I was naked so I hid: A poem for International Women's Day

‘I was naked so I hid’ and You…You did not ask me why.

You did not ask me why, because You knew.

The times before when I did not hide; I was so exposed the people laughed; or did not understand or said they understood, but they did not really see me.

‘I was naked so I hid’ and You…You did not ask me why.

You did not ask me why, because You knew.

That they had written You, made You in their own image. God in pursuit, to be feared, as one who eats even the smallest humans for breakfast as a snack or because of their ‘sin’.

‘I was naked so I hid’ and You…You did not ask me why.

You did not ask me why, because You knew.

The vulnerability of lowering one’s guard when what is on the other side is unknown. It could be love, or it could be knives… and all that they would say to You in reply is, ‘am I my sister’s keeper?’

‘I was naked so I hid’ and You…You did not ask me why.

You did not ask me why, because You knew.

Instead, You asked me how? How I knew that nakedness was risky? You invited me to speak with You.

And You… You did not leave me exposed. But me You clothed. And said there is no shame in meeting me, naked, vulnerable, alone.

There is no fear in Love.

A Good Innings

 Hello there,

Last week my granddad, always known to us as Grandpop, died. So, my commentary on the South West has got a bit delayed. 

Instead I give you this little poem I wrote all about this incredible man who I shall miss.

-----

A Good Innings

92 years and 3 weeks is not a bad innings for someone who had sunlight treatment as an infant because he was failing to thrive.

It is not a bad innings for a kid who lived through the London blitz of World War II.

 *

It is not a bad innings for a charming young soldier on National Service,

who sometimes forgot to bring his cap, and had to travel all the way home again to be properly attired; 

and at other times won Athletics competitions,

whilst helping Hamburg rebuild after the War.

 *

92 years and 3 weeks is not a bad innings for a life-long Gooner and Eagles fan, who tenaciously gobbled up tennis and cricket, football and bowls.

The excitement of those victories, bouncing back from disappointment again and again. To relish the next fixture with equal excitement.

 *

92 years and 3 weeks is not a bad innings for a man who shared his house with his mother until the day she died…that requires perseverance and strength.

So too to love and care, full-time, for another in your own twilight years; because you said you would ‘love and cherish’, and you meant it.

 *

92 years and 3 weeks is not a bad innings with 5 grandchildren to worry about. Always anxious; that we were happy, enjoying our work, and being kind to each other.

Your parting cry of ‘If you can’t be good, be careful’ would grace us on departure as children. I didn’t understand it then, but I understood the love there, that we should take care, and have a lot of fun along the way!

 *

92 years and 3 weeks is not a bad innings for a man who boarded the tube in his seventies, and the bus in his eighties to go on adventures, to London, to school plays and museums, to cricket matches, and even the Ritz.

And its truly not a bad innings when you leave your home town permanently, for the first time, at the age of 88!

 *

92 years and 3 weeks is not a bad innings when you predate the NHS, and have two big brothers, when you believe in duty, but also in dancing; when all you really want to know for certain is that the kids are alright…

92 years and 3 weeks is a good innings.

Grandpop at the Ritz in 2009.

God, she is an artist

God, she is a seamstress,
We do not always see the hands that hold us,
but sometimes glimpse the stitches.
As she repairs the fabric of our lives and world.
The very fabric of which is a grace from God.

God, she is an artisan ceramicist,
Breathing life into clay,
Forming and shaping fragile pots
With her very hands.
Her fingerprints remain,
where she smoothed down our rough edges.
And placed the light inside, shining through
the cracks she knew would appear.

God, she is a graphic designer,
Bringing something out of nothing:
ideas become concrete
through her words and her hands,
Connecting us perfecting us, making us new,
drawing us near - to one another and Herself.

God, she is an author,
Writing all our stories, redeeming our sub-plots,
swash-buckling our enemies.
Sending a hero, white-charger not withstanding,
And promising to make all things well
before the last page.


(The inspiration for this piece coming variously from Julian of Norwich, Janet Soskice, Jimmy Needham, 2 Corinthians 4, Hebrews 12, Genesis 2 and many other places!)

Risen but not shining

As I rise without shining
The dawn fog still clouds my mind
Despite the fact that dawn was many hours ago
On this the second shortest day of the year.

I take a walk to clear my head
Driving to my destination, of course,
A land of smashed avocado and faux marble surfaces
And florists, so much Christmas topiary.

My vision of the shoreline is monochrome
but not lacking in glitter
as the sun makes its wary appearance.
Perhaps the sea-breeze will blow me into technicolour?

The cappuccino wears a thick jumper of woolly foam
A hobnob plays companion to my caffeine pick me up
Will this coffee clear the clouds?
Distracted by this vision of avocado and chorizo, feta
and balsamic vinegar, the colour creeps in...
in the periphery of my vision.

Wandering between shoppers back whence I came
A brass band plays
A woman who sells wooden toys comments that today
The shoppers are 'merry'
Makes a change, I suppose.

Clutching a few choice purchases
I walk back to the car
Accompanied by so many dogs!
(and their owners) of every size,
shape and colour imaginable!

Restored to colour I return home.
Risen and not shining but perhaps
Vaguely rosy round the edges,
warmed by the sun, and chorizo, brass bands
and a fleet of shopping dogs!

Oh Manchester! - my second ode to MCR

Oh Manchester! Promise me you'll never change,
or maybe do, maybe grow and learn,
but promise we'll still enjoy a swift half, or two,
on my return!

Oh Manchester! Don't cry those hefty salty tears,
why not give me a spot of sunshine?
We've had three really good years!

When we first met I'll admit I was a bit scared of you, Manchester
You were bold, brash and upfront, but you always told the truth,
A trait I admired, even if you were occasionally uncouth.

Oh Manchester! We fell in love quickly,
sealed the deal and bought a house together,
you taught me loads about DIY and how to enjoy bad weather

Look Manchester, its true we're going on a break
And that's a fact we'll both have to get used to
But I'll be back from time to time
The rules of a break were always hard to stick to!

Over time we'll both garner new friends, Manchester,
But it'll be more than I can take
If you replace me with another Essex-girl
Leaving me shouting 'we were on a break!'

So how can I show you Manchester, that my love for you is true?
I had your face inked on my leg, bae!
And nothing spells love like a tattoo!

Oh Manchester! Never change!
Or maybe do?
But know the truth is, I'll always love you!

My adopted city

The people of my adopted city are made of sterner stuff

There is coal within their bones

I think it got there during years of outdoor PE in the rain

That sort of stuff makes you tough

You can laugh at southerners in coats on nights out in January; you’re made of sterner stuff.

The people of my adopted city have tea within their veins.

‘Would you like a brew?’ passes for ‘how are you?’

And its rude to say, no you don’t like hot drinks…

And there’s little that can’t be fixed with a cup of tea and a listening ear.

The people of my adopted city know there is muscle in unity.

Whether you’re United or City; humanist or theist,

If you live on its streets you are family, you are welcome.

You are already in community.

My adopted city of coal, tea and unity

Took a hit yesterday to our most vulnerable spot

It would be easy to retreat to our trenches and forget our coal, tea and unity...

Thankfully Mancunians are made of sterner stuff.

Cartmel: the rebellious parish

One of the great joys of being an adopted Northerner - beside chips and gravy, not needing a mortgage to buy a beer etc. - is the proximity of the wonderful Lake District. A few weeks ago I drove up to Cartmel and Grange-over-Sands for the weekend and had the opportunity to explore the rebellious village. In 2001 Cartmel was deep in the foot-and-mouth crisis - now it is a foodie paradise - rated the 44th best place in the world ahead of the Himalayas!

Getting to Cartmel today is no real trial; you can board a bus, cross the Kent Channel on a train, drive up the M60 and down the A590 - it is two sides of a triangle but you don't feel as if you are taking your life in your hands! It has not always been like this. Before the arrival of the railways getting to Cartmel was very difficult - by land, you took your life in your hands on the trackways through the hills, and by water you faced the treacherous sands.

The Kings Arms: and chariots

Cartmel Priory

The story goes that Cartmel Priory was built on a site between 2 rivers - one flowing north, and one flowing south - at the request of William Marshall in the late twelfth century. Since that time the priory has been swapped between Dioceses, belonging at times to Lancashire, and now to Carlisle. You get the impression that perhaps no-one wanted responsibility for them, that they were troublesome, or certainly a little bit naughty. This strength of will was illustrated during the dissolution of the monasteries when the Cartmel parishioners prevented dissolution by Henry VIII's men claiming the building was the parish church - although this cost them the lives of 4 monks and 10 villagers - they won the case and were left alone.

There is little written evidence for a building that is quite so old - much of the written record was destroyed in the dissolution and is shared between 3 or 4 county libraries. This was a bit frustrating. But they've got some fifteenth century choir stalls and misericords which were pretty to look at.

The priory is well worth a look if you're in the area  - you'll know it by its distinctive twisted spire.

Twisted Spire

Priory Nave

The Gatehouse Bookshop

Cartmel is a 'chocolate-box' village it has country pubs and coffee shops, little cottages - it is picturesque. One of the first things I noticed on driving through the village was the Gatehouse built in 1330 as part of a wall to defend the village and priory from Scottish raiders. Built into this nice piece of architecture is a real wonder - if you know me at all, you will know what I saw that could invoke such awe...a bookshop! They've been selling books there since 1933 and have a stock of over 10,000 books. Did I buy a book?! Is the Pope Catholic?! It is an anthology of poetry printed in 1912 featuring illustrations by William Hyde and it has swallows on the front. That was enough to sell it to me for the princely sum of £8, but it does also contain poems by Shelley, Yeats and Shakespeare and a dedication 'To B' - as if it were meant for me. 'The Open Road' takes its rightful place in my library.

Illustrations by William Hyde

The Open Road

Sticky Toffee Pudding

It might surprise you to learn that this quintessential British pudding is not as old as the hills, it is a product of the 1970's, but it was born in Cumbria and I do believe in eating regional specialties when the occasion arises. Cartmel Sticky Toffee Puddings are sold nationwide in most supermarkets - the Rolls Royce of such puddings - but a trip to the village takes you right to the home of this delicious dessert in the village shop. Needless to say I bought some and devoured it over two evenings.

Why bother with Plan B? (review illManors)

In May, when Ben Drew (Plan B)’s single illManors came out I compared him to Shakespeare. Now I’m back with a critical piece on his whole album of the same name; which has had a massive impact on my life.

 

As illuminated by the singles that he has released so far; illManors, Lost my Way and now Deepest Shame this album is very vocal. Drew is attempting to tell stories from his childhood and from the culture of Forest Gate in the late 90’s, ‘I’m a social commentator, socially commentating, what I say is verbatim’ (I am the Narrator); the stories which cover drugs, prostitution, assault, murder, newspapers and society, are based on real experiences of people from East London.

Due to the form and content of this album there is an interesting discussion to be had about a) what Drew is trying to do and b) whether it is any good.

a) Drew’s latest single release has involved Radio 1 playing Deepest Shame most days. The song tells the story of Michelle, sexually abused as a child who turns to drugs to numb the pain and then prostitution to fund the habit. By being played on the radio Drew is bringing the reality of generational poverty to all sorts of kitchens and living rooms!

The lines here between music as entertainment and music as protest are getting a little blurred. Drew said he wrote illManors as a response to the riots of last summer, as an attempt to be a voice for those unheard. He samples vocals from protest-punk poet John Cooper on his album (he performed at Music for Miners in 1984 and has a strong link to socially conscious music).

Drew makes several bold statements both to those he views as outsiders, ‘sorry mate, these ends are in a sorry state, you can’t relate’ (Falling Down) and to his own, ‘We aint no different from them, honestly. Luck is the only reason they weren’t born into poverty’ (Live Once). Yes, there is a degree of advocacy of the poor to the rich going on; see Kano’s rap in ‘Live Once’ but there is also an attempt at balance, illManors criticised both dependency on benefits and the Government’s economic policy, and a desire to educate – he gives a brief history of cockney and its uses in ‘Live Once’ and to challenge kids from the estates not to become self-fulfilling prophecies. I would argue that this authentic voice of Forest Gate is producing a voice from the street, for the street. There is far too much swearing to make government pay all that much attention; it is too easy to dismiss these words as those of an angry man who is out of control.

b) Is it any good? Yes, at conveying the violence and the struggles of the underclasses. But I would also like to suggest that Drew’s music is well crafted. Drew is unafraid of fusing high culture with rap; during ‘I am the Narrator’ he samples St Saën’s Carnival of the Animals, behind his rap he reclaims the high culture for everyday use. His narrative tale, Mr Drug Dealer, borrows extensively from the epic genre, taking each verse as an episode in Chris’ life – we follow Chris and the twists and turns almost as they play out in front of us. I saw significant parallels in form between Drew’s album and Perfect Strangers; both use the device of starting with a complete scenario and working backwards to explain how this circumstance came to be, like Drew’s lyrics, its clever. Clever literary devises of the lyricist, good use of sound from the poet and harmony from the musician; all from one man.

Several of my friends disagree with me that Drew’s work is art worth appreciating. I think there are a number of things that affect people’s appreciation of the work – language is a big one, style is another and definition of vulgarity also makes an impact. Essentially the question is, ‘Can a piece with violent content and explicit expression be artful, can it be beautiful?’ This question is actually one Drew addresses himself  ‘sorry mate…you can’t relate …you can’t appreciate how this artist paints’(Falling Down). I think there is objective quality in the art Drew creates; after all I did compare him to Shakespeare.

My encouragement to you would be listen to the record, with open ears and consider what you can learn about life, East London, and even yourself through it.