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’.

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.

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.

"Spring is Sprung"

Ma Bunny said "and now we should get out of bed." For many years I had it in my head that this was a quotation from some other source.  It would appear, however, that it is a figment of my own imagination. That's unusual because imagination is definitely not my strong point.  

Of course there is another poem that my brother and I learned as wee children:

Spring has sprung, the grass is ris, 

I wonder where the boidies is
The boid is on the wing,
But that’s absoid
The wing is on the boid!

Oddly enough when I did a brief Google search I got many and varied results including the easily verifiable statement that it was by Winnie the Pooh although I certainly don't recall it and, as I'm not at home, I can't verify that. One of you, my readers, will know though.

 

I've been in Glasgow - Bishopbriggs to be precise -  for most of the week and today it's been 20ºC.  Perfect for Anna to get into the garden and for me to be helping with a bit of labouring. However as it's Easter Day it's been a family day for Anna and we've enjoyed company instead. Now it's evening and quiet but it's still warm and the sun is thinking of dipping below the horizon.

It does make me feel that it's time to celebrate what feels like the first day of Spring.

If the bee had been less active or I had been more adept I might have got a decent photo of my first bee of the year. 

The camillias in Anna's garden are flowering

in fact some are in full bloom

On the washing there was a Seven Spot Ladybird. I had no idea they could be out so early.

Getting ready for flight

Feed Your Enemies' Children!

The wind and rain are beating ceaselessly and noisily on my (double-glazed) windows.  There is half an hour to go until midnight.   I'm sitting in bed.  I was out this evening for dinner. 

Thus did I start a post last night.  And that was as far as I got.

I was going to go on and quote from Keats' Ode to a Nightingale and his reference therein to the River Lethe:

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

But I'm afraid that I fell into the river faster than I'd intended.

At 0520 this morning I woke to the rain still beating ferociously on my bedroom window and the occasional flash of lightning lighting up the room.

What triggered my thoughts on the River Lethe was the fact that I've not had any nightmares recently.  Dreams, yes.  Nightmares, no.  That's definitely a Good Thing so far as I am concerned.

This morning when I woke, though, I woke with a thought in my mind about which I had been having a mental discussion in my sleep - a really odd feeling.  The thought was 'Always feed the children of your enemies'.  How weird is that?  It was set in the situation of a civil war and it was the legitimate government who was doing the feeding of the children of the rebels.

It was a very real discussion too.  I can even recall some of the arguments.  My proposition (I was arguing for the proposition that one should always feed the children of one's enemies) was that if one fed their children then there was less chance the children would turn against one and that it was the 'right' thing to do in any case.  Children should not be made to suffer for the transgressions of their parents.  Not, I seem to recall, a view biblically supported in the injunction that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children.  Nevertheless......

If anyone can make any sense of all that then 'You are a better man than I am Gunga Din'.  That's the second time I've used that quote in as many days.  Strange place this world I inhabit.  You too?

All Mixed Up

I'm afraid that everything 'real' life has interfered with my Blogland life over the last week but I'm snatching a few minutes to say that I'm hoping to get back to posting soon.  However things will be all over the place and my posts may bear absolutely no relation to where I am or what I'm doing at that moment.  Nevertheless I shall continue bloody but unbowed.

Now, I thought to myself, where does that come from?  I recalled that it was from a poem but by whom?  Of course Google supplied the answer.  What did we do before Google?  Who uses any other search engine?  I used to use different ones at different times but now to me search = Google.  Apart from Yahoo and Ask Jeeves (is that still alive?) I'm not sure I can actually name another off the top of my head.  I just Googled it.  Hmmm.  Interesting.

Anyway as I was saying I just Googled the saying 'bloody but unbowed' and discovered that I actually knew the poem from which it came:

INVICTUS*

William Ernest Henley, 1849-1903

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul
* translated as unconquered or unconquerable

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.

Statues, Longfellow and Other Thoughts

I love statues and suchlike works of art. Not all statues, of course. Just like a picture, for every thousand (or whatever figure) we see, one will strike us as important for some reason: we may love it or hate it but we will notice it. The moment I saw this statue (an enlarged version and details can be found at Soaring Through The World In Pictures on the posting entitled Stepping Stones: William Hamo Thorneycroft: 1878 which I posted earlier today) in the Kibble Palace last week I fell in love. Seldom have I seen such love and care brought to life from a block of marble.

When it was first exhibited in Glasgow in 1880 it was accompanied by the couplet "Pausing with reluctant feet/where the stream and river meet" which, I have since discovered is from the poem Maidenhood by Longfellow. What a coincidence.

Why a coincidence? Two reasons: Firstly it links the statue with those of you in the USA who read this blog because Longfellow was American and secondly because only a short while ago Heather quoted from Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha which I subsequently included in a posting on 7 July entitled Lunch at Duck Bay.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807 - 1882 was an amazing person whose talents were far wider than 'just' writing poetry.

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.