December 13th

 

from the tattered box

as old as me chipped and tired

mum’s nativity

 

I’d enviously

peer at it imagining

the great games I’d play

 

I would shove the sheep

out the stable far from King

Herod’s tyranny

 

And sneakily I’d

position my plastic toy

soldiers to guard Him

 

they’d have shot his men

like in the Victor comics

Budda Budda “Arrghh!”

 

The three wise men would

tentatively approach Him

safe from their grenades

 

my brave company

British commandos mostly

and a few Vikings

 

I’d be told off when

mum’s silent panther steps would

catch me red handed

 

I’d always return

to play the Jesus war game

this year I’ll be good

November 5th

 

broken necked clothmen

paraded, stuffed with paper

tonight they will die

murder bonfires made

pushed in prams, propped on trollies

penny for the Guy

As a kid I thought it kind of sinister that other kids made effigies of a man who was to be executed through fire. Dragging him through the streets asking for money, his disturbing strawman bloated body, stuffed with paper and old cloth, filling out a pair of grubby old discarded trousers and threadbare jumper. He didn’t have hands and feet, just stumps tied with string, to stop his innards from spilling outwards. His head was a sackcloth bag, with a crude face painted on. It was fairly hideous. And he was normally smiling, you wouldn’t expect a condemned man to be smiling. This was a man we were going to plant on top of a bonfire and burn to death. Smiling would be last thing he’d be doing. We pushed this abomination along on an old trolley or in a pram. “Penny for the guy” kids used to shout. “Here’s a shilling, now fuck off and get that evil looking thing away from me!”. I never made one myself, but sometimes I used to tag along with some of the other kids in north London, I never kept the money for myself as it wasn’t my Guy, I was just grateful to be part of this disturbing ritual.

Now that this tradition has all but disappeared, I kind of miss it, it’s an interesting part of social history. Barbaric if thought of in isolation, but in historical context, fascinating. I want to burn effigies of people on a bonfire

As for fireworks, I’ve never been fussed about them. I read too much into them. The nihilism of their pointless lives extinguished so soon! Also I associate fireworks with feeling sad. When you’re a kid, you want what other kids have and so I wanted fireworks too, but I never asked for them. Our family were hard working, working all hours. Fireworks (like bicycles – I’ve never learnt to ride or ever owned a bike) would have been considered a frivolity, an unnecessary expense. I don’t begrudge my parents this, I knew they worked hard, saved and scrimped, so I never demanded anything of them which might be considered a luxury, but that didn’t stop me feeling sad. So on November the 5th I used to sit in the dark and look out of the first floor back window and try to catch glimpses of other people’s displays. If there was nothing in the terraced back gardens, I’d look to the skyline and try to catch the explosions of distant rockets bursting, note the colours, the greens, reds, blues, brilliant whites, the mortars pop pop popping into the air and exploding. For those really far away displays I’d hold my breath in expectation, the silent burst of light, then a moment later hear the boom or crackle. I’d be excited by the magic of science, the speed of light and the speed of sound, the sync ever so slightly out. And then I’d go to bed. The next day some of the kids at school would marvel at the displays they’d been to, but a lot of kids were like me, they watched the fireworks from their windows too.

October 27th

A foundling token

pressed into her grubby palm

mother’s shame, renamed

I went to the Foundling Museum in Bloomsbury. It’s somewhere I’ve never been before and covers the history of the building, which was London’s first home for abandoned children and the first public art gallery. It was also inspirational for Dickens in some of his works.

One of the most moving parts of the collection was the foundling tokens. Mothers would pin a little token to their child’s clothing, thus if they were able at some stage in the future to reclaim their child, they would use this token to identify the child that was brought in. As the child was given a new name upon entry into the hospital, this was the administrative method they used for identification. The children were not allowed to see or keep their tokens, in case it gave them some clue in later life to their identity. A photo of some of the tokens.

With the child would come a letter of petition, frequently illiterate, the mothers would ask a friend to write them a letter, requesting the hospital take on their child. Poverty, rape, abandonment, the death of a husband and the lack of work led to this desperate act by many mothers. Transcripts of some of their tragic letters are also on display.

There was also a letter from a mother who had married a farmer and found her feet, coming out of poverty, she wanted her child back. The tragedy was her child had died years before. The register shows that many children died, despite the care of the hospital, diseases were still rife. Many though did leave the hospital to employment to become maids or apprentices, or joining the armed forces. Some even became rich and contributed as a benefactor to the hospital in later life, never forgetting the experience that built them.

The art is also impressive, there are prints and painting by Hogarth. Hogarth was a social satirist and pulled no punches in his depictions of poverty stricken London.

The Enraged Musician (shared via Wikipedia) is below, showing the gentleman unable to practice his music due to the din from the people in the street below. The woman on the left is bare breasted, pregnant, holding her child, a little boy is peeing and various street vendors sell their wares.

More famously, a print of Gin Lane is also on display, it actually depicts the Bloomsbury area of London. Note the old man and the dog sharing a bone, the Gin shattered mother dropping her baby, the poor selling whatever they own to the pawnbrokers, the burial in the distance and the man dying in the gutter, his faithful hound by his side. Hogarth works are so detailed and rewarding when given time. This page on the British Museum website gives more info.

The accompanying Hogarth poem for this work is as follows:

Gin, cursed Fiend, with Fury fraught,

Makes human Race a Prey.

It enters by a deadly Draught

And steals our Life away.

Virtue and Truth, driv'n to Despair

Its Rage compells to fly,

But cherishes with hellish Care

Theft, Murder, Perjury.

Damned Cup! that on the Vitals preys

That liquid Fire contains,

Which Madness to the heart conveys,

And rolls it thro' the Veins.

I could write so much more, but I’ll just leave this post to say it’s well worth visiting.

September 29th

 

I am five again

walking to school and kicking

the dry leaves skywards

September 14th

tan, pale gold and black
a tortoiseshell collective
the wonder of cows
I like cows, they have a wet nosed dignity about them. On the moors there are a number of them, wandering as they please, some of them have young, who occasionally skip into a playful gallop. I noticed today, that the young are getting bigger, almost as big as their mothers. They are beautifully coloured, a damp sheen on their smooth coats, a mix of pale gold, brown, tan and black.
When I was younger, growing up in London, I had more chance of seeing an elephant than a cow, as trips to the zoo seemed more frequent than trips outside of London. Occasionally, and by that I mean every other year, my dad would drive us on a day trip to Southend, Face pressed against the glass of his sea green Austin I’d be excited if I saw a cow in the distance as he would drive to the coast.
Even today, there is a sense of wonder I get from domesticated animals, but I’m a bit more used to them now I live in the country!

September 9th

bindweed chokes the bay

smothers the fig, rose and plum

trees of my childhood

June 28th

shadow witches perched

unblinking at the window

ragnailed and swaying

I walked into the spare bedroom in the dark the other day, before I switched on the light, I had a flashback of childhood. On windy nights, when the curtains were open, even by a tiny crack, I used to scare myself looking at the shadows of the trees breaking between the curtains, splayed on the wall. I imagined witches were out there, squatting in the trees, silently waiting for me, their long slender fingers exploring the insides of the room via their cast shadow.

And then of course I stupidly watched Salem’s Lot at one point, the Stephen King TV adaptation. Of course that was it then, it was floating vampires tapping at the window *and* tree witches from that point forward. Oh, and ghosts walking through the walls (sometimes just the dismembered floating drooling head of a ghost hovering above me) and a werewolf under the bed / in the wardrobe.

But it was all ok, as the rules were if you hid under the covers, they couldn’t touch you. Beds and blankets are the greatest ward against the supernatural. Not garlic, not silver, not holy water. A bed, with a sheet to pull over your head. Foils them every time.

Stills from Salem’s Lot below. This scene was pretty chilling. Even watching it today, this otherwise unremarkable TV horror has some great suspense and frightening moments. And David Soul is in it.

When a vampire floats up to your bedroom window and starts tapping and scratching at it, imploring you to let him in, do not, I repeat, do not invite him in. Without an invite, he’ll have to stay outside, getting bored. Just stay in bed. And pull the sheet over your head so you don’t meet his gaze, or he’ll try and beguile you to do his bidding.

Dude, what did I just say? He’s gonna mess you up now!

June 21st

 

take joy in the dawn

hold hands and watch the clouds drift

tell her you love her

Last night was the summer solstice, the longest day of the year of course. Often synonymous with eccentric hirsute druids performing rites at Stonehenge :)

From antiquity to the present it has been celebrated, as a high point of the year, but being the misery I am, I always feel sad at midsummer.

Why? The days are getting shorter now. The sun’s arc will diminish over the next two seasons, we’ll see less and less of her, till late December, when the Winter solstice will signal the time the days will get longer again. That time is of course associated with our modern Christmas, adopted from the pagan tradition. I’ve always loved Christmas, they were happy times as a kid. The excitement of getting one or two presents, which I would cherish. I feel sorry for modern kids, I’m not sure they feel the same wonderment of receiving a gift, don’t get the same emotional rush and the appreciation that someone has sacrificed and saved to buy you something (of course I hope they do). It’s not their fault of course, it’s just where our society’s path has taken us. Presents aren’t something special now, they’ve moved into a consumable space.

After Christmas, there is the let down and harsh months of January and February, a penance for the excitement of the festive time. And March, when the birds return, the flowers blossom and the trees deck themselves in green. It’s also my birthday in March. And that’s when my dormant happiness stirs again.

Amongst other things, I thought of Nick Drake today. And his beautiful song From the Morning. What lovely lyrics. Sad and Happy. Loss and Life. Wonder and Reflection. It says so much to me at the moment.

 

From the Morning (Nick Drake)

A day once dawned, and it was beautiful
A day once dawned from the ground
Then the night she fell
And the air was beautiful
The night she fell all around.
So look see the days
The endless coloured ways
And go play the game that you learnt
From the morning.
And now we rise
We are everywhere
And now we rise from the ground
See she flies
And she is everywhere
See she flies all around
So look see the sights
The endless summer nights
And go play the game that you learnt
From the morning

April 25th

 

In the library

a sunny child explorer

is picked by a book

Rainy days are book days. I’m not a kindle person, I feel traitorous to that smell of new books, or the feel and smell of the battered lived in books that adorn my collection. A new purchase of mine is the Magic Of Reality by Richard Dawkins, illustrated by one of my favourite artists Dave McKean. That’s not to say I wouldn’t own the App which goes with it, it sounds fab, but alas I do not own an iPad, otherwise I’d be right there in that interactive world! But it would be to complement the book, not to replace it.

The Magic of Reality has that quality to inform and entertain, to keep you captivated. It covers the science of grand concepts beautifully and of course it is furnished with absolutely lovely art. It fired neurones in my brain which released happiness associated with childhood. Those wide eyed times when a trip to the library was a proper day out. Wandering through the shelves, being drawn to an evocative title, a story of true adventure or books where you could peel away the layers of skin for a subject and understand what makes things tick (literally so in the case of anatomy books).

Those were times where it felt books were precious. When the book chose you.