The Cobbler's efforts

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

I gave up writing poetry many years ago. I began to enjoy the poetry of various poets and my own efforts seemed not quite up to the mark. Sad in a way. Self expression is good whatever the standard. I think now that beauty and insight can be found in the works of others, however "poor" at a certain level of judgement.

Anyway, I'll use this thread to post various poems written in my twenties. Maybe with a few intros, biographical details.

The first was my only "success" in recognition terms. I entered it in a local competition and it was chosen as one of the top ten and read out at the prize giving ceremony. I remember how it was read, seriously and even pompously, while I myself saw it as light and even satirical. Such is life!

It is called "Before Bacon (An Ode to Despair)". Nothing to do with pigs, the "bacon" refers to one of the precursors of "modern thought", Roger Bacon. I was going through my existentialist phase, Jean Paul Sartre et al, the "absurdity" of the world and such. Fortunately just a phase. I was moving onto the so called Copernican Revolution, the shift of earth and man from the centre to the periphery and all its subsequent angst....

Well, here it is.....

Oh! I wish I'd been born before Bacon
When the sun still moved in the sky,
When hope was in more than a daydream
And beauty in more than the eye.

When the Great Chain of Being had God at the top
And Old Nic down below in his lair,
When people were burnt for love of their souls
And not just because they were there.

Back in those days before Auschwitz
When there was still trust to betray,
Before Symbol and Myth became Number
And the Cross became DNA.

Oh! I wish I'd been born before Bacon
When Saints trod the Pilgrim's Path,
When people still jumped at a bump in the night
And not at a bump in a graph.

When Crusades were fought for Truths believed
And Faith was the Devils hammer,
Nothingness only the clay God used,
The Absurd a Bishop's stammer!

When Man was seen as something more
Than atoms swirling in air,
Before the face of the Risen Christ
Became the face of despair.

Yes, I wish I'd been born before Bacon
Though there's not much to choose in the end;
But I might have had serfs and a castle
And I might have had Christ as a friend.

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

I'll add one more for today.

We 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....

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


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 once 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 soon of cancer.

[Miss Hepburn]

I wish someone would tousle MY hair and call me a little angel...

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

Originally Posted by Miss Hepburn

I wish someone would tousle MY hair and call me a little angel...

Well, you might be.

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

I'll continue. There are only so many ancient odes of my own to post. As the supermarkets say of their latest "unmissable" offer, "when they're gone, they're gone"!

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....

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.

Maybe another one later when eyeing up the Costa girls.

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

Welk, I'm here again. Costa's. At the moment there is a small group of Costa Girls whispering among themselves. I imagine it must be about how my pecs are shown off to perfection beneath my T-shirt. Maybe not, I can hear a chortle or two. Anyway, whatever, regarding this thread I mused as I walked into town (yes, yes, I know......when walking just walk) about a Samuel Beckett play. "Waiting for Godot" is most people's favourite. 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" 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.

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 remember once when the famous 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.

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

An early morning posting. One in particular I've found from yesteryear seemed to come up out of nowhere and was 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

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)

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

Back in Costa's, a little time to spare. Introducing my old poems, with a small preamble, I think of Rambling Syd Rumpo (aka Kenneth Williams) who would introduce his own olde English folk songs with often very funny stories. There was "an old Lincolnshire air" where Syd spoke of it often being "his delight on a shiny night (when the coppers arn't about)" . Rambling Syd also spoke of the great "Somerset Nog" which he said was a strange looking creature, "half Suffolk Punch and half Dachshund, three hands high and 18ft long." Syd admitted that it was indeed not much to look at but observed that "the rhubarb in those parts was something mighty fine."

Anyway, I'm rambling (like Syd). Another couple of my old poems......

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....

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?

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.

Moving on, a second poem, this one written just after the Falklands War in 1982. 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"

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.


Not much more to say.

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

As the day closes, now humbly ( ) displaying both avatar and signature, two more poems. The first, when I discovered it among some old papers about 5 years ago, I could not remember ever writing. Maybe some things are best forgotten..... but nevertheless it actually made me laugh.

It was called "Collecting Can Song" and just to add, back in the day, those collecting cash for charity could actually be just a little more aggressive than what is allowed today.

I'II stand in the most obnoxious spots
Where all must needs pass by,
So whether they wish to give or not
I can stare 'em in the eye!

I'll rivet 'em as they come or go
And when they stop in fear
I'll rattle loud just to let 'em know
"No widow's mites in here!"

Then as their coins add to my toll
I'll look vaguely disappointed
Yet peel a sticker from off my roll
And ask 'em where they want it!

Then guilt relieved they'll walk away
Their sticker well to fore.
And me? I'll be back amid the fray;
There's always room for more!

The second is on a more serious note, make of it what you will....

We see what bids us enter
we hear what brings relief
imprint on creation
the dictation of belief.

The messages of salvation
are words upon the sand
blown away tomorrow
beware the devil's hand.

[The Cobbler's Apprentice]

Back again in Costa's after a hectic morning, next stop the Oxfam Book and Music store. Maybe a bit of Springsteen this afternoon, the "Boss" as he is called. "Darkness at the Edge of Town" might just do the trick. A different Costa's today. I live in a town where you are never more than 100 yards from the nearest coffee shop. And I like to share my charms around.... The girls in my current Costa's seem to like switching hairstyles - maybe they are trying to impress me? One today has her sides cut down to the skin, leaving a bright orange tuft on top. Yes! Impressive! Another has gone from brunette to purple to blonde over the past few months. She definitely needs her roots done.

Anyway, I'm getting down to the bottom of the barrel as far as my old poems are concerned (some might think I've already got there a few poems ago) A couple here that touch on Christianity. The first I seem to remember as expressing a sense of "all this fuss about nothing", which still remains apt in a Buddhist context.....: But obviously, it is open to many interpretations. Please feel free..

It is called "Palm Sunday"...

.
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.


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

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