I found that photo. This was at Coate Waters, our beginning so to speak. Paul had dressed up for me, not sure about the black shirt but as he introduced me to this part of the world he had grown up in I began to know the person he was. He had moved here when young, to a place just outside Swindon Old Town. We went to the Richard Jeffries museum which is near Coate Water and though I had never read any of Jeffries books, I now own three. He is my first nature writer I would go to for his extraordinary descriptions of nature at that time. His ability to bring in his childhood into the magic of being a child is a powerful message. I would almost say that Jeffries is a lost author who needs discovering again. Bevis
The following video charters the creative element that a museum can bring to children and grown up people alike.
This morning someone had put a poem on F/B addressing the sad death of Anne Widecombe, a political figure who had strong views. The poem is for us and is another rendition of 'My England' as seen through different eyes.
You Do Not Speak For Me - Harry Gallagher
You do not speak for me.
The sparrow has my voice,
busying between hedgerows,
English as a cloudy day,
no matter what you
or your henchmen say. .
That oldman and his dog,
out at dawn beachcombing,
letting the morning tickle
his mouth up at the edges,
his gait carries my weight
as he lightens the day.
The wildflowers on verges,
reaching for something
they can never quite touch,
but stretching all the same,
smudging their glories
allover the mundane.
These Saturday kids,
smiling through braces,
serving ice creams on days
when ‘hot’ doesn’t cut it,
learning that patience is
waiting for sainted grandmas
to choose between
sprinkles or flake.
The policeman, the plumber,
the teacher, roadsweeper,
prampushing mums,
gleaming proud dads,
the Sunday funrunners
replenishing the sweat
with a pint of English best
after winning their bet.
That lifesaver doctor,
last hour of her shift
who hasn’t slept since
God only knows when;
as kindas kiss it betters
to the latest in a line
of confused oldladies
who all ask the same thing:
"But where were you born dear?"
and "Ooh what a lovely smile,
what lovely skin"
as she holds their hands,
asks them where it hurts.
This is my England.
Its voice is not scabrous,
it is soft.
Its fingers reach down
to pick up the fallen,
brushing them down,
to hold them aloft.
Your tone is shrill,
a study in antipathy.
You are not my England
and you do not speak for me.
What a lovely place to visit!
ReplyDeleteThat poem is so true. People that I meet are not all fighting and mean and hateful as the news seems to report these days. Many of us are kind and welcoming and helpful and that doesn't often seem to get much notice.
That's a nice photo of your Paul, Thelma.
The bullies of the school yard are back Ellen. They have an excellent vehicle to spew out their hate, it is called the internet. And no one can find them, at least for the time being but there will be eventually retribution for their nastiness. I liked the poem as well, it wasn't fawning words as an obituary but it is how most of what being English is about. And I am sure it is the same in America.
DeleteThan you for the introduction to Richard Jefferies, Thelma.
ReplyDeleteIt was surprising to read of Ann Widdecombe's death. She was a strong character and apparently extremely kind on a personal level, and an attentive MP as a Tory.
I like the poem - we are all one nation, though all different.
There are a few Victorian writers who fill their books with good prose Janice. Jeffries was one of them. As for Anne Widdecombe, she was somewhat strident in what she said and perhaps limited in her views of the world but she definitely had character.
ReplyDelete