A Confession

Last week I went to a poetry-reading by the Scottish Makar, Liz Lochhead. She is a great poet, and a great talker! Every question from the audience was answered with an amusing and informative anecdote. My question was about writing autobiographical poetry. Many novice poets write in first-person, and the ‘I’ of the poem is usually them. I’d heard Liz say before that most of her early poems were like this. It takes bravery and technique to adopt a persona and move from abstract to universal.

Liz Lochhead’s advice to new poets is, ‘Use feelings, but don’t name them – let the descriptions evoke them; be daring and write from someone else’s experience.’ There seems to be a trend in performance poetry to use ‘tell, not show’ technique, the very opposite of what creative writing manuals advise. The use of 2^nd-person narrative verges on condescension. Perhaps it’s meant to “draw the audience in,” but as soon as I hear a line beginning, ‘You see…’ Or even, ‘See…’ I know I’m about to be told some personal platitude. “Confessional” poetry is not a string of rhyming clichés.

I’m also ambivalent about having poetry shouted at me, as if the words are worthless unless voiced fortissimo and at double-speed. As Liz Lochhead also said, ‘It’s the voice of the poem that’s speaking, not the poet.’ I admit (but this is not a confession) that I used a lot of 2^nd-person narrative in my poem-sequence, The Olive Box, because it was the poet addressing his love, Olivia. And that person was a fictitious character, though based on various people from personal history.

A year ago, however, I found myself writing poetry from a far more personal point of view.

This time last year I found myself falling in love with someone I shouldn’t have fallen in love with. I let a young, attractive and, so it turned out, highly manipulative woman burgle my heart. Having been hurt and abused by several women before, I vowed I would never allow this to happen again. But Love has a different agenda – as did this woman (who shall remain nameless.) She too, so she claimed, had never allowed the perils and dangers of partnership to interfere with her busy, single-minded life. And so, one of my poems reflected this by using 2^nd-person narrative.

 

L’Après-midi

You left a window open in the living room.

Didn’t think it dangerous or risky.
Besides, only a small child could gain entry,
and it’s been some time since
adults had unscrupulous kids
climb chimneys, burgle houses,
or pick a pocket or two.
You left a window open in the living room.
You’d double-locked the front door;
all other entrances (or exits) were blocked;
you’d be back soon. You’d only popped
out for a pint of milk or something
equally mundane. All the same,
that open window bothered you.
A person of precaution,
you were not the sort to leave to chance
an open goal for any passing opportunist.
You double-locked your life:
never left your bag unguarded;
covered the keypad when entering your pin;
never gave your password out to anyone.
But then – but then – you left a window open.
And someone – or something – got in.
It was around 3pm in the afternoon,
you returned without any surprises,
and there in your room a creature stirred,
although you couldn’t see or touch it.
You stopped because you heard –
or thought so – no: could sense
a spirit that you couldn’t put your finger on.
Nor taste, nor smell, nor any other instinct
could explain its presence.
Should you leave the window
open for this strange beast to escape?
You paused, since
that would surely be a waste.
Should you close the window?
To fathom this position, newly-poised,
you had to make a choice.
Only then – only then – you heard a voice.
 

If only I had listened to that voice which was perhaps, in retrospect, a voice of warning. That’s what poets do, after all. In my last post I wrote about hangovers; not from alcohol, but the day after a life-changing experience. For a soppy romantic, the day after that first kiss is bound to be a dizzy one. A running theme of many poems I wrote during this period of misplaced ecstasy was about repeating the same mistake. How many times have I woken up to say: never again? One too many, it seems.

 

Days After

There are three types of illness that plague us –

not on this day but the next. That is,
in those initial hours before a certainty
kicks in. I’m talking the dawning reality,
the morning-after when the day before
vomits an empty book on the bathroom floor.
I’ll spell them out, in case you’re not sure.
The stagnant ache of alcohol that, having coursed
its merry way around your veins,
becomes a stuck thud in your brain.
Or the bitter blow of death, that leaves
a void so visceral and deep inside
it cannot be catharticised.
And then there is that sweetest of hangovers:
I’m talking Love – or Lust, if you will –
the feather in the stomach
that flutters up through heart into mouth,
tempting a kiss from her tongue –
assuming there will be another one.
As I say, there are three types of ill –
Love and Death and Alcohol –
and all require a bitter pill… 
Better swallow it soon,
before the honest afternoon
empties into evening and you
repeat the whole damn cycle again.

 

Eating featured heavily in our relationship. She, the un-named, had had a difficult relationship with food. When we met, however, her appetite was healthy. One of our early ‘dates’ was a picnic (and poetry) in Musselburgh. We spent evenings eating salsa with tortilla chips and drinking red wine on Bruntsfield Links. We ate, and kissed, in Princes Street Gardens in the shadow of St Cuthbert’s Church (I asked if she’d been inside. She said ‘no’ but now I know she lied.) Once, we drank tea from a flask by St Antony’s Chapel. But we never made it to the top of Arthur’s seat, as this poem implies.

 

Picnic

We only made it half way up before

you spread your cloth and opened your flask.
Even so, by then the coffee was cold
and the sandwiches, limp, but we laughed.
You didn’t need to tell me that you
loved me, and I didn’t need to ask.
Above us, those who’d gone to the top
of the hill; above them, ravens karked,
while we tumbled into each other,
crowns intact; remained until the dark
convinced us that, despite that black bird’s
ominous threat, we thought our love would last.

 

When I sent that poem to her, she said there were so many layers. It seems there were also many layers to her duplicity. She claimed there were many types of food she had not eaten, due to a highly restrictive up-bringing, which may have been partly true. I took pleasure in sharing my gastronomical passions with her, and didn’t suspect that, in fact, she was far more familiar with forbidden fruit that she made out. I wrote the following poem after the first time we… oh hell, the romantic in me wants to say, ‘made love.’ Sadly, “had sex” would be more accurate.

 

The Second Breakfast

 

I will give my love an apple without e'er a core
I will give my love a house without e'er a door

 

Your naïveté astonished me.

I fed you flavours many think as ordinary,
although my maverick culinary tricks
threw exotic pairings into the mix.
Introducing you to pan-fried gnocchi
with smoked salmon (yes: you eat it raw) –
you devoured it greedily, asked for more.
And beetroot with ricotta – not a
combination many would think of –
turned the cheese, and our fingers, pink.

You nibbled nervously at mussels,

dragging them tentatively from their shell,
stretching their sinews, holding your nose
against the stench of the sea
(which I’d disguised with fennel, cumin,
citruses: heaping random botanicals in
as if I were distilling an artisan gin.)
Against the grain we drank red wine,
and tins of Guinness for pudding.
Bloated but engorged, our mouths
met… and hungered yet for more.
 
Next day we continued our tantric banquet,
still wet with passion or hunger or both.
There was no need to whet your appetite,
but you rejected the fruit I’d prepared
(was it Galia, Canteloupe or Honeydew?)
and confessed you’d never eaten a pear.
I said: you eat it like an apple without any core.
Its ripeness dribbled down your chin as you sank in.
 
Later, keen to complete your repertoire
of cuisine that was (to you) nouveaux,
you found another pear: an avocado.
I made a simple mustard vinaigrette,
but you took my hand and, smiling, replied,
I’d rather have it, you know, undressed.
I feared, as I cut around its cold stone
heart and held apart the separated halves,
this would conclude our feast.
But no: the soft exotic flesh became
for us a secondary break of fast.

 

There was nothing, at this stage, to make me think that I had been duped by her. My only regret was that we didn’t spend more time together. She was a busy person, with a rich mixture of studying, tutoring, and socialising. She claimed she had, in her spare time, a business to run, and was doing a high-level ballet exam – although I now doubt that either of these were true. They were merely ‘holding devices.’ When not with me, we retained strong communication through email and text. Once, I texted her a list of adjectives, which I later turned into a poem. Oh, poor deluded fool.

 

You Are

 

Funny like that bone that when hit judders

Adorable as a juggernaut when it shudders
Crazy like a pavement covered with cobbles
Wild as an elephant with the collywobbles
Sensitive as a finely ground lens
Talented like a show that never ends
Sexy – or should I call it sensuous
Ridiculous – your laughter is hilarious
Serious as a classical music station
Beautiful beyond temptation
Spirited like an alcoholic liquor
Soft (and strong) as tissue yet far thicker
Exquisite like every taste upon your skin
Tough as a creature that cannot sink nor swim
Melting as the sea that swallows me in
Vulnerable as the little bird within
More than this and wanting less
You are much more than this
Yet so much less
You are
By far

 

This list-poem, although as defrauded as she was fake, reminded me of several songs in which the same harmonic pattern returns in a cycle. For the next poem I included classical songs (from Purcell to Faure) popular classics (‘All The Things You Are’, and ‘Laura’) and pop-song references because, it seemed, this person was equally familiar with a wide range of music. I’m not sure this was true: her claim that she was giving violin-lessons to youngsters charging 60 quid a pop was way off the mark.

 

Repeat ad lib ’til fade

 

                for…

 

In music, they call it the circle

of fifths, where one chord drops
onto another, related, then onto
the next; an endless cycle repeated
as if in perpetuum mobile
until you return to the home key,
the ‘tonic’ – back to the beginning.

It is a familiar progression

of well-tempered, equal temperament,
from Pachelbel’s Canon to Dido’s Lament;
it rises up through increased sharps
to a Total Eclipse of the Heart,
then flats decrease, like deflated ego:
I Will Survive completes the cycle.

There are, naturally, complications
as relative keys progress sequential:
we think of music’s relationships –
whether major, or minor – consequential
and hear in the Just the Way You Are,
Aprés un Rêve, or even, Laura,
the same chords over and over.

 

I’ll say it again: I had no idea I was in the same situation of falling for someone who wasn’t what they seemed. I constantly edited and re-drafted the poetry I wrote at the time, trying different voices, tenses, and narratives. The next poem I decided to leave in first-person, since I felt it carried a universal message of embryonic love; that tricky stage of commitment-versus-reticence. But here’s a confession: the ‘I’ is all about me. As I said last month, you can put your sorrows into a story. Poems, on the other hand, can’t help but be personal.

 

In Her Shell

I picked up a snail from the path.

Daft, I know, but as it squeezed
itself deeper into its shell, I held it,
observing its underneath, thinking
it would show a fleshy, softly beating
reality of what pulsated in its heart.
But no. After a time I thought, oh well,
perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.
I replaced it, knowing my fantasy
was more about what I saw in the shell
than the knowledge of that vulnerability
which prevented her (I assumed a gender)
from sharing her home, her life, her love.
Was I cruel, or naïve, to up-end her?

 

I’ll end with that question.

 

It seemed there was much more to this story than met my eye.

 

 

The Morning After

At the end of a long project, waking up the following day feels like a strange hangover. It’s not so much a sore head as an empty head; more relief than catharsis. Charlotte & The Charlatan began as a poem about the Circus. Rather than just a random bunch of quirky character sketches, I decided to make the title-characters part of a loosely-threaded narrative. They both appear throughout the book, giving clichéd advice, unaware of their own foibles, failures, lies and misdeeds. Although I sketched nearly thirty tales, only 23 ended up in the book – a tiny, hand-stitched, illustrated art-book.

Throughout the process, I tried out the stories on audiences at spoken-word events in Edinburgh, and found that they worked well as performance pieces. People enjoyed their sinister humour. Next, I found background music for some tales, while others were specifically written to fit with music so that they could be choreographed for interpretative dance. My dance-artist was a major inspiration whose positivity pulled me from the darkness that threatened to drag me – and the book – into morbidity.

Another friend suggested recording the tales, with four voices playing various characters. Then video, slideshow, costume, illustration and other collaborations came into play, until the project culminated in a one-off performance exhibition which happened (depending on when you’re reading this) last week. It is not planned that this will happen again, so if you missed it: tough. The book is a limited edition art-book, and the recordings may appear on sound-cloud.

 

So “today” I am struggling with a weird and wonderful hangover. Charlotte and the Charlatan are no more. One of my favourite writers, Elaine Feinstein, said ‘All sorrows are borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.’ Actually, she didn’t say that; she was quoting from Isak Dinesen, the nom-de-plume of the Danish writer, Karen Blixen. In the spirit of Charlotte (not the most trustworthy sage) it doesn’t matter what is said by whom. It’s who you are, not what you do, that defines you.

I am a writer, musician, artist, playwright and poet. This means I am a liar, since ‘art is a lie that helps us to understand the truth.’ (That was pilfered from Adorno.) But at least I’m not a fraud or a thief.

There is no more grief and sorrow in the pages of Charlotte & The Charlatan than in the final story, ‘Invisible Alice.’ It is the tale of the worst possible day after, when The People awake to find that everything they dreamed of is gone, emptiness fills the air, and questions are barely-formed. When I wrote a poem about ‘the morning after’ this time last year, I didn’t imagine that, a year later, I’d be asking ‘Why.’

But thanks to my many true and wonderful friends (not least the beautiful, optimistic Melanie) this weird and surreal little sequence ends with the most conflicted sound we can ever hear: painfully positive, yet positively painful.

We ignore – or stop our ears against it – at our peril.

 

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan

– and other cautionary tales

 

Invisible Alice

Something was awry in Charlotteville. The parks and streets evinced an eerie silence. For weeks there was an absence that a cliché would call deafening; a dearth of noise the local folk considered threatening.

 

            It glistened in the trees like trembling light. Those who listened heard far more than sight. For those who dealt with taste, it left a bitter bite. But if you choose to use your nose, olfactory intelligence told of a sharper sense that could be felt on lips or fingertips, or spied in ice so thick, or felt in furnace (for who can tell what lies beneath the surface) or heard beneath the ground, or in the echo of the dome above (for who can hear, alone, of love.)

 

            It was an emanating absence all could tell with more intelligence than sight or sound or smell or taste or touch. Nor head, nor heart, nor gut, could dare identify an   instinct. Yet everyone in Charlotteville, from low to high, was linked in understanding bordering on visionary: Charlotteville was in a thrall lacunary and nihilist. Some-thing was missing, but nobody knew what it was, or why they missed it.

 

            Tension grew like a major chord against a minor 3^rd  suspension of a melody, heard within a harmony it could not fit (yet nature toyed with it.) The music of the soul sought resolution in a situation that refused to be resolved: the People longed for salve along a tightened string or taut skin of a drum; a sound to solve their longing, or dissolve   a fear that none could sense, yet all could taste and smell and hear.

 

            And some claimed they could see what wasn’t there. For those who thought they had the touch, it wasn’t up to much: a phantom presence that disappeared in thin air like an echo: repeating a noise that existed only in the memory and was, therefore, little more than unreliable imagination.

 

            Utterly deniable.

 

            There was something demonic, something monstrous: a juggernaut of thought, of passion more emotive or of motion uncontrollable that cast a shadow on a void. It employed both light and dark so no-one knew if they were looking though a glass or their reflection or projection of their image they could never see though nor observe where it might lead to.

 

            And as the tension grew and built in a crescendo, people gained an understanding that – ironic – darkness dawned upon them: an epiphany illuminating what was missing. Dismissing their own needs, their foibles and failures and lies and misdeeds, every woman,every man cried out and called for Charlotte and The Charlatan!

 

            But the Charlatan and Charlotte were gone. They called out again, but no sound was heard, nor glimpse construed. The air was imbued with empty wind, and from the ground the dust flew up like powder (was it talcum, chalk or sherbet?) On the wall, a palimpsest of new graffiti sprayed a message none, not one, could forget.

 

            Charlotte and The Charlatan were gone.

 

            Throughout the Principality, the People went from a sense of damp dismay to being drenched in some calamity for which they had no coping strategy or understanding. Those with energy sought high and low, while those of thought, demanding reason, found no wisdom. And those of raw emotion fought the tears of passion, empathy, aggression… all came to naught.

 

            The collective grief flowed through the stages any therapist could prescribe. A landscape painter would describe the scene as a vista: a broad horizon evanescing or inducing endlessness; a dim façade or perpetually rolling fen of melancholy.

 

            Time and space on senseless surge of tide on surf and shifting sand and coastal shelf and pointless blue dissolve of sea and endless sky that sucks the ocean up and yet the wet remains although the dry earth calls and enthrals as all the folk of Charlotteville, every woman, every man called out to Charlotte and The Charlatan:

 

            Why, Why, Why?

 

            A sinking, stabbing, throbbing realisation came to all. Were Charlotte and The Charlatan a figment of their fraudulent imagination? Was this just a reaction: to doubt their existence was foolish or futile, surely? Some thought it was purely a dream, but on waking discovered things were, indeed, exactly as they seem.

 

            In desperation, they gathered together and called out once again to Charlotte and

The Charlatan: 

 

            Why, Why, Why?

 

            But whether they called with the same intent, or even knew what the other – their neighbour – thought or felt or meant, not one could know or sense or say.

 

            Charlotte and The Charlatan were never seen again. Although the pain it caused the folk of Charlotteville,     long after their disappearance or departure would, in nature’s course (or time) reduce or dissipate, there was    but one excuse that would emolliate that wound, or scar,   or trauma (or whatever hurt is meted on a person’s flesh,  or heart, or brain.)

 

            Nothing is certain. No hours of contemplation, moments of passion, nor the steady plod of blood our organs push without cessation just to live, or be, or thrive: only one thing keeps us alive. It’s only one thing we are capable of giving. And only one thing makes our fictional life worth living.

 

            It was at the point the people called out ‘Why, Why, Why?’ that they stopped their senses and forgot – or failed – to listen for a baby’s cry.

Following a Faint Stain

The title poem of Ted Hughes’ early collection, Wodwo is a poem that has stuck with me ever since I read it. Using a mysterious creature, Hughes examines the questions of being and doing, what it is to exist, and how we see ourselves. I’ve cited this poem many times here on this blog, and wrote my own take on the Wodwo in my sequence An Imaginary Menagerie.

Facebook often throws up those funny questionnaires where, after ticking various boxes you discover, for example, which Shakespeare play you are, or what character in literature represents your personality. I came up as Atticus Finch, which was rather pleasing. There are other more serious character-analyses – in particular the enneagram,  and Myers Brigg. My preference for the former may be the reason I have not, until recently, done a Myers Brigg test.

Recently, however, I did one online, and discovered I am an INFJ. I was not surprised, as an enneagram Number 4, that emotions featured high, and intuition is a key factor in decision-making. I’ve mentioned before the introvert/extrovert dilemma as a writer/ performer, and how creative people tend to live in both states simultaneously. But the last category surprised me, even if I was on the cusp.

Apparently this is a rare type of personality. This fits with the Number 4 on the Enneagram, the ‘Creative’ whose self-ideal is of being ‘special.’ The tendency to want to help others more than self is common to both types, and can often cause problems. I know this to my personal detriment. It seems that the ‘Judging’ element sets these sorts of people apart, and although I was shocked to find that I fell on that side – thinking myself strongly perceptive – I can see how this makes sense.

Yet my inability to make decisions, or see things in black and white, would point to the P (Perceiving) element of this pair of letters, not J. I find shopping, whether for groceries, clothes, or train tickets, challenging because the options are overwhelming. Conversely, as a writer I spend a great deal of time observing people and assessing what makes them tick, which I guess is a J trait. My preference for the Enneagram is based on the idea that we can access all nine character-types, and using the ‘triads’ can travel around the circle.

Many of the Cautionary Tales in Charlotte & The Charlatan follow this idea. Head, heart, and gut appear throughout It may be poor literary practice, but I frequently describe things with triplicate adjectives. In my previous post, ‘Hannah and the Shadows’ describes the Jungian concept of the shadow-self (a feature of Myers Brigg) moving through the enneagram triads of cognition (head) emotion (heart) and instinct (gut) – developing Jung's 'archetypes.'. The next tale is an exploration of all nine character types of the enneagram.

Perhaps I am more like this character Thomas than I care to admit.

Having said all that, I still feel I am closer to the INFP than my 'test' came out. Who we are, and how others perceive us,  may be a critical question in our existence. Keep searching, Wodwo.

from Charlotte & The Charlatan

– and other cautionary tales

Unwatchful Thomas

 

Thomas was a people-watcher, but not a Peeping Tom. All day long he watched what made people tick; the expressions on their faces, the places they went.  Before he noticed, he’d spent hours engrossed in observations – avoiding conversations.

It was a form of empathy: he lacked a photographic memory and rarely remembered the people he’d clocked. He looked, smiled internally, then quickly forgot. His only recollection was of what each person might have been thinking. This was pure supposition – he couldn’t have an inkling of what was going on inside another person’s head.

His perception was a thumbnail sketch of a person’s personality from which he formed no judgement. “You can tell so much from people’s faces,” he’d say, then carry on looking for clues construed from first-opinions alone.

In the market-squares, streets and shops he never ceased to look at people’s attitude; their posture at the bus-stop; the way they queued at the till or the bar; their gait in the gardens and parks of Charlotteville. He never thought anything ill, whether they dwelled in the office, or work-site, or factory; nor wherever they stood in society’s hierarchy.

In the kitchen, the Head Chef and Chef-de-Party were in charge. Although one was The Boss, while the other relied on perfectionism, both were well-known for culinary schism. The Commis, the also-ran, washing endless pots and pans knew how detergent could foil the hottest temper by pouring soapy water on oil; making a molehill out of a mountain of plates: this was a character-type to which many could relate.

In supermarkets, shopping malls, and boutiques, there were many who wore their hearts on their sleeves. The Creative, who never donned the latest fashion but dressed with a trend that went well-beyond passion. The ever-helpful who, in the supermarket, reached up to the top-shelf for the shorter shopper, and let the pregnant mother get to the till before her. The high-achiever, while determined to finish her wish-list, never missed a chance to engage in conversation that would complete her ultimate mission.

In Libraries, Museums and Galleries the cerebral types could be seen. The avid reader absorbed informative facts with avaricious intent, while the museum-dweller indulged in artefacts, digesting a menu delightful and eclectic. Meanwhile, the loyal sceptic puzzled over pictures in every gallery. In her head, she knew it was ‘good.’ But in her guts and her heart she questioned: but is it ‘art.’

Thomas spotted the same types all the time, and plotted them on a pie-chart divided into nine. The defensive boss, short-tempered perfectionist, and smooth-talking negotiator; the selfless angel, aloof artistic creator, and list-instigator; the well-read wise owl, obedient art-collector and the epicurean curator.

In every visage, expression or face; from every walk or place or ban, Thomas would form an opinion as only a Watcher of People can. He spent his time without harming a soul, never thinking his strange predilection alarming; nor that others would see his acute observations perturbing, or in any way abusive or disturbing.

Harrowing Hell

Of the darkness in men’s minds

What can you say

That wasn’t marked by history

Or the TV news today

I fear that starting this entry with a Joni Mitchell quote is courting a spark, given her current state of health. Joni has been an inspiration to so many, including me, and I will return to her prophetic words later in this post. But for now, to engage with her spirit and philosophy seems appropriate.

It has been some years since I left the world of organised religion but, as I have indicated many times, I believe the Gospel story has immense resonance in everyone’s life, if they are willing to engage and understand the universal themes contained within this complex story. At the heart of it is a man who, for whatever reason the authorities and his society saw fit, was despised, rejected, persecuted, and eventually put to death after a cruel trial.

There are plenty of scriptural references to ‘light’ and ‘dark’ which suggest that the general human condition is to favour the latter. This, theology suggests, is why people refused to accept Christ’s raison d’être – to seek light in the darkness through love, redemption, forgiveness, and grace. But as the story has progressed through time and centuries this message has been corrupted and distorted.

The early church created a mythology which became, literally, its credo: a statement of ‘beliefs’ that Christianity was supposed to adhere to, and accept as its creed. There are only three sentences in the Nicene Creed that are indeed credible, or believable:

He Suffered under Pontius Pilate,

was Crucified,

dead and buried.

We then get a strange episode whereby Christ ‘descended into hell,’ thus giving rise to an incredibly absurd depiction of ‘The Underworld’ that even Virgil couldn’t get his head around, as Dante points out in his Inferno. But The Church has the idea that Christ ‘harrowed hell’ to redeem all humankind, before rising to ‘new life’ – whatever the hell that is.

Last week, I was challenged by someone who said that she hoped the pilot, who appeared to have purposely crashed his plane, killing all passengers and crew, would ‘rot in hell.’ First, I said that I don’t believe in hell, so her hope was misguided. I next pointed out that the man who did this was already experiencing hell in his own life. I could not condone his actions, but I was not in a position to judge or assess what led him to do such a terrible thing.

Then I was offered another option: that if God exists (another pointless posit in the argument) then he would condemn this person as evil. Well, again, I must say I don’t believe that either. What I do know is that some very complicated states of mind lead people to do terrible things, whether they fly planes into buildings or mountains, or simply fly too close to the sun.

 

People will tell you where they’ve gone

They’ll tell you where to go

But ’til you get there yourself

you never really know

And when they crash, whether into buildings, or mountains, or beautiful foolish arms, we are all at fault for not heeding the alarms that were ringing in the darkness of our lives.

As I move further away from ecclesiology, I come to understand why The Church and its claims are flawed, and yet have so much meaning. Our secular society is missing a trick, given the deeper truths which the Gospel relates. When Christ was abandoned by his friends in the Garden of Gethsemane, it wasn’t because they didn’t love him. It was because they were human, and humans are scared, scarred, and – well, failing to find a third alliteration – wimps.

In my poetry, I have examined the feelings that Christ may have endured in Gethsemane in my sequence Walking on the Water, published here  http://issuu.com/afternyne/docs/issue5 (see p 27). That Christ – and all who suffer – was harrowed by the reality of hell on earth is laid bare as the waters warp (to quote the Shakespeare poem mentioned in my last post.) Spring, at least here in Edinburgh, has been slow to arrive. And although my friends have not abandoned me, I have felt a keen wind.

 

Critics of all expression

Judges in black and white …

Compelled by prescribed standards

Or some ideals we fight

As Joni points out in this masterpiece, ‘Every picture has its shadow… and it has some source of light.’ So I took that line as a starting-point for my next Cautionary Tale, ‘Hannah and the Shadows’ and played with the idea that, despite our strange and corrupt attempt to dwell in the darkness of life, the light – however you perceive it – will bring you out of all darkness, into His powerful Light.

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

Hannah & The Shadows

Hannah loved the shadows. She dwelt among the deepest, darkest places of the mind. Hiding behind her public persona, Hannah chose to disown a reality that might reveal her personality.

 

            Hannah loved the shadows.

 

            Standing at the brown brink of water it wasn’t the thought of her reflection; she had no predilection to sink or swim. It was the shadow upon the murky surface that pulled her in. And as she waded in by the weir, she didn’t imagine her fear would overwhelm or wash away the darkness: her shadow would stay whatever the time of day.

 

            Hannah loved the shadows.

 

            As the sun set in the trees she saw the elongating shadow like a chimera; ominous and treacherous ephemera hovered over her neglected intellect. And yet she never let the silhouette of setting sun illuminate the prospect of another day. Hannah loved the darkness better than the light, but try as she might she couldn’t deny the source of her shadow was stronger when either the sun or the moon lingered longer.

            She belonged to the darkness. Hannah shunned the sources of light; the darkness addressed her; the forces malignant possessed her, indignant, held her in thrall; the fall of humanity was a calamity Hannah rejoiced in and concelebrated; the designated angels, cherubim and seraphim, standing guard, hard against the garden gate were there for hate and guilt and fault and blame: the same as those who sat in judgement over all their fellow human-kind.

            For it’s in the mind the deepest shadows fall. It’s not the yoke of light enthrals you. It is the truth appals and calls you to illuminate your mental state: Hannah would not, could not, see how others’ truth can illustrate her darkened slate. It was for her to scrape clean or to smudge or trudge the darkness in. It was her truth, within, within, within.

 

            Hannah loved the shadows.

 

            She hid in darkened corridors, bidden by the doors that shut upon her, followed by another and another – but she never dared or bothered to allow herself to push against their closing – supposing she was trapped in tunnels of her choosing, in a maze of multiple emotions, in a crazy labyrinthine dream. Hannah wandered on unseen, hiding an emotional charade, chiding her façade, berating her competing with the self-defeating beating of her heart.

            A dark, foreboding fear prevented her from penetrating deeper, or of finding any exit whether self-perceived or outwardly-revealed. She conceived if any person wore a mask or sword or shield they could transport themselves in thought and word and deed into a life hereafter. But for Hannah, laughter echoed round that outer mansion in a gloomy reverie.

            Held in her own self-defining palindrome, a prophecy macabre was far darker than the shadows Hannah loved. For on that tipping fulcrum; in that swing of pendulum, within the shrinking gyre of hell-fire it was clear it was the shadows that loved Hannah. And Hannah loved the shadows not in any symbiotic mutuality, for in their grave duality lay a buried dependency; it was Hannah’s tendency to dig away at darkness.

 

            Hannah loved the shadows that loved Hannah.

 

            Hannah dug herself into the ground. And, surrounded as the sinking sand dissolved, swallowed by the earth that gave her birth; she wallowed in the peristaltic drag of soil until her turmoil was complete and whole. Whether it was rabbit hole, badger’s sett or foxes lair, it was to her a box that best prepared her for the logic she admired.

            So mired in sin and all things impropriety could pile upon her, Hannah longed for darkness. But as leaf and bark and bole dissolve and rot or turn to ash and dust; as if we must be re-composed with some resolve to prove or, deep inside, improve, that darkness is no darkness as the shadows lengthen… every picture has its shadows…

            Yet if through miracle, superstition, or imagination; or through moral, mythological, or pseudo-philosophical elaboration, clouds of darkness part and drench the fecund ground with light to end what Hannah’s plight – to slight her right to life – had led her into self-interred corporeal hibernation.

            And as the dry earth parted, and Hannah attempted to draw her final breath, it wasn’t Lazarus, Persephone or any resurrection myth, nor was it death that forced her rise from her deep sepulchre and thrive; nor even light that gave her life renewed vitality. It was the shade that shielded her eschewed reality.

 

  

Friends Remembered

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship. In my last post (scroll down – you know how this works!) I spoke about the inestimable love of parents. This ought to be a “given” – although sometimes it isn’t – but the love of friends is a far harder challenge in many ways. I have lost friends over the years for all sorts of reasons; people grow up, move away, have kids or simply slip into different circles.

 

Sometimes a friend can actively end a relationship, but that sort of behaviour highlights deeper truths about that friendship. I lost one of my closest friends because the person I married was deeply envious of our friendship. When my marriage ended, that friendship was resumed, and it is one of the closest friendships of my life – not least because the friend understood and accepted what had happened.

 

Betrayal of friendship is a chilling thing. A recent “friend” once said that if anyone ever tried to have a go at me, she would ‘viciously defend’ me. It was a pleasing, if over-reactive, show of solidarity that turned out to be part of a massive deceit. Being fucked over by friends really hurts, and Shakespeare’s biting satire on false friendship is a poem I have quoted several times in my own poetry.

 

Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind

 

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind  

  As man's ingratitude;  

Thy tooth is not so keen,              

Because thou art not seen,

  Although thy breath be rude.   

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:  

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:          

        Then heigh ho, the holly!     

        This life is most jolly.             

 

      Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,            

      That dost not bite so nigh      

        As benefits forgot:   

      Though thou the waters warp,             

      Thy sting is not so sharp

        As friend remember'd not.  

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:  

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:          

        Then heigh ho, the holly!     

        This life is most jolly.

 

These days, with technology and social media, it’s easier to keep in touch with friends. We know that Facebook friendship is hardly a true mark, and the fickle followings on twitter can be virtually meaningless (or meaningful only “virtually.”) Recently, I have been finding out who my true friends are as I have struggled with an unpleasant series of events attempting to make my life miserable.

 

I have found that true friends are those who will stand by you through thick and thin. For many, parents and family do this too; and a similar notion is contained in the traditional marriage vow: for better or worse. Yet although families and marriages can fall apart just as friendships can, there is an important distinction. We choose our friends. Some may say we “choose” our marriage partner, but there is a whole load more complex psychology going on with that kind of love.

 

Just after Christmas last year I had a moan on twitter, saying that, after spending many weeks hand-making poetry gifts for my family, they spent barely seconds looking at them. A friend texted me to say they would treasure any poem I gave them; another friend tweeted to say they’d be honoured to read one of my poems. (I sent the one at the bottom of this page: http://inkyfingers.org.uk/2013/04/23/virtual-open-mic-episode-2/) This friend also pointed out that ‘you don’t get to pick your family, just your friends.’

 

In many ways, our friends evolve through circumstance; our work, study, and leisure associations bring us into contact, and from there, deeper relationships form. To say we ‘pick’ these is slightly disingenuous, but true to an extent. We choose who we spend time with, and yet we rarely actively profess our feelings about friendships; less so, express this vital concept in terms of love.

 

I have posted several songs on my Facebook/Twitter feeds recently, including Carole King’s ‘You’ve got a friend,’ and Joe Cocker singing, ‘With a little help from my friends.’ But one song that never fails to move me is Peter Gabriel, with Kate Bush, singing ‘Don’t Give Up.’

 

This is a profound song and, like all good art, is open to wide interpretation. According to Gabriel, essentially, it is about handling failure, which is ‘the hardest thing to do.’ Despite my failings, I’ve not changed my face, or my name, and have learned that those who no longer want you ‘when you lose’ are not worth having anyway. Friends accept us for who we are, even if – or sometimes, especially if – there are things about us that are uncomfortable, disagreeable, or difficult.

 

After all, who are we to criticise? In another famous poem about hypocritical piety, the line ‘To see ourselves as others see us’ does not mean that we should let others’ criticisms, prejudices and judgements eat away at who we really are. It is about empathy and equality, not judging. Having empathy with those around us means we are less likely to judge others. And treating others as we would wish to be treated is a Golden Rule; a call against hypocrisy that the Gospel writers make clear.

 

The story of the “penitent prostitute” shows Christ saying to all the men (there were no women at the stoning, despite what Monty Python suggests) about to stone an adulterous woman to death: ‘Let the one without sin cast the first stone.’ Once every man has dropped his stone, Christ asks the woman if anyone has condemned her. After she says, no, Christ says: ‘Nor do I.’ This concept forms the basis of civilised society, and is one central tenet of Christianity that I wholly believe in.

 

We have systems in this country for upholding law through judgement, and while they are a better system of justice than in many other countries, they are not without flaw. We have institutions such as Amnesty International to challenge those who think it acceptable to flog, stone, or kill people in the name of “justice” – which is why I have been a lifelong supporter of Amnesty. Sadly, we also have journalists who are a long way from religion’s Golden Rule, let alone from dropping their stone.

 

So I’ll say it again, before we move onto the next of my cautionary tales: true friends (and maybe family too; and possibly lovers) accept – and love – you as you are. If they don’t, they are not worth having… in which case they may be seen as enemies. In which case, you must love them even more. Whether you believe in God or not, this commandment is the basis of all the prophets and the law.

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

Have-a-go Harry

 

Once upon a time, as all good cautionary tales should begin, there was a man called Harry. While nothing especially bothered him, he was quick to have a go.

            ‘You’re always having a go at me, Harry,’ his girlfriend said: ‘You’re not my mother, you know.’

            ‘That’s true,’ he concurred, but he knew the reason why he saw fit to pick on other people.

            ‘Eat up, Harry,’ his mother would say to him as he struggled with his food, toying with every mouthful, complaining if it was too hot. ‘Too hot?’ she said, doubtful of his plight. Tasting his porridge, she’d assure him: ‘It’s just right: here, have a go, Harry.’ But the boy would tarry until his breakfast was cold.

            At the swimming pool, Harry was just the same. ‘It’s too steamy,’ he complained. His mother thought the water was tepid, and considered her son’s attempts wet and insipid; his reticence quite pathetic – particularly when compared to her daughter’s assertive nature.

            This was how Harry approached the things he did or ate: he’d put things off until it was too late. After all, if you leave a task to the final minute, there are only sixty seconds in it. But of his views, Harry took little time to choose what he believed in. Where others might have procrastinated, Harry was highly opinionated.

            ‘You can’t do that,’ he’d say to his sister. She was seen as the golden girl of the family (oh, how he wished she was perfect) because she was cheeky and bold. In truth, she was naughty, and got away with… well, not murder – unless you’ve heard a different version of this tale.

            At meal-times she was always first at the table, and took as much food as she was able; at bed-times, the last to switch off the light, she listened to music late into the night. She’d play kippy from school; broke more rules than the average exception, and at card-games, Harry’s sister was a mistress of deception.

            While she cheated and skived, Harry derived from her behaviour the piety of a born-again saviour. While she somehow kept off the hook, Harry lived his reticent life by the book.

            He stored up his self-righteous views and, as he grew from boy to man, meted out his opinions on anyone who fell short of his upstanding standards. Including his girlfriend who, much as she loved him, resented the way he presented his high-flown thoughts on Society.

            Although she didn’t demur, she felt he was nonetheless having a go at her. The thing is, Harry wanted everything to be perfect but, despite his presumption, lacked the gumption to tell the people who needed to know.

            There’s little real point to this tale, and certainly no happy-ever-after. Harry’s marriage was hardly made in heaven, but it wasn’t a disaster. His wife would say, ‘Harry, don’t have a go at me – and leave your poor sister alone.’

            Accepting he wasn’t so perfect himself, Harry would drop his stone.

POST SCRIPT:

The link to Inky Fingers is currently unavailable, but the same poem can be found here