at home, the voice in the poem, clearly having had a bad day at the office. And almost certainly they had to get there by train, which is why there is some disorder in the construction of the poem, besides it being a spoof on the sort of experiences, (sometimes of an absurd nature) that people had, when travelling to work by train: a network that was once known as, "British Rail". And for those of you who don't know, "Sir Bob Reid", was Chairman of British Rail.

And I have done a little research on Peggy Poole. Quick as a click, I found her on Google; and, without going beyond the initial reference, I discovered this:

"Marigolds Grow Wild On Platforms: An Anthology of Railway Poetry... The editor of this collection, Peggy Poole, is herself a poet, and was drawn to the magic of railways when changing trains at Preston Station...."

And here is one of the highbrow poems, (more or less), that was presented at the meeting:

Piano
By D. H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dark, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside.
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato.
The glamour of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance. I weep like a child for the past.
_____

Now while the first poem produced a response of laughter born of experience, this poem provoked a more thoughtful reaction. Among them, Jackie, (not her real name), recalled her own childhood experience of sitting under the piano while it was played at home; and that lead to a wider discussion on the significance of the piano in childhood: some sixty or seventy years ago. It was remarked how even families of very modest means, had a piano, that became the focal point for family entertainment. And Bob, reflected on what he saw as the striking contrast in Lawrence as he presents himself in poetry rather than prose. In Piano, for example, he is emotionally vulnerable to the point of tears. As for myself, it was only when I asked for someone to explain the significance of the phrase "Betrays me back", and it was pointed out that there were two singers in the poem, that I began to appreciate the poem in its fullness.

On a good day: when everyone is feeling well, and no one has to look after grandchildren, there are ten of us at these meetings: among them, former teachers, a retired youth worker, an ex civil servant, an insurance salesman. And at this last meeting, there were several new faces, people who had joined the group while we were in Sardinia, and whom I have yet to get to know.

My own poem, The Ballad of The Bread Man, is a good example of poetry that falls somewhere between the two. It is by the very popular poet Charles Causley, who claimed, despite his many other publications, that he could have lived comfortably on the royalties from his poem Timothy Winters. I came across The Ballad Of The Bread Man while engaged in the painful process of compiling a computer index of all the poetry that I have here, under the heading, Poems by Author. That way, I can see at a glance what I have by any given writer, whose work may be found in any number of separate books.

The Ballad of The Bread Man

Mary stood in the kitchen
   Baking a loaf of bread.
An angel flew in through the window,
   "We've a job for you," he said.

"God in his big gold heaven,
   Sitting in his big blue chair,
Wanted a mother for his little son.
   Suddenly saw you there."

Mary shook and trembled,
   "It isn't true what you say."
"Don't say that," said the angel.
   "The baby's on its way."

Joseph was in the workshop
   Planing a piece of wood.
"The old man's past it," the neighbours said.
   "The girl's been up to no good."

"And who was that elegant fellow,"
   They said, "in the shiny gear?"
The things they said about Gabriel
   Were hardly fit to hear.

Mary never answered,
   Mary never replied
She kept the information,
   Like the baby, safe inside.

It was election winter.
   They were to vote in town.
When Mary found that her time had come
   The hotels let her down.

The baby was born in an annexe
   Next to the local pub
At midnight a delegation
   Turned up from the Farmer's Club.

They talked about an explosion
   That made a hole in the sky,
Said they'd been sent to the Lamb and Flag
   To see God come down from on high.

A few days later a bishop
   And a five star general were seen
With the head of an African country
   In a bullet-proof limousine.

"We've come," they said, "with tokens
   For the little boy to choose."
Told the tale about war and peace
   In the television news.

After them came the soldiers
   With rifle and bomb and gun,
Looking for enemies of the state
   The family had panicked and gone.

When they got back to the village
   The neighbours said, to a man,
"That boy will never be one of us,
   Though he does what he blessed well can."

He went round to all the people
   A paper crown on his head.
Here is some bread from my father,
   Take, eat, he said.

Nobody seemed very hungry.
   Nobody seemed to care.
Nobody saw the God in himself
   Quietly standing there.

He finished up in the papers.
   He came to a very bad end.
He was charged with bringing the living to life.
   No man was that prisoners friend.

There's only one kind of punishment
   To fit that kind of a crime.
They rigged a trial and shot him dead.
   They were only just in time.

They lifted the young man by the leg,
   They lifted him by the arms,
They locked him in a cathedral
   In case he came to harm.

They stored him safe in water
   Under seven rocks.
One Sunday morning he burst out
   Like a jack-in-the-box.

Through the town he went walking.
   He showed them the holes in his head.
Now do you want any loaves? he cried.
   "Not today," they said.

_____

When I first came across this poem, I liked it for its simplicity and ease of rhythm. It had too, a folksy feel to it, which was why I saw it as a performance piece. And I saw it also, as a contemporary rendition of the Christmas Story. But in this last regard, I changed my mind. Yes, it alludes to the Christmas story, but it seemed to me that it was a decidedly contemporary poem, about injustice and indifference, (even when the evidence of injustice, is compelling). But you could reasonably argue that the poem, (in the context of the life of Christ), is a continuation of the Christmas story, for in a deceptively simple format, it poses the question, What has changed?

Well I was in full flow and getting a good response at key moments in the poem, when a mobile phone began ringing, very loudly. I was dismayed; but so as not to embarrass the person whose phone it was, I kept reading; and hoping, against hope, that it would stop. But as I kept reading, it kept ringing, until I found myself in competition with a conversation. For though the miscreant had adjourned to the hall, every word could be heard clearly.

Now, in telling you this, I must make the point, that the phone ringing and interrupting my reading of the poem, was a mishap, for nothing like it had happened in the past. But given that it did happen, it was hardly surprising that when I had finished, the response was slow in coming; something that I helped along by asking who they thought the poem was for: children or adults. Well not withstanding the easy rhythm, and mindful of Timothy Winters, we were agreed that it was an adult poem. And we spoke briefly about the lines "Nobody saw the god in himself," and, "He was charged with bringing the living to life". And given the care that was bestowed on the corpse in the poem, we talked in a contemporary context, of how the dead, as distinct from the living, are remembered: especially in the context of war. And none of us had a satisfactory explanation for these lines:

"They stored him safe in water
   Under seven rocks."

Well, what prompted me to share these reminiscences with you, is the fact that I have already decided on the poem that I will take to our next meeting, which, for me, is unusual. For, more often than not, I leave the decision to the last moment. And my choice was determined by the discussion, (prompted by my poem), that we had in respect of the dead v the living. The poem, Disabled, is by Wilfred Owen, and not withstanding its quality, it is never referenced when referring to his work. He was a First World War poet: a young man killed in action just a week before the Armistice. Almost certainly the idea for the poem, if not the detail, was born of experience. Suffering from shellshock, he was evacuated from the front in 1917 and hospitalised for a time at Craiglockhart in Scotland. It was there that he met the poets, Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Graves. And in a letter to his brother he wrote:

"On Sat. I met Robert Graves....No doubt he saw me a slacker sort of sub. SS [Siegfried Sassoon] when they were together showed him my longish war-piece "Disabled" (you haven't seen it) & it seems Greaves was mightily impressed, and considers me a kind of Find!! No thanks, Captain Graves! I'll find myself in due time."

Disabled, is a timeless poem: deeply sensitive and rich in contrast and shades of meaning; and in the context of the central character, (who isn't given a name), it represents at every level, a monumental tragedy:

                  Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep mothered them from him.

                 * * *

About this time, Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, -
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

                   * * *

There was an artist silly for his face
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

                  * * *

One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why, and maybe too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie, aged nineteen years.

                    * * *

Germany he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of fear came yet. He though of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

                      * * *

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him, and then enquired about his soul.

                    * * *

Now he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come.

_____


© Cormac McCloskey (Poems excluded)
Peggy Poole

A distinguished writer, broadcaser, and tutor. By the standards of the Web, it wasn't easy finding biographical detail. but, I managed it - here

Taking Her Work Home
from, Marigolds Grow Wild on Platforms
Caselle, 1996, ISBN 0 304 34776 0
Editor, Peggy Poole

Piano, D. H. Lawrence, 1885-1930
Charles Causley 1917-2003. Web site - here
The Ballad Of The Bread Man, from:
The Rattle Bag
Editors, Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes
Publisher, Faber and Faber 1982
ISBN 0-571-11976-X

Wilfred Owen 1893-1918
Disabled, from:
The Poetry of Wilfred Owen
Editor, Jon Stallworthy
Hogarth Press, London 1989
ISBN 0 7012 1015 X
"Esprit de corps" In this case, relating to the spirit or attitude of young men of his age..
Siegfried Sassoon 1886-1967
Robert Graves 1895-1985

Note: This blog, "Not Quite A Coffee Morning". was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 1st November 2009