The True Democrats

In August 2015 I watched a rank outsider, a pacifist, socialist, a vegetarian, jam-maker romp home against a skilled and polished set of opponents to become leader of what is now, thanks to him, the largest Social Democratic Party in Europe.

 

I am referring to Jeremy Corbyn, and as those who read my blog will know, I joined the party during his acceptance speech, having voted as a Fabian.

 

Jezza, as I hardly ever call him, has had a rough ride since August 2015. Establishment figures of every hue have mounted a pretty relentless campaign of vilification against him: HIM, personally, not his policies: I remember a few of the squalls of outrage: he doesn't bow, he doesn't wear a tie. He rides on trains, he rides a bicycle, he is weak, he is a bully, he has no charisma, he is a cult figure ... And on and on and on.

 

What I first noticed about him was, that he always answer the questions put to him. I was, frankly, amazed! Politicians have 'Media Gurus' that train them in avoiding doing so, by any means possible. If appreciating that he treats me with that kind of respect makes me a dupe of a Cult Figure, so be it.

 

Moving on. Having joined the Labour Party I am now faced with a choice. Will paying the fees and turning up for the vote suffice, or should I get involved. I got involved. I started going to meetings. There are six of us who meet regularly, eight sometimes, though hundreds have joined the Party in our region recently, few others come to meetings.

 

I am now the Chair of our Branch, because I caved when it looked like no-one would stand, and here I am leading meetings giving away jobs, smiling a lot.

 

I like talking about myself, I expect most bloggers do, but this isn't about me. I breezed in, and as I once made abundantly clear if the bastards finally get their own back, and Jeremy Corbyn is ousted, I'm off! I do a great flounce. I know how to cancel a standing order!

 

Cherry looks at me and says, quietly ( she is a quiet person) " You can't. There's too much inequality"

 

I looked at Cherry, and Chris and Roger, the old-timers, so recently enthused by the arrival of a true left- winger as Party Leader. They know the score, they sit it out year after year, doing the donkey work, knocking on doors, distributing leaflets: a thankless task in a Tory town.

 

These are the true democrats. They do what they do because they want people to know things can be different. They give people a choice.

 

And Corbyn? Well, if the attack-dogs hound him out of office, he'll carry on doing what he's always done: Steadfastly standing up for the vulnerable, defending public services, calling out the profiteers and the war-mongers. And me? How could I possibly let Cherry down.

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God's Friday

I have one of my signature chest infections, and it's jolly inconvenient. At least it frees me up to blog.

Most of the Triduum will pass me by this year, I am not even sure that I will make the Easter Vigil on Saturday night, which is going to be a problem, because I am Flower Monitor and the flowers are placed in the church immediately before the Gloria and if I'm not there, WHO'S GOING TO ORGANISE IT?

I fetched the flowers from the wholesaler yesterday, and dropped them off at Gail's house. She is an artist, and what she does will be uplifting and amazing. I just put them in pots.

Gail is, like me, a convert to Catholicism, and the shine hasn't worn off. I often feel I need to apologise for being a Catholic, because everybody knows that since the Church become a corporate arm of the state in three-hundred- and-something, very bad things have happened. Still are, I expect, I make no excuses.

"Bad Day?" Gail was looking frazzled.

"My boss (An Evangelist) won't come tomorrow because we're idolaters." Eye roll. So this Man of God had spent the day bending Gail's ear, with, basically, "Why You Shouldn't Be A Catholic For Dummies." No wonder non-Christians laugh at us. What a plonker.

Not going to fall into the trap of passing any (other) judgement on him. I give Gail a hug, and leave to go to bed with paracetamol and a gallon of water.

It was my turn to preach at Outdoor Church on Tuesday. I say, "Preach" but it's a lot less grand than that really. Outdoor Church meets in Gloucester Park on Tuesday's, and is pretty much just that.

I'm nervous. The last time I preached it all ended in tears (mine). Our people are not pretty people, and sometimes the sheer hopelessness of their lives spills out as anger. I get it. Or, I got it, both barrels, and, 'fessing up, I deserved it.

So I'm sitting on the steps of the bandstand stilling my mind, quieting my heart ready for the service to start.

Kurt and Graham are letting off steam. Some Christian had told them they couldn't be friends with them because they're 'clients.' And they are angry. "They're fake." Says Kurt. "Never met a true Christian!"

I don't intervene. If I had, I'd have said,

"We're ALL plonkers."

 

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Poet's Block (Resolved)

Poet Unblocked

 

There came a day when I was SO

A Poet

That I felt in incumbent on me

To Be Word Perfect.

 

This led to .. Problems.

 

Honest but ordinary joys like

Smelling the flowers

Listening out for church bells

Holding the babies -

Those kind of things, were,

Well, just too mundane.

 

For A Poet Like Me!

 

I felt sure, given a moment

I could outdo Tennyson and give

Betjeman a run for his money

 

Wax lyrical on grand occasions

Make a mark in literary circles and even - You know -

 

Be Published.

 

Bugger it.

 

I LIKE what I

Used to write before I was

A Poet.

 

It wasn't capital letter great, but it was me.

 

Flighty, Flirty a Little Bit Dirty ...

 

Full of Spring and things that

Sprung to mind. Like say

 

God and stuff.

 

So, now my fingers are flying across the keyboard again

 

The church bells are ringing in my head, The babies are asleep in my memory and the flowers are once more stimulating my olfactory nerve. We're off!

 

 

:)

 

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For World Poetry Day: A Poem That Kick Ass ...

The Creation of The World

The first day

   I came to in the dark cold trembling

   while I gathered twigs lit them he came out

   of the cave shivered held his hands over

   the fire and said: Let there be light

 The second day

   I woke at dawn carried water from the river

   to wet the clay ground so the dust wouldn't

   whip his face he came out I poured water into

   his palms he washed his face looked up and

   said: Let's call the roof sky the dryness earth

   and the gathered waters the seas

The third day

  I got up early picked blue red yellow fruit

  piling small seeds between two stones ground

  kneaded roast them he awoke stretched ate the

  bread the sweet fruit said: Let the earth

  bear tender grasses grasses with seeds fruit

  trees

The fourth day

  I awoke suddenly swept the yard with a branch

  of leaves soaked the laundry scrubbed the

  pots cleaned the tools he woke as I sharpened

  the scythe rolled over and said: Let heavenly

  bodies light the sky to divide day from night

 The fifth day

  I rode in the morning filled the troughs

  gave the horses hay milked the cows

  sheared the sheep grazed the goats stuffed

  the geese cut nettles for the ducklings

  ground corn for the hens cooked slops for

  the pigs threw the dog a bone poured the cat

  its milk he yawned slowly rubbed the sleep from his

  eyes and said: Let everything multiply and

  grow and cover the earth

The sixth day

  Pains woke me I gave birth to my child cleaned

  swaddled nursed him he leaned over let the

  little hand squeeze his thumb he smiled at

  his likeness and saw that truly all of his creation

  was good

The seventh day

  The baby's crying woke me I quickly changed

  his diapers nursed him he quieted down I

 lit the fire aired the apartment brought

 up the newspaper

 watered the plants dusted quietly

 made breakfast the smell of coffee woke him he turned

 on the radio lit a cigarette and blessed the seventh day

Eva Toth and Laura Schiff( Ain't I a Woman! 1987,   Linthwaite I (Ed)  Peter Bederick Books, NEW YORK)