Out and About

Some years ago when our Chinese student's "William" and "Mystery" were returning home, I gave each of them a bound copy of a book that I had compiled on the history of Norwich &. Norfolk. Much of it would have been of immediate interest, but I had also taken a long term view, and included a few items that were more likely to be appreciated in a few years time. And it wasn't all about Norwich & Norfolk, for in the personal letter to each, that formed the introduction to the book, I made reference to two famous people from China, one of whom, had come to England over a hundred years ago, and while here, had written a  long poem in which he longed for home. The poet was Huang Tsun-hsien, and his poem was, Ballad of the Great London Fog:

The blue sky has died, the yellow sky rises;

Oceans churn, clouds reverse, spirits assemble.
Suddenly heaven appears drunk and God dreams in a stupor,
The whole country sinks into confusion at the loss of the sun.
Vast and boundless, the nation is confused, muddled;
Dark and hazy, like the black, sweet land of slumber.

I sit in my ladle-size room several months,
Facing the wall, I worship the king, the lamp.
I cannot tell if it's morning or night;
I cannot distinguish north from south.
Flickering low my wick burns green,
While everywhere, fly Armageddon's black ashes.

I feel like crossing the desert's endless yellow sand,
Or probing a bottomless cavern too dark to measure.
Things transform into dust, and the dust is blackened;
I watch the air, but the air is ink.
No names can be given to these colours or shapes;
Our eyes and nose are all blocked up.
How could we find another creator P'an-ku
To come forward and reopen the skies?
Could this have been the work of the devil's
Stirring the sea and beating up the waters?
Suddenly we plunge into the boundless night of Avici Hell;
Startled by this evil wind that drove our ship to Demon Land.
I go outdoors but cannot take more than one inch strides;
Everywhere on the Boulevards is the sound of bells.
Carriages and horses disappear and hide like roosting chickens;
In this mirage of towers and pavilions, the air stinks.
Heaven's net is firmly spread, yet a hole appears,
When we see the suns' red wheel, coloured like blood.
Dim, dim, not enough light to irritate the eyes:
Pallid and chill, it can't even warm my hands.

I have heard that the earth circles the sun, the moon circles the earth;
Now the English colonies spread over five continents.
There is nowhere the red English sun does not shine;
It's glory extends far and wide to the horizons end.
But who would have thought that their capital can't see the sun?
And people here are worried the sky is going to fall!
I have also heard the earth's moisture evaporates to form rain;
And clever mathematicians can calculate the number of
      Raindrops.
This nation has always made its home on the water-
Not to mention the smoke from ten million hearths.
If you could add up all the fog within the Four Seas inch by inch,
It would still be less than the fog in London City!
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The other person of note was Ch'iu Chin, who, in 1907 at the age of thirty, was executed, by beheading, for her revolutionary activity. "A poet, writer, and educator, orator and feminist." And while I didn't include any of her work, I drew William and Mystery's attention to this line form one of her poems, which I considered to be a useful motto: "I pledge to seek the road of life in the jaws of death."

What I had hooped to achieve by introducing this note of patriotism, was to help William and Mystery to return home with a strong sense of pride and love of their own country, mindful as I was, of how big and impressive the cultural gap is for children who come to England from China, as compared to those who come from mainland Europe.

In the introduction to the poetry of Ch'iu Chin, Pao Chia-Lin offers this description of her writing:

"The freedom of form she demanded as a poet was accompanied by the choice of a strongly personal style. Her verse is expressed in a simple, vigorous, direct language, and it eschews the heavy weight of historical and literary allusions so common to traditionalist poetics. Feminism, heroism, and revolution are themes commonly encountered in her poetry, and the strong note of patriotism she sounds in many poems reveals a deep personal sense of mission and a determination to sacrifice herself to the revolutionary cause."

Qualities, self-evidently present in her poem, A Song of the Precious Knife:

The palaces of the House of Han lie in the setting sun;
Dead is this ancient country of five Millennia.
Sunk deep in sleep these several hundred years,
No one recognises the shame of being enslaved.
Remember our ancient ancestor Hsien-yuan by name,
Who, born and raised in the K'un-lun mountains,
Expanded our domain to the Yellow and Yangtze rivers,
With great knives flashing conquered the Central Plain.

Then, a painful cry from Plum Mountain, what could be done?
The imperial city filled with brambles, the bronze camels buried.
How often I've looked back on the capital's former glories;
The dirges of a fallen land bring copious tears.

Northward marched an allied army, eight nations strong,
And once more our territory was given away.
From the west came white devils to sound the warning bell,
To startle the Han Chinese from their slavish dreams.

My host bequeathed me this golden knife,
And now, possessing it, my heart is brave.
An "ism" of iron and blood is destined for our day;
One hundred million skulls we count as a mere feather.

Bathed by sun and moon, this radiant treasure,
Fit to be treasured by any death-defying man of stature.
I pledge to seek the road of life in the jaws of death,
For the peace of the world depends on force of arms.
Have you not seen Ching K'o as a guest of Chin
Bare the foot-long dagger hidden in the map.

A single thrust at court, though it missed the mark,
Was so startling that it seized a tyrant's soul.
With my bare hand, I wish to save my fatherland
Though this land of Emperor  Yu overflows with a degenerate breed.
When everyone's heart is dead what can be done?
Seizing a pen, I write this "Song of the Precious Knife."

This "Song of the Precious Knife" strengthens one's resolve,
Awakens many a soul in this land of the dead.
With precious knife and valiant arm, what can compare?
Forget old friends and foes in this mortal realm!
Don't despise this foot of steel as of little worth;
The salvation of the nation depends on the miracle it will work!
Henceforth, I will take Heaven and Earth as my furnace,
The yin and yang as my fuel,
Gather iron ore from the six continents,
And cast thousands upon thousands of precious knives to cleanse this
   sacred land.
To renew the august name and power of our ancestor, the Yellow Emperor,
And scour clean from our national history, millennium upon millennium, this
   awful shame.
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Now in terms of Out & About, and having given them a brief introduction to the Iceni & Romans; the Saxons & Vikings; and the Normans,  and to the centuries in-between, I provided William and Mystery with a record in text and pictures, of the history of the City of Norwich, and in particular, of Norwich Cathedral, of Teverham, where we live, (a hamlet  recorded for purposes of taxation in the Doomsday Book); features on Sandringham: the Queen's private residence in Norfolk, which most students visit; and on the religious shrines to Our Lady, (the Virgin Mary) at Walsingham. And as Norfolk is largely rural, and Norfolk folk have a reputation for being insular, in the potted histories that I provided of noted personages, I gave the lie to this idea. Some of them, such as Horatio Nelson, Thomas Paine, and Edith Cavell, travelled far and wide. And if Ebeneezer Brewer didn't travel, his masterpiece, Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, did.

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Well we too have been out and about recently, which is what has sparked my reminiscences about William and Mystery, and caused me to want to share our experiences with you; for I have a compelling need to do something creative, working as I am on a project to do with the most notorious of the despots of the twentieth century: Hitler, Stalin, and Chairman Mao. I have no idea where my research will lead, but it is a path that I have chosen to follow, and reading these taxing historical accounts, at times, calls for rest and relaxation. But I am in danger of doing myself an injustice, for those things that I want to share with you, are, in themselves, worth sharing.

What never ceases to amaze us about living in Norfolk, is just how much there is to do, and still to be discovered, though we have lived here for 13 years. Recently, a newly acquired family friend, Mike, who lives elsewhere, but knows Norfolk well, led us to wonderful places that we hadn't heard of: to the Castle, at Castle Acre, and Castle Acre Priory. And we returned the compliment, and treated him to a new experience, at Hoverton Hall Gardens. And as is a common occurrence, we have been to the theatre, this time, to see Alan Bennett's play The Lady in the Van; whereby "hangs a tale"; and also to see a production of Verdict, by Agatha Christie. And not satisfied with all of that, just recently we have been trekking through a garden of exotic plants.

Though much of the original stonework from Castle Acre has long since been carted off, what remains and is impressive, is the scale and variety in this Norman earthworks. And just as I have a compelling need when on holiday, to climb to the top of towers and castle ramparts, at Castle Acre, I had that same desire to be at one with the past: to walk the length and breadth, and find myself lost, and secure, in the depth of this once great compound.

                  A young family enjoying the ruin that is Castle Acre

Castle Acre was the home of the de Warenne family: William 1 de Warenne and his wife Gundrada, and as such, it was an especially potent symbol of the conquest of England by the Normans; and not just because William 1 de Warren had fought at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, but because his wife, Gundrada, (through whom it is believed the family wealth came), was William the Conqueror's daughter. And while there is no certain date for the construction of the castle, (sometime in the 1070's) it is a matter of record that Gundrada died there, in childbirth, on 27th May 1085. And in terms of exercising power and influence over their new subjects, this citing of the castle at Acre was ideal, for it stood at a crossing point over the river Nar: on Peddars Way (the Roman road between north west Norfolk and central East Anglia). And what is interesting from the archaeologists point of view is, that Castle Acre in its construction conforms to the "motte-and-bailey" format that was common in pre-Conquest Normandy and throughout Norman England.

    

                       The earthworks viewed from the outer bailey

From Castle Acre we moved on to Castle Acre Priory, a splendid ruin that dates back to the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII in 1537, but not before we called in at the parish church of St. James The Great. There is almost certainly a direct historical link through the de Warrenne family, between these various places of worship, and the features in the church of St James the Great that I would like to share with you, are the 15th century hexagonal baptismal font, and the "wine-glass" pulpit that dates from the same period.



What is unusual is the font cover that also belongs to the 15th century; and we are told that, the mechanism for lifting the cover when the font is in use, still works. As for the "wine-glass" pulpit, we had seen nothing like it before.

 The beautifully preserved hexagonal pulpit

                                       on a wine glass stem

The paintings on each of the four panels that make up the pulpit are believed to date back to 1460, and each is a representation of the early Doctors of the Church. Theologians who were renowned not just for their understanding but for their holiness of life. They are St. Augustine, St Gregory, St Jerome and St Ambrose. In this panel the detail is of St Augustine. Converted to Christianity at the age of thirty three, (387 AD) Augustine was bishop of Hippo, on the Algerian coast. And besides his eminence as a philosopher and theologian, he is remembered, for his "Confessions" and his prayer, "O Lord, make me chaste, but not yet". And the Latin inscription invites the preacher, "filled with the Holy Spirit", to speak of the virtue of St. Augustine.

                                      The Priory at Castle Acre



It seems to me, a safe bet, that today, Henry VIII is best remembered more for his six wives, than for the historical fact that he has to be numbered among the great political vandals of all time. As a young man he may well have been intellectually gifted, a man of promise, but he died a despot: someone who had not only destroyed the lives of some of the people closest to him, but who, under the guise of his dispute with the Pope, had allowed the religious and cultural life of England to be turned on its head. So looking at this great monument to the past, so carefully preserved for the nation by English Heritage, I was faced with a dichotomy: the simultaneous representation of good and evil.

When William 1 de Warenne, in the 1090's brought a small group of monks from his foundation at Lewes in Sussex, he could not have imagined where it would all end; nor could his successors, who gave the monks this new and more expansive piece of land. The monks were Cluniacs, that is a religious order whose mother house and ultimate governance came from the abbey of Cluny in France. And as we contemplate these ruins, it is worth reflecting on this passage taken from the English Heritage brochure:

"The priory site today is as beautiful and peaceful as any in England. But for almost 450 years it was the home and workplace of monks and their servants, a refuge for pilgrims, and a stopping point for royalty, clergy and nobility rooted in the economy and society of Norfolk, it was also part of a vast monastic network centred on the great abbey of Cluny in France". 

                          The craftsmanship that is still apparent,

                                    after centuries of decay.

                               The relatively intact priors lodge 

                                               Desolation

Something of the scale of this monastic network can be gleamed  from the expansion and influence exercised at local level. By 1140, the Priory held property in some 28 Norfolk parishes, and in a further 50 by 1291, from which, by way of endowments, it secured most of its income, usually by way of rents, titles, and grants and gifts to the parish churches that it controlled, with additional income coming from baptisms, burials, mills, and the priory's own farm. By 1534 the annual income was calculated at £306, a mid range figure for monasteries.

Now while accepting that the reason for the priory's existence was to give glory to God, by men whose lives were dedicated to that end: through the daily celebration of Mass, the chanting of the Divine Office, and other forms of prayer, privation and religious devotion, it is worth reflecting, (in the context of our capacity to fail when it comes to good works), on some of the "visitations", or official reports, into the conduct of life at the Priory.

In 1265 32 of the brothers were found to be living with "propriety and regularity", but among other things were rebuked "for the habit of journeying and riding about the country", and "eating and drinking indifferently in houses of laymen and secular persons". In 1279 the conduct of 35 monks was found to be satisfactory, although the prior was found to be both extravagant and eager to resign. And there was at least one feud when it came to the appointment of a new prior. In 1283, the candidate approved by the prior at Lewes,was opposed with armed resistance, a dispute that required the intervention of the abbot at Cluny to settle. A century later, the prior William de Warenne absconded in disgrace, and was last heard of in 1351 as a "vagabond" with a warrant out for his arrest.

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Now the quid pro quo was. that in return for Mike having introduced us to Castle Acre, we would take him to somewhere new in Norfolk, so to that end we spent the day at  Hoverton Hall Gardens.  The truth is, that we had only just discovered them, and had come away with the feeling that it was a place that you would want to return to. So here is a virtual tour, with minimum text, which I hope you enjoy.

                                  The Walled - (Spider Garden)

                 The wrought iron Spider Web Gate, installed in 1936
                 and replicated as a contemporary centrepiece below

  
               Sculpted in flint by the landscape gardener James Smith
                                      and installed in 1998

           The Walled Kitchen Garden- This the Knot Garden, is separated
           from the rest of what was once a Victorian kitchen garden, by a
           yew hedge with a central laburnum arch. Among other features
           are herbs, grown along the south-facing wall.

              These descriptions of the medicinal properties of herbs
                     are taken from Culpeper's Herbal (1649)

       Within the circular hedge of Japanese privet lies a collage of lavender

       and box thyme. The Gallicia roses Versicolor and Officinalis are

       planted in the inner beds among varieties of sage, hyssop,

       and cotton lavender. Tulips and irises add colour during spring and

       early summer. Clipped bay leaves, standard roses and eight crab

       apple trees give height to the borders.

          For the young, the woodland walks are an adventure playground.

                                        By the lake

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Now among the plays that we saw during the summer moths, was Alan Bennett's, The Lady in the Van, and this is the point at which I have to sound a discordant note, for not withstanding the fact that Alan Bennett is a man of proven pedigree, by the time it came to the interval, I just had to leave. For me it had been the most dreary theatre experience ever, and though Jenny was staying with our companion, she remarked at the interval, that she was not at all sure where it was going.

Well, I made my way in the general direction of The Bell, a splendid pub next to Norwich Castle, thinking that I might call in for a drink and watch what was left of the European Under 21 football final, between Switzerland and Spain, and especially as we had Swiss students staying. But as I pushed open the door and a wave of heat and sound hit me, (on what was an already barmy evening),  I decided instead to go for a walk, before returning to the theatre to wait, "like a fish out of water", or so it seemed, for the play to end.

When Jenny appeared, her mood had changed, for the second act had been altogether more interesting, and she was resigned to the possibility that the tedium of the first act, was an necessary prerequisite for the play as a whole. But no sooner had she said this, than Roger, peering over her shoulder, was lamenting the fact that he had missed me at the interval. Having come with his wife, by the interval he too had had enough, and hearing that I had gone off for a drink, had tried to catch me up; and that in itself was something of a mystery, for as far as I recall, on this occasion, I was more of a danderer than a walker.

So what you might ask, was the problem?

Well The Lady in the Van is based on a true story, that of Miss Shepherd, who parked a mustard coloured van at the bottom of Alan Bennett's garden, and lived there, uninvited, for fifteen years. She was educated, opinionated, politically aware, religious, and not withstanding her circumstances, had placed her name on the electoral register so as to be able to vote. As Bennett explains, over many years, flyers and other pamphlets were delivered to his address in her name, much of which, with regret, he had discarded. But as the play unfolds he appears in two guises, that of the compassionate man who goes so far as to pick up bags of excrement, and the questioning, philosophical Bennett, who is exploiting Miss Shepherds eccentricity in fulfillment of his craft as a writer. And though there are witticisms along the way, in terms of Miss Shepherd's view of the world, it becomes apparent that there is something in her past, that as yet, is unexplained.   

Now interesting as all this is, written down, the pace in the first act, for me was slow, and in the sparsely decorated stage, the sight of the eccentric Miss Shepherd, living in her van, reminded me of another eccentric old lady, whose house I had visited, and  whose biography I had just read, and who, for many years, had lived in even more taxing circumstances, in a caravan in her own garden; and putting the two together, I decided that I had had enough of eccentric old ladies.

The woman in question was Miss Savidge, who, having fought a long but unsuccessful battle to save her Medieval hall house in Hertfordshire, from demolition, at the age of sixty,  decided to dismantle it, and rebuild it, 100 miles away in Norfolk: at Wells-Next-The-Sea. To her relatives, she was aunt May, but the story as told by Christine Adams, (her niece by marriage), is published under the title "Miss Savidge Moves Her House."

At its most simple, it is a remarkable story of single-mindedness and perseverance, but viewed more broadly, it came at a cost to Miss Savidge, and her niece in particular, that for me, was as tragic as it was interesting. Having moved the house, aunt May worked on its reconstruction as and when she could, the "as and when" having mostly to do with the weather. But as she aged, and with the rebuilding still far from complete, she became less productive. And though her nephew and his family came to lend a hand, (usually in the summer months), their efforts, in effect, were undermined by the tradesmen she employed, and for whom, she had endless patience. Understandably they would, fit her in, with the more lucrative work elsewhere, which helps to explain why, from start to finish, it took in excess of two years to install a Rayburn cooker. In the meantime, and through the bleakest months of winter, aunt May continued to keep her diary, and sleep in a chair, in a house that was far from weatherproof. She was a woman who kept everything, every bus ticket that she ever bought, every receipt, every magazine and newspaper or whatever, all of which were stashed in her caravan or moved about the house as the work, or foul weather required.

So it should not come as a surprise to be told that aunt May died before the task was complete, but not before her niece had promised to fulfil the dream, and with aunt May saying, "sorry". For six more years, Christine Adams and her husband Tony worked at the task, only for their marriage of forty years to fall apart. They had been childhood sweethearts, and as Christine readily admits, aunt May's project, even if completed, was something that her husband Tony had never wanted to inherit. 

So it was after all, a combination of circumstance that caused me to walk out of the Theatre Royal.

And here is something to wonder at, Will Giles' Exotic Garden; we visited it earlier in the week, and it is not much more than a stones-throw, form the train station, here in Norwich.

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N.B. By clicking on any one of these photos, you can view all the photographs in the blog, independently of the blog itself.

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© Cormac McCloskey
     
      Castle Acre Castle & Priory: English Heritage        
    
     The poems Ballad of the Great London Fog and Song of the Precious     Knife are taken from
      Waiting for the Unicorn:
      Poems and Lyrics from China's Last Dynasty, 1644-1911
      Published by Indiani University Press
      Edited by Irving Yuchang Lo and William Schultz
      ISBN 0 253 20575 1

      Hoverton Hall Gardens

      Miss Savige Moves Her House
      Published by: Arum (2009)
      By Christine Adams with Michael McMahon
      ISBN 978 1 84513518 8

      Will Giles' Exotic Garden

Why?

Since Rupert and James Murdoch appeared before a select committee of the House of Commons in the hope that they might throw some light on the shenanigans at the News of the World, "that's a very good question" has become a stock phrase among interviewees. Apart from anything else, it shows the ease with which we can be influenced. The Murdoch's use it, the guy next to them uses it, and before you know it, we're all using it!

My understanding is that this form of flattery originated in America, but that it was more devious than that, because besides flattering the inquisitor, it was calculated to throw them off guard:. a stalling tactic, especially when there was something that the interviewee wasn't keen to talk about.

Well I have an in built resistance to all things American, even though I have no problem whatever with Americans. Like the rest of us they can be warm and friendly, and hard working, and personally and globally at times, a nuisance, but then, so too can we. What gets me going is not Americans, but creeping America, which drove me to distraction when we ascended a high mountain, (the name of which escapes me,) above the city of Barcelona. We were there for a day, and did the most important thing first; we took Leo to worship at Camp Nou. It was summer, and there wasn't a footballer in sight. So we sat high up among the gods listening to the sounds of pneumatic drills in the stadium below, and Leo loved it. But as soon as we arrived at the top of the mountain, for a panoramic view of this great Spanish city, my heart sank, for what first caught my eye were the table-tops, plastered in the Cocoa Cola logo. But believe me, I do like Americans, especially people like Mark Twain who wrote, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and George Steinbeck, who among other things, wrote The Grapes of Wrath, and East of Eden, but whom I remember best for, Travels With Charlie, an account of his search for America, and of course, his companion, Charlie, was a dog. And strange though it might seem, given that I am Irish, the poet that I feel most in touch with, is the American, Robert Frost.

Now if you are wondering what all this has to do with the question Why? and especially as I began with the Murdoch's and ended up with American Literature, it is simply a case of sitting down to write, and as we say, "going with the flow." And at that moment, the Murdoch's came immediately to mind. So going with the flow, and as I have just self-published my own poems, I want to explain Why? and convince you of the fact that self-publishing by authors who later went on to bigger and better things, is not that unusual. Our old friend Mark Twain did it, with Huckleberry Finn. Walt Whitman did it, with Leaves of Grass. Edgar Alan Poe, and  George Bernard Shaw, did it, as did T. S. Eliot, and Virginia Wolf. Among my own collection,  are limited and autographed editions of the poetry of Freda Downie, who was in her 50s before she published limited editions of her work. Today, (she died in 1993,) the "Collected" Freda Dowine is on sale, edited by George Szirtes.  

Though I started late, I have been writing poetry for at least a decade, correction, two decades, as I had  forgotten just how quickly time passes. And some of it was written in quiet places, the sort that lend themselves to quiet reflection and composition. But others, some of the best, were written sitting on the edge of a camp bed in a cramped room, with my niece and nephew round about; which, is as good an illustration as any, of the truth, that if you have something to say, and saying it is important, you will find a way.

Now like most writers, (and as I wasn't in the business of deluding myself,) I needed a yardstick by which to judge the quality of my work, so it wasn't long before my thoughts turned to poetry magazines, and poetry competitions. I entered a few, but without success. And in the absence of feedback I was really none the wiser. But that apart, and at first, I was disgruntled at being restricted to a maximum of forty lines, until I came to appreciate how much you could say in twenty. But a turning point of a sort came, when a family friend asked for my opinion of two poems written by a university teacher. They were in an anthology of new poems, and as Val had no special insight into the merits of poetry, but had kept the book, she wanted an opinion from me. Val and the teacher had met on holiday, and the poems were based on personal stories that she had told. The one that I especially remember, (and Val had given permission for the story to be used,) was an account of how, when living in Africa, and in an emergency, she had driven twenty miles on dirt roads to the nearest hospital, steering the car with one hand, while trying, with the other, to resuscitate the baby on her lap. It was Val's child, a cot death.

Well it was a delicate moment, not just because Val was a friend, but because I hadn't  heard of the magazine before; and whatever my opinion of the poems happened to be, I knew myself well enough, to know, that I wouldn't be lying to Val.

So I thought it best not to look specifically for her poems, but instead, to read the magazine from cover to cover, that way, I would be able to consider Val's poems in the context of the rest of the published work. The magazine was Envoi, and the more I read, the more impressed I was, so that when it came to discussing the poems with Val, I was able to be doubly reassuring.

Well, Envoi was just what I had been looking for, so I took a chance and submitted poems to be considered for publication, but without success. But I got a huge uplift from the then Editor. Not only was he not telling me, in his carefully constructed worksheet, that I needed to go back to the drawing board, or read more poetry, but he asked to see more of my work, and that for me was equivalent to winning the lottery.

But as time passed, so too did my view of poetry magazines, and poetry competitions. However good or useful they might be, you could never be certain as to what they were looking for, and more to the point, I though it wrong, that I should be writing with one eye as to what might be acceptable. What I should be doing, I told myself, is writing with conviction, and care, about what was important to me, and leave it to posterity to determine its value. But in taking this stand, I knew also, that standards apply, that it is not simply the case that because you think, a poem, is worthwhile, that it is. If it doesn't in one way or another capture the imagination of the reader, there is not much point.

Now on the question of standards and quality, this has been my biggest challenge. Jenny by training is a mathematician, and while she has always been a good reader of contemporary writers, poetry is to Jenny, what fog is to the traveller. So I don't have, what we might call a natural buddy, someone who shares my interest, will challenge my ideas, and push me beyond the boundaries of what I know I am capable of. Which is not to say that I haven't tried to find one. But poetry is a minority interest, and you would be surprised to know, just how reluctant people are, despite encouragement, to lay their opinions, and themselves, on the line.

So in broad terms, I know that my work has suffered on that account, for though I am constantly reminding myself of the standards that should apply, it is the hardest of all things, to push yourself beyond your known limits, in isolation. But that accepted, there is no excuse for not constantly heading in that direction.

Now whatever my deficiencies, a key word in this discussion is, belief, and it is belief that has taken me this far, and that has given me the confidence and will, to self-publish my poems. Why?

When distributing the book as a gift to family and friends, I made the point that it, of itself, was not going to change the world. But I expressed the hope that: "in some small way it will make a difference, as literature and art, (either consciously or unconsciously,) has made a difference in all our lives." And as a justification, I went on to say, that while each poem stands alone, taken together, "they represent a more complete, and, distinct voice, which is why I have decided that they are worth publishing."

As for the poems being taken together, to represent "a more complete and distinct voice," this idea is something that we can usefully look at, in the context of my parents.

If we take those poems that relate to my parents, while any one may be complete in itself, it does not represent a definitive view. To get a complete picture, you must bring together all those poems in which they are referenced. If, when reading, The Vigil, you focus solely on the awful conditions that I had to endure while sitting through the long hours of the night, with my drunken father, you have missed the point, because what I am driving towards, is a conclusion, which should be unexpected, and profound:

"But more remarkable, nay miraculous, is the truth
that despite what had gone before, and would come after,
she, whom you defiled,
would, when the time came,
wail at your passing."

A "passing" that I describe in, The End.

Here, and not withstanding  all that she had suffered, and the fact that she was being left a widow with eleven young children, and no money in the bank, a part of my mother, at the moment of my father's passing, was unquestionably dying:

""In pairs, and on either side, and on our knees,
we interceded, until the Almighty laid claim to his soul;
and his helpmate, whose very essence was being ripped apart,
cried to Heaven."

 And we can go further, when we read "Lodged in the caverns of my being."

"The caverns of my being," are the recesses of my memory, from which I recalled discoveries, fleeting moments of insight into the private and personal worlds that each of my parents inhabited. "A Few Words of Encouragement," was a religious tract, from which my mother drew strength, and which I came across by chance. And the crucifix that I found in an "undignified disheveled bed," was an unintended insight into my father's deepest feelings of need. These were fleeting moments, that almost defy description, like an intrusion into the confessional. And what in the broader context of these poems are we to conclude from Remembering.

This poem could be about any number of things, but for me what makes it shocking, is my response to my mother's plight: "Cast off she was, for the rock of self-reliance." What I have described, elsewhere, as the double whammy, or price that she, my mother paid, for being married to an alcoholic. The rejection was neither conscious nor wilful, but inevitable, once I concluded, (and it didn't matter whether I was right or wrong,) that I couldn't count on my mother, any more than on my father, for emotional support. And of course, it was only as an adult, that I came to the understanding that that was what had happened.

And just as I had no idea as to what was going on as a child, in relation to my mother in particular, I had no  comprehension either in, Genesis, of what was really going on, which is why, the last word in the poem is "Unwitting." An aspect of many of these poems is the extent to which, I was an observer, absorbing my surroundings. But while I studied the sea in all it's forms, I had no comprehension whatever as to how these turbulent forces were shaping my character, and so as to be an effective counterbalance to the negative influences at home. But the final stanza of the poem makes it unmistakably clear, because the waves, with "their writhing tentacles," were not pounding towards the shore, but "towards the nucleus of my being." Slowly I was learning not to be afraid, but to know that you can survive the worst excesses in nature; an understanding personified in, The Lifeboat.

Of course my poems are wide ranging, (as the provocative title suggests,) and go well beyond the immediate family. Many, such as, Paddy Johnson, Miss Mills, and Grandma, are character studies in context. There are contrasting views of Christmas, poems on travel, and poems on religious and political themes, and poems that you have to come from Ulster to fully appreciate. But however diverse, they are all part of the same fabric. But, given those poems that we have looked at in some detail, and however perverse it might seem, if you peel away at what I describe as the, "dark poems", at their core, the message is one of optimism, and that is what makes this voice, distinct. There is no self-pity. If you find anything else, then I have failed - to tell the truth.

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© Cormac McCloskey

  

If you would like a copy of these poems, contact me at cormace.mccloskey@yahoo.com There will be a charge for the book and the cost of posting, which I will advise you of. And you can pay via PayPal. Alternatively you can read these poems online, but having the book will be a user friendly experience. It ia nicely presented, and has has been  scrutinised by no less than three proof readers. Alternatively, you can go in to your library and ask for it, quoting ISBN 978-0-9568455-0-4. 

Our Short Hot Summer

With pictures in recent days, of firebombers, and looters, having gone around the world, and reports of five or so deaths, I have had to reassure my friend Jessica, (Li Jie,) that Norwich wasn't on fire, in fact that 99.9 per cent of England wasn't on fire. But the commotion and the spectacle of young people helping themselves with gusto to stolen goods, and the general ringing of hands in the aftermath, has caused me to recall my own youth, and my misdemeanors.

If you have read my poem, School, you will know that the Catechism played a central part in our formation. Not only did it tell us about the life to come, but about how we are expected to live here; and one of the injunctions was: "thou shalt not steal."

Well the catechism was a heavy dose of indoctrination, that on reflection, and when it suited us, we abandoned with alacrity, which was why, on the way home from school we targeted a shop called the Bonnie Bush. I don't know who the instigator was, or even if there was one, but the adrenalin rush that we got, must have been akin to an anarchist raiding the Houses of Parliament, for it was a splendid shop with a very high ceiling, and counters opposite: a design calculated to maximise the income from holidaymakers in summer, but as such, it was a hopeless place to have to patrol in winter. From time to time we crowded in, operating, I think, on a primeval instinct, for while one group kept the elderly cardiganed shopkeeper stretching for jars of sweets from high shelves, and deliberately changing their mind, so as to buy time, the rest of the herd, at the counter opposite, and using their schoolbags as camouflage, were busy helping themselves from a low shelf. As to what I stole, almost certainly an eye-catching comic. And I recall one lad coming away with a large bottle of lemonade.

But my criminal background was worse than that,  for in this next story I can't blame the seductive influence of the crowd.

We had a Home Bakery in the town, run by two old ladies in white coats, to which, from time to time, my mother sent me in search of wheaten and soda bread. Well these old ladies were never quick on their feet, and when the one on duty on this particular day, went through to the back to get the bread, my eye fell on a set of false teeth; and quick as a wink I put them in my pocket. Well the good lady never noticed, and when I got home, the house was sufficiently large for me to disappear into the obscurity of my room, and surprise surprise, I hadn't stolen one set of dentures, but half a dozen. You see, the dentures were chewing-gum in disguise.

Well some how or other my mother found out, there was an inquisition and I was severely admonished. But when news of a similar crime committed at the far end of town, reached me, I found myself reflecting, with unease, on the vagaries in the justice system, for when this boy's mother found out, (as mothers seemed to do in those days,) she marched him back to the shop to tell the shopkeeper what he had done, and to tell her that he was sorry. 

Now all this happened in an era when adults had authority, as demonstrated in this, the last of my confessions.

While still a schoolboy, age 9 or 10, I was hiding in a shelter waiting to ambush a seagull. I had a stone and was just about to launch it, when an old  man passing, and seeing what I was up to, with authority, gave me a piece of his mind. So never again did I think of finding excitement in stoning the local wildlife. 

And having indicated that I have no more confessions to make, I do have something else to tell you, which is part confession and part a moral tale.

On this occasion I was in the kitchen at home, and had just whacked one of my sisters across the ear, when my own ear became red hot; and when I twisted around in shock, it was to see my father stooping over me, and telling me with unmistakable clarity, that that was as nothing, compared to what would happen if, ever again, he caught me lifting a hand to one of my sisters.

It was a salutary moment, when I felt compelled to reflect on the contradictions in my fathers addictive personality, the consequences of which, you can confront in all their awfulness in my poem, The Vigil. At its most crude, my father was not a wife beater, but in the context of his addiction to alcohol; he was at times violent, and I have at least one recollection of my mother  being physically abused. It might have been nothing more than the pulling of hair, but it was physical abuse none the less. So slowly, and with my ear burning, it began to dawn on me, especially in the context of alcohol, that my father's condition, (however difficult it was to accept,) was a condition that was to be pitied, rather than something for which, he was to be condemned.  

Well the biggest difference, as I see it, between then and now, in terms of the human condition, is, that in those days, there were unmistakable structures in place, for the guidance of the young. Parents were preeminent, and they shared their role with priests, teachers, doctors nurses and anyone else in a position of responsibility. It was a pyramid in which children were at the bottom.

Now I don't want to be misunderstood. I am not suggesting that this was not a flawed structure. Of course, there were bad parents and abusive teachers. Again, returning to my poems, to, School, and Master Fitzpatrick, he whacked the knowledge into people, in the same way that it had been whacked into him. He had a black leather strap, and he called it the Black Doctor; and when the passage of time decreed that we were ready for "the Master's class," by way of induction, and while flexing it, he explained the process. "I prescribe the dose," he told us, "and the doctor gives it." And when he was in flailing mood, the injustice was, that the boys, (girls were never whacked,) who bore the brunt of these beatings, were the "working-class" boys who were grouped together at the back of the room. Why? because in taking his frustrations out on them, he was less likely to have to answer to their parents. But I must also tell you as I was "middle-class", that had a teacher ever complained to my parents about me, I would have got double the punishment: in the first instance because teachers were believed, and secondly as a means of reinforcing in me, the idea that I was accountable for my behaviour. My parents were not stupid. Even if they knew or suspected that a teacher had failings, they would have done nothing to undermine their authority, in the mind of the child.

So in this clearly defined hierarchical structure, I have no wish to delude myself, or deceive you, into believing that all was right with the world. There were abuses, and some hapless individuals paid a heavy price at the hands of their elders. 

Nor do I want to claim to know what it is like to be young today, or to make the mindless assertion that it is infallibly the case, that things were better in our day. Things were certainly different, and perhaps, the most obvious difference, (the hierarchical structure accepted,) was that in our day, there was no such thing as the instant and unremitting means of communication that exist today. What children consider today as the norm, simply didn't exist. Until I was twelve there was no television, and it didn't become widespread until I was sixteen. And children simply didn't make phone calls, that was an adult thing to do, and in the context of the home, very few had phones. Very often you stood outside a call box and tried to wait patiently for the person inside to finish. And the sort of topics that make the news for breakfast, these days, without regard to who might be listening: or the effect it might have: the brutality and horrors of war, teenage pregnancies, the rights and wrongs of abortion, sexual abuse inside and outside the home, or discussions of children's rights. or the extent to which adults should be vetted before they can be trusted to work with children,  didn't exist as general topics of conversation. Yes, difficult issues were discussed, well out of the reach of children, with the exception perhaps of the now defunct News of the World, that wasn't in the business of tact. And then there is the Internet, where children today have ease of access to behaviours, explicitly sexual, and otherwise, that far outstrip their emotional and social development. So I am in effect, making the case, as to why it is harder to be a child today, than when I was boy. While there was a lot that we could be curious about, by comparison, we lived sheltered lives.

Now as I am not a social scientist, I can't quantify the issues, but what I know is, that something, or some things, fundamental, have changed, and not necessarily for the better. Just at what point A became B, or B and C came to equal D, I have no means of knowing, but what I know is, that we have passed through phases. The "permissive sixties," a reaction perhaps to the Second World War. In this era authority was challenged, the drug culture got off the ground, and we were told that: "all you need is love," which I think I am right in saying was equated with sex; and running parallel to this, was the "women's liberation movement". The symbol for which I think, was the burning of bras.  And while the pill made it easier, for those women who wanted, to be promiscuous, (another blow to authority and the moral guardians,) it also made women more aware of their potential to follow chosen careers, rather than having to be tied to dead end jobs, or worse, to the kitchen sink. And once the idea of the widespread advent of career women, got going, its wasn't long before men, struggling to cope with the new reality, were being defined as chauvinist, or more crudely, as "male chauvinist pigs." And so, the war of the sexes had begun. And my own church, the Roman Catholic Church, known for its enduring qualities, was in on the act. Truthfully, I can tell you, that in the late 1960's I found myself wondering about a Church in which the sermon was replaced  by a homily: a few fairly benign words that lasted five minutes at most. Sitting in the packed church and knowing something of the temptation and distractions  that were out there, it seemed that the Church had lost the will to exploit that brief moment in the week, where it might exert some influence. And somewhere in the midst of this upheaval, came the breakdown of family life on an unprecedented scale. There was no shortage of sex, or people wanting stable relationships, but something, somewhere, was going wrong. So today the divorce rate in Britain outstrips that of most of Europe, and teenage pregnancies and abortions are among the highest in Europe.

Believe me! I am not trying to get you depressed, nor am I claiming to have all the answers, but in the light of recent events, I have some ideas as to what needs to change.

Somehow, we need to address the imbalance in the nature of the relationship that now exists between adults and children. As I see it, in this context, the law should represent the framework by which our society is judged; and it is not an acceptable excuse to say, that something should not become law, because it maybe difficult or impossible to enforce. The law should define the boundaries by which, as a society, we aspire to live. So to that end, the authority of parents and teachers needs to be reasserted above the rights of children.

The difference between adults and children, as demonstrated in the opening of this blog, is, that adults can draw on a lifetime of experience, (including their mistakes,) so as to be a guide, and a correcting influence for children, who lack that experience. If a child perception is, that we are all equal, why should they pay any attention to adults, and especially if they are not capable of comprehending the consequences of their actions. So when it comes to schools, there should be no ambiguity as to who is in charge, and what the purpose of school is. The idea that children can come in to school, and think that it is fun, or clever, to disrupt a class, or provoke a teacher to the point where they are humiliated and photographed on mobile phones; (as was the case with one teacher recently,) who, vulnerable on account of a recent illness, lost control and attacked a pupil, for which he received a prison sentence, should not be tolerated. Teachers should be empowered to address these issue, with authority, and know that that authority extends all the way up to the school governors, who if necessary will exercise it in respect of the parents. Be assured that such a dysfunctional world does exist, as two of our Italian students discovered when they spent an afternoon in one of the city schools. Feet on the desk, playing with mobile phones, pulling hair etc went on throughout the lesson. And when we asked what the teacher did about it, the reply was, "nothing."

As for family life, the high rate of divorce or separation, and its consequences on children, also needs to be addressed, and to that end, the change that I believe needs to be made, in law, is, that where there is a family breakdown, there should be an assumption in law, of the right of fathers to share in the custody and care of their children. I use the word "fathers," because in most cases it is fathers who have to fight through the courts, often at considerable cost, to gain reasonable access to their children, and even then, court rulings can be ignored, to say nothing of fathers who can't afford to go to court. Clearly I accept that gender in this matter should be irrelevant. But why should children respect authority, or have any sense of direction, when they are left helpless, when the mother, with impunity, can deprive her children of the natural right to see and have contact with their father, and in many instances, with their grandparents. 

Now an argument that might be used against this presumption of the right of the father to have equal care of his children, in law, is, that in the bitterness that is often associated with the break up of the relationship, and as a means of preventing the father having access to his children, the mother may accuse the father of being a child abuser. Well I would hope that in the age in which we live, the law could be framed in such as way as to cause someone to think twice before making such an accusation. But this giving of fathers (or mothers,) equal rights in respect of their children, brings me back to the idea that the law, (which will not apply equally in every case,) should define the values by which society aspires to live. And if you find it hard to believe, that children can be seriously exploited by separating parents, here is a story from my past life, that I believed to be true, as the man telling the story, was believable, and I had heard many similar stories. Lets call him John.

John was making regular, and voluntary payments of child maintenance to his ex, in cash, every Friday. He had paid £1,000, by the time that the Agency, for which I worked, made an official assessment, as well as a calculation of arrears owing to the mother. Contacting us, John asked for these cash payments to be taken in to consideration. But when the mother denied receiving them, and in the absence of evidence that he had paid, John was confronted with the reality, that he was going to have to pay again. The reason why the mother denied receiving the payments, was because she was on state benefits, (in which child maintenance was included,) and to have received such money without declaring it, was fraud. When I asked John the obvious question, why he had made the payments without insisting on a receipt, his answerer was straightforward and believable, but I wasn't prepared for the sting in the tail. The paying of the cash each Friday, was conditional on him being allowed to see his son, for two hours, "in the garden." It was as brutal as that.

And there is something else, that in the context of recent events I want to touch on. Not because I want to be contentious, but because it is something that has bothered me for some time, and which I have seen as unquestionably undermining the authority of parents; though I accept, that this was not, and is not, the intention of those working in the area of child sexual health. It is, if you like, an unintended consequence of their concerns. But if we are serious about redefining our values and changing the direction in which society appears to be going, then it has to be discussed.

The age for consensual sex in this part of the world is 16, yet it is legally possible for an under age girl to seek advice from her doctor, even to the extent that it might result in an abortion, without her parents knowing. The doctor is required to take into consideration the maturity of the young person, and to encourage them to confide in their parents, but they can not, for reason of the child's right to confidentially, tell the parent or seek to involve them in the consultation. They are however, required, by law, to take steps if they suspect that the child is the victim of sexual abuse. As far as I understand it, in Northern Ireland the rules are different, in that where the girls is under the age of 17, they have to be accompanied by one of the parents.

Now I don't need to be persuaded that there are young girls living in dire circumstances, for whom it is wholly appropriate, in the first instance at least, that they should be able to seek help without parental consent. But this brings me back to where I began, to the law, and to the idea that, (in broad terms,) it should be the point of reference for the values by which we, as a society, aspire to live. So from my point of view, the idea of a young girl being able to seek and be given confidential advice in a manner that excludes her parents, and that may result in an abortion, when that child is below the age required for  consensual sex, that is considered lawful,  is wrong. I can't think of anything more calculated to undermine the confidence and role of parents, than such a provision, though I repeat, that I accept that those working in the area of children's sexual health, have not had this as a motive. And when I think of the angst that goes with being a teenager, and the reality of parents not knowing what it is that they might be dealing with, because of concealment, I find it impossible to believe, that we haven't got it wrong.

And something else that might help the young, and leave our society in better shape, is politicians who are inspired by personal ideals, and who are prepared to risk all politically in pursuit of those ideals, of which restoring the supremacy of parents, as discussed above, might be one.

I have often reflected on the extent to which politicians rely on focus groups, so that they can find out what the public are thinking, or likely to think, and use that as the benchmark for their careers. But as I see it, politicians should be opinion formers: men and women who from a point of knowledge  and belief, seek to convince us of the value of their ideas. This has obvious risks, but it certainly wouldn't be bland, and the young might feel inclined to listen. In my own case, I did not realise how disengaged I had become from politics, until the phone hacking scandal took off. Suddenly I found myself interested, and paying attention, because this was an issue that gets to the heart of how the democratic process works, or should work, and as to how and why decisions are made the way they are; as to where the power really lies and who it is that exercises it. Up to that point, politics was bland: more dappling with the health service, more dappling in the running of schools etc ever recurring themes in the absence of an Empire, that leave the impression that forward planning, and stability, are about as relevant as footballers contracts of employment.

And how about politicians avoiding predictable knee-jerk reactions in the aftermath of some appalling tragedy such as 9/11. Men and women who, are prepared to to raise their voices, and risk all, in defence of our day to day liberties, rather than see them eroded, piece by piece, so that the custodian of good order is the policeman with a sub machine gun, rather than the citizen, who, in looking out for their neighbour, can be made to feel that they have a positive and worthwhile contribution to make to the wider society, and whose vigilance, in both the short and long term, will be the biggest single factor, in defeating the evil doer, and preserving the evidence, for the fact that we do live in a democracy.

So perhaps, for the sake of the young, I should end with the example of a politician who had an ideal, risked his political future for it, and won over public opinion, in a referendum. It was Edward (Ted) Heath.

Edward Heath, a gifted musician, and intellectual, (from a working-class family background,) was about as telegenic or cuddly as Gordon Brown. But as leader of the Conservative Party, and against much opposition within his own party, he fought to persuade the public to join the EU. Having fought in the Second World War, he wanted to help to create an economic union of nations, as a means of preventing European countries, from ever going to war with one another again. In the present economic climate, that ideal, seems to be hanging by a thread - But surely, and for the same reason as Edward Heath, it is something that we as a society, should consider worth fighting to preserve?

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© Cormac McCloskey

Edward (Ted) Heath - here
The image used in this blogs was taken from Public Property UK. com