Monday, 25 October 2021

Not For The Sceptical

I don't believe in ghosts So what the hell was going on here, I have no idea.  Many years have passed and I am still trying to process the story to make sense of it; to acknowledge, indeed,  that something beyond my understanding was afoot. 

I was young, in my mid-twenties, and living in London. My family home in Gloucester, which I visited frequently,  was the old stationmasters house in Pembroke Street near California Crossing,  opposite Gloucester Park It was a 19 century three-storey dwelling updated in the 60’s to meet the needs of a modern household. 

Shortly after taking up residence, my mother reported that  strange things were going on, which,  being sceptical about such things, I laughed off. Until it got serious. This is my mum’s story: 

“I was carrying Jan (a baby at the time) to bed, when I saw, standing on the landing,  half-way up the stairs, a young man dressed in army uniform, smiling at me. I was very startled not knowing who it could be, thinking it must be Adrian larking, about,  then, before I could say anything, the soldier said, “Know me by my cap,” which he touched,  and immediately disappeared. This made no sense to me at all. I put Jan to bed, went downstairs and discussed it with your dad. “What was he wearing?” I described the uniform. “And the cap?” Sort of triangular … 

Dad sorted through his things in the dresser and found a photo of a young soldier dressed in fatigues and wearing a “forage cap”I recognised  him at once as the man I’d seen on the stairs: it was your uncle Leonard, who died of TB contracted while fighting in Italy during the Second World War. “

That was just a beginning of the story. On my periodic visits home mum would tell me of frequent visits by “Uncle Len”  always at night, when she was asleep. So she was dreaming,  then? Apparently not. She’d be woken up and engaged in conversation. My dad recalls one occasion when he woke up too, and observed mum in a trance-like state holding what looked to him like a one-sided conversation with a person he could not see. It scared him sh*tless. 

She ( they) became increasingly uneasy. These were troubling occurrences,  and I could tell mum was being adversely affected by them. Eventually, whatever the source, she wanted them to stop. 

It’s many years since this happened and I remember at the time believing it was almost entirely in my mothers head,  and didn’t take a lot of notice, until the story took a very dark turn. ‘Uncle Len’ claimed that my cousin David would, “Gamble away all his money, then gamble away his life.” At this point,  my mother became really scared, and she asked me for help,  because I went to church. Mim did not go to church, but she had an idea that the church might be the go-to place for this sort of thing. According to the movies, anyway. 

I admitted that my experience of church,  had nothing at all to do with figures appearing on landings and revealing unwanted information,  but nevertheless,  I went to my vicar and asked for advice.  

We asked around, because the church is a repository of wisdom on this sort of thing, and it was decided that I should pray in the house, and for mother, sprinkle Holy Water here and there, and see what happened.. Consultations with psychiatrists were recommended too, which mum would have none of. 

 Fools rush in where angels fear to tread and yes, I I did it I prayed in the house, and for my mother.  I sprinkled holy water copiously, I told her to tell ‘Uncle Len’ to go away the next time it manifested itself, as it's highly unlikely it be anything to do with dad’s brother,  and to this day, 50 years later, cousin David is still alive and well. Did I have faith in what I was doing? Not at all, at the time, but my mum did, and that clinched it. End of apparitions. 

I thought that might be the end of the matter. It wasn't, although the figure in the army inform and forage cap never put in another appearance. 

The True Story of Mervyn And The Poltergeist is for another day. 

Monday, 5 April 2021

April



Eliot's an idiot
If he thinks April stinks.

I like April.
I get to write poems 
Tapping away without a care in the world beyond
Scaring a metaphor  out of hiding 
Finding a  a rhyme
(Which is as easy as tickling a simile
Out of my stream of consciousness.)
Lending an ear to assonance and 
Holding a meter to ransom.

Oh yes!

It's Good. All good.

Saturday, 3 April 2021

Easter Poems

Today is an odd day. Caught between the awful recollection of the crucifixion of Christ on Friday, and before the celebration of the resurrection, on Sunday, the  Church has little to say. Perhaps this IS the lesson: before such deep mystery, silence is the correct response. 

A few years ago, I was inspired to write two poems. The first  drawing on an ancient homily by a bishop who is now dust: Today is the day the king sleeps ... the second, a shout-out fir the joy of resurrection. 

The Christian religion, by which these poems are shaped,  is my heritage, and  my nurturing ground. Time was when I received it and believed it uncritically. No longer. Maybe it took the shock of clerical abuse to wake up to the fallen institution that the Church is, or needs to become. The horrors of pogroms and crusades, of support for imperialist expansion, the failure to oppose slavery, the inaction on climate catastrophe and political corruption - oh yes, I come to my faith deeply humbled by weaknesses that are also my own, but I stay. 

The crucufied man was a Jew, a reformer, a campaigner for justice and peace,  who hangs before me in silence, his battered body witnessing to this. Forgive me if I shock you: 

 “ Folliw me, and the bastards will do this to you, too.” 

I have to believe that the other side of the ghastly defeat of the cross is victory over everything that erected it and nailed Jesus, Yeshua,  to it.

Yes, I do. 

So, the poems:

The King Sleeps

I will mine the agony of my God with a pick and a lamp.

I will hew the stones and teach them to cry ‘Hosanna!’

I will fashion a tomb to bloom in a garden

I will fracture the face of Israel with a blow

That will become an earthquake

To  awaken the dead.


I will set my lamp beneath a splintered tree

I will close my ears against the forsaken cries of the Holy One 

I will seal my mouth against the acrid taste of blood

I will shut my eyes to hide the corpse that hangs above me. 

His eyes, not -closed.  His body, not-clothed.


‘IT IS FINISHED!’

 

It’s over.   God - 

Adored, outpoured -  passes over. 

Numbed, beyond fear, I whisper a lullaby into the dark:

‘Be still.        Be still. 

Night dawns.  

Death dies -

The King sleeps.’ 



God Awakening

I will celebrate the victory of my God in silence, and in song.


I will gaze upon the likeness 


Of the one-who-was pierced.


I will touch the mystery 


Of the dead-one-living.


I will trace his signature over my heart:

North to South

East to West:


King of Kings

Lord of Lords.


I will open my mouth to sing the serenade of the stars,


The song of the angels before the throne of God.


 I will shout into the sunrise, a canticle for my King:

‘Rejoice!   Rejoice!

The Lord is Risen -

Alleluia!’ 


I will bury myself in his joy, 


And, with laughter,


I will rise again.