Dr Benjamin Zephaniah

Benjamin Zephaniah has never played a large part in my life although I do know of him and some of his poetry. A large part of his persona known to me was his delivery of his poetry. 

He was also a truly amazing representative of the Human Race. If one wants to read about the overcoming of adversity from leaving school illiterate to having many doctorates then I would recommend the Wikipedia entry.

Like almost everyone in the piece of land called 'Great Britain' he was British but.....

And here I was going to quote in support of a favorite theme of mine a poem of his entitled 'The British'. It's not a poem that I could quote so I Googled it and discovered that YP had already written a post about him and included the relevant poem. So I am not going to repeat it but include a link  to YP's post.

I have always avoided political and, on the whole, controversial subjects on this blog because there are other forums for arguments. However, if ever there was a person who overcame every single adversity with which he was born then Benjamin Zephaniah was one of the most shining example of which I can think.

Perhaps one of his most amusing poems is Talking Turkeys:

Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas
Cos’ turkeys just wanna hav fun
Turkeys are cool, turkeys are wicked
An every turkey has a Mum.
Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas,
Don’t eat it, keep it alive,
It could be yu mate, an not on your plate
Say, Yo! Turkey I’m on your side.
I got lots of friends who are turkeys
An all of dem fear christmas time,
Dey wanna enjoy it, dey say humans destroyed it
An humans are out of dere mind,
Yeah, I got lots of friends who are turkeys
Dey all hav a right to a life,
Not to be caged up an genetically made up
By any farmer an his wife.

Turkeys just wanna play reggae
Turkeys just wanna hip-hop
Can yu imagine a nice young turkey saying,
‘I cannot wait for de chop’,
Turkeys like getting presents, dey wanna watch christmas TV,
Turkeys hav brains an turkeys feel pain
In many ways like yu an me.

I once knew a turkey called…Turkey
He said “Benji explain to me please,
Who put de turkey in christmas
An what happens to christmas trees?”,
I said “I am not too sure turkey
But itÕs nothing to do wid Christ Mass
Humans get greedy an waste more dan need be
An business men mek loadsa cash’.

Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas
Invite dem indoors fe sum greens
Let dem eat cake an let dem partake
In a plate of organic grown beans,
Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas
An spare dem de cut of de knife,
Join Turkeys United an dey’ll be delighted
An yu will mek new friends ‘FOR LIFE’.

Now

On 30 September YP wrote a post entitled 'Now'. I thought about it then and I've been thinking about it on and off since then. YP posed the question "Why should we live with one foot in yesterday and the other foot in tomorrow?" He ended up saying "Grasp 'Now' while it is happening because there will never be another day quite like this one." 

Then I started thinking about the millions for whom today is the same as yesterday was and the same as tomorrow will be. For whatever reason (for example loneliness, health or poverty) there are many for whom there has always been a past but for whom the future may offer no hope of anything different and for whom that permanent 'Now' is far from a pleasant one. 

I have posted (several times) on the poem by W H Davies entitled Leisure which starts "What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?"

Basically I think that is what is at the nub of what YP was saying.

All of us have a past which, to some extent and in some way, conditions us. We cannot ignore that past. 

Most of us have a future. How long it will be is usually unknown although the older we are then as a general rule the shorter our life expectation. How long we may hope and expect it to be will vary enormously.

When we are 16 to 18 then the last thing on our mind is likely to be our old age. However the future in terms of a career and all that flows from that is likely to be a consideration.  Some of the time. At that age, however, a lot of leisure time is spent in The Now but the rest of the time (school, university etc) is spent investing in the future.

At 75 we have almost reached old age. Our working life is like to be behind us. Our health will likely be less robust than it has been and we will probably have less energy and strength than at our peak. We will have far more of a past life and memories so we will live in the past to some extent. I think that is inevitable. In reality we are likely to be thinking about our future as well. Will we be able to drive for much longer? Is our home suitable for our impending old age? Should I plan for the possibility of dementia or infirmity.

I, like YP, am very fortunate to have an adequate income, all my faculties, lots of friends, family on the Island and superb health care which keeps my body serving me well.

However, whist I am out on this wonderful, cold and sunny morning for my walk in the woods I will be enjoying The Now whilst definitely thinking of the fact that in a short while I will be meeting an old friend for coffee in the warmth.

And that is, I would like to think, an allegory for life in general.

Or am I guilty of complacency as considered in YP's subsequent post bearing that title.

My Last Few Days

Actually I'm rather hoping that they were not my last few days. I've got a lot more I want to achieve in life. In a recent post Kate mentioned both Lucy Ashton singing "Easy live and quiet die" in Room With A View. It is in fact from Sir Walter Scott's The Bride of Lammermoor.

Look not thou on beauty’s charming,
Sit thou still when kings are arming,
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,
Speak not when the people listens,
Stop thine ear against the singer,
From the red gold keep thy finger;
Vacant heart and hand and eye,
Easy live and quiet die.

Kate also mentioned Dylan Thomas's Do not go gentle into that good night.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I have to say that if I interpret Dylan Thomas's poem correctly then he feels that I should be less than pleased if the last few days were, in fact, my very last. In fact I hope that when my end finally comes (which I'm hoping will not be for a good while yet) I shall be able to say that I have had a Good Life and, latterly, an "easy life" in the poetical sense and that I shall be able to "quietly die". 

However that was not what my post was supposed to be about. Never mind. I won't test your patience with any more in this post. Perhaps tomorrow....or the day after.

I did wonder, however, whom amongst my friends and acquaintances would rage and whom would quietly die.

Valentines Long Gone

You weren't beside me yesternight

With lips and eyes so sweetly smiling;

So full of soul, of life, of light,

So beautifully care-beguiling,

That you almost made me gay,

You almost charmed the thought away

That memory soon mine all would be

And you would smile no more for me.

I Asked The Zebra

I cannot recall where I first saw this but it was on a blog a long time ago. I came across it the other day when looking for something amongst my papers. I though I'd share it.

 

“I asked the Zebra,

are you black with white stripes?

Or white with black stripes?

And the zebra asked me,

Are you good with bad habits?

Or are you bad with good habits?

Are you noisy with quiet times?

Or are you quiet with noisy times?

Are you happy with some sad days?

Or are you sad with some happy days?

Are you neat with some sloppy ways?

Or are you sloppy with some neat ways?

And on and on and on and on and on and on he went.

I’ll never ask a zebra about stripes...again.”

~Shel Silverstein~

Abou Ben Adhem

A short while ago Rhymeswithplague wrote a post entitled On approaching the end of one's time on this planet, plus Davy Crockett which, amongst other things, asked the question as to how one should approach life at that time. Bob is a person with strong religious beliefs so some of the comments inevitably revolved around achieving salvation.

My comment was that my motto is simple: carpe diem. As I am atheist I don't try and please a deity but to live as I have always done trying to be considerate to those other humans (at one time I would have said 'my fellow men' but I understand that is frowned upon nowadays) with whom I share this planet. I don't expect or seek salvation. I'd just like others to show me the same consideration. 

To which Bob recommended the short poem "Abou Ben Adhem" by Leigh Hunt for my reading pleasure. As for the not seeking and not expecting, his hope was that I will be pleasantly surprised.

I was astonished because I had not thought about that poem for many years but I responded that some of my Mother's teaching obviously rubbed off on me because it was one of both my Mother's and her Mother's oft quoted works. Not that either of them were atheist.

So, for those of you who are not familiar with the work here it is:

Abou Ben Adhem

By Leigh Hunt

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

On Being Right

Here lies the grave of Jeremy Day.

He died defending his right of way.

His way was right.

His will was strong.

But he's just as dead as if he'd been wrong.

(This is a poem I have used since I was a teenager. It is in my journal from that era. I cannot find an original source and I have none specified in my journal. I cannot believe that it is an original of mine although I would like to believe that. If anyone knows the source I would be grateful if they would say so.)

Human Family

I heard this poem on the television this evening.  I'm not sure of the significance because I wasn't actually watching the television but just heard the words and Googled them. I had to share them.

Human Family

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.

Some declare their lives are lived
as true profundity,
and others claim they really live
the real reality.

The variety of our skin tones
can confuse, bemuse, delight,
brown and pink and beige and purple,
tan and blue and white.

I've sailed upon the seven seas
and stopped in every land,
I've seen the wonders of the world
not yet one common man.

I know ten thousand women
called Jane and Mary Jane,
but I've not seen any two
who really were the same.

Mirror twins are different
although their features jibe,
and lovers think quite different thoughts
while lying side by side.

We love and lose in China,
we weep on England's moors,
and laugh and moan in Guinea,
and thrive on Spanish shores.

We seek success in Finland,
are born and die in Maine.
In minor ways we differ,
in major we're the same.

I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.


You can listen to her reading this poem here.

  © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

'If''. The alternative (by Frances Garrood)

If you can fill your room with junk and clutter, 

And still contrive to find your (unmade) bed.
If you withstand your parents' angry mutter
And play your music extra loud, instead.
If you can hoard your dirty mugs and dishes
And grow green mould therein, and cease to mind,
Stand fast against your teachers' well-meant wishes,
And, stalwart, keep your place in class (behind).
If you can eat three plates of food at mealtimes
And still have room for cereal in between,
And leave your dirty garments where you dropped them,
So everyone can tell where you have been.
If you can leave the jobs you're meant to do, lad,
And make quite sure that they remain undone,
Yours is this room, and everything that's in it.
You've now become a teenager, my son!

Frances Garrood

Dedicated to T, B and J.( But particularly T.)

(With thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the picture, and apologies to Kipling)

Frances Garrood writes books.  In my humble opinion, and I am not alone in that view, very good and certainly very enjoyable books.  She also pens limerick after limerick and poem after poem on her blog (usually in response to Magpie Tales whatever they are).

This particular adaptation really appealed to me: possibly because Son 2 who is now one of the most meticulously fastidious of young men went through this phase with a vengeance.

I apologise for the repetition to those of you who have already read it on Frances's blog (with image). 

Adelstrop and Esso Blue

Any sane person would wonder why I am suddenly departing from my usually mundane types of post to embrace a poem and an ancient advert for a product which I don't even think exists today: Esso Blue Paraffin Oil. 

The answer lies in the fact that I cannot get either out of my head and CJ and I are having to endure me wandering around quoting bits of poem and us both singing the Esso Blue song. It's driving me bananas.

I seem to forget my posts within no time at all. So if I post these it follows as a logical syllogism that I shall forget them in no time at all.

ADLESROP

Edward Thomas

Yes, I remember Adlestrop –
The name because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop – only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Frances Garrood Talks to Her Horse

When she is not talking to her horse, Titch, or berating people (I know, I'm a victim) for their use or misuse of the English language Frances Garrood is, amongst many other things I'm sure, writing: books (see my post a few days ago about Dead Ernest) and her blog (pithily named Frances Garrood) and, doubtless plenty of other things too.  In my experience (of, amongst others, my brother CJ and my Mother) people who write spend as much time as they can doing it.  

This was actually not supposed to be about Frances but about summer and the weather.  However the words that prompted it were penned (actually they were more likely keyed) by Frances in the form of a poem which amused me very much indeed.  It was entitled A True Story:

Towards the end of every May
I put my winter boots away.
Knowing that summer's coming soon 
(And no-one wears their boots in June).

I get my sandals out instead
And paint my toenails cherry red
And wait for summer to resume.
(For I cannot wear my boots in June.)

Last night, the rain came down in buckets.
At last I flipped. And thought - oh, f*** it -
I'm hardly asking for the moon!
( I've put my boots back on. In June.)

That immediately made me think about the fact that on Friday down on the beach I was wearing a roll-neck sweater, fleece, quilted inner and windproof/waterproof Berghaus jacket.  It's June and it was 7 days away from Midsummer's Day!  Two weeks ago I was paining the fences round the house wearing shorts.  We haven't had any rain to speak of for weeks and I have the sprinklers going.  The South of England is flooded.  The world is topsy turvy.  Do Aurae, Anemi and Boreas not know that it's summer and that if anyone is out to play it should be Zephyrus.  Or are the wrong gods being called upon.  Are they too Greek to care about the Outer Hebrides?  Perhaps we should be calling upon Freyr the relevant Norse god.  He is, after all, nearer to hand.

But, hey ho, there is little I can do and in the circumstances I think that I shall just take a leaf out of Frances's book and put my winter clothes back on.

Lewis Weather

Lewis Weather

It rained and rained and rained and rained

The average was well maintained

And when the fields were simply bogs

It started raining cats and dogs

After a drought of half an hour

There came a most refreshing shower

And then the queerest thing of all

A gentle rain began to fall.

Next day was pretty fairly dry

Save for a deluge from the sky

This wetted people to the skin

But after that the rain set in

We wondered what's the next we'd get

As sure as fate we'd get more wet

But soon we'll have a change again

And we shall have

A drop more rain

Dirty British Coaster. I Think Not.

The Transfennica vessel MV Timca sailed past the house a few days ago. I wondered what sort of vessel she was. The Transfennica website tells me that she is a Trafexpress Class cargo vessel.

"Speed both at sea an in port, is an important feature of the new "Trafexpress"-class of vessels, which are suitable for short-sea as well as deep-sea traffic. These vessels are equipped with two medium speed main engines, with an output of 12,600 kW each. Designed to have the best manoeuvrability ever, the vessels are equipped with twin bow thrusters of 850 kW each and two high efficiency flap rudders. At 12,800 DWT the maximum speed is about 23 knots. The vessels are strengthened to Finnish/Swedish ice class 1A Super incorporating the typical Spliethoff icebreaking bow shape. Fin stabilizers ensure a safe passage in rough weather."

She is certainly the most beautiful cargo vessel I have ever seen. I wonder what John Masefield would make of it if he were writing “Cargoes” now.

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Hmmmm.....

Not Waving But Drowning

Something happened the other day (I can't remember what) and a friend said "He's not waving but drowning!" "Gosh", I said, "that's a new take on the crying wolf theme. He's not crying wolf this time. He really has a problem.". [The last few sentences reminded me of school when you were given an unpunctuated paragraph and you had to punctuate it so that it made sense.] Anyway, as usual I digress. My friend then went on to explain that she was quoting from a poem and then went on to recite it.

Now I'm not very knowledgeable when it comes to poetry and having the memory of a goldfish (sorry if that's insulting to goldfish) I'm not a great one for reciting it either. I've always had a 'thing' about Keats poetry and I love Shakespeare but this poem really struck home. In particular the last two lines reminded me of myself until I was thrown a lifeline by a friend a few years ago. So I thought I'd share it:

Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Making Time

I have just read a really beautiful posting by L'Archiduchesse entitled Audience. Scriptor Senex (alias CJ) wrote in his comment the first few lines of a poem, Leisure, by W H Davies. It is a poem that I used to know by heart and found particularly peaceful. I used never to have time - no, that's not correct - I never made the time to stand and stare beneath the boughs and my life was the poorer for that. Now I have re-allocated my priorities and stop and stare as much as I want. Blogging has been a great help to that. I photograph with a greater purpose and think more about what is behind the photograph and not just about what is in front of the lens.

The full poem:

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

I stop. I stare. More than that I try and think about that which I am staring at. And I will do it with greater purpose from this day forth.