The place I’m thinking of this evening is called St Aldhelm’s Chapel, pictured above. It is a small and simple Norman structure built right on the edge of a Dorset cliff, facing out over the English Channel and beyond that to Europe. The chapel has no electricity and the interior is dark. It has just one small and narrow window in the south wall.
Sometimes I give poetry readings in there. The latest took place on a beautiful Autumn afternoon in 2017 and one of the poems I read was this, below :
I send greetings from this place
to my neighbours across the water
I bid them welcome to my mind
I bid them welcome to our future
and I grieve that in the present
some people on this small island
have been bewildered and misled
into thinking water can be wall
and a little and invented “we”
can be a separate, better home
than true connection, I to Thee,
each frail on a cliff-edge, sharing the sea.
Rogan Wolf
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Here is another poem of loss and it’s called “The Widow” (the title links to it). I wrote it some years ago, in sorrow for the grief of the person concerned, but also in awe at how she voiced her bereavement, the words she reached for, and the way she flung them out, time and again, to her dead husband. It was just before the funeral and she was sitting there by the open coffin, waiting to go into the church, facing out and away over the graveyard and the orange trees and lemon trees there (we were in Athens). The scene was somehow majestic.
And of course I cannot help but be aware of all the present sorrowing across the world, experienced by those left behind after the Covid-19 virus has passed through their family, meting out an often lonely death among strangers, a death without due words, without due recognition and community.
But here in the UK there is another element in this overpowering, all-embracing sense of grief and outrage and loss. And surely it must feel the same in the USA, in Brazil, in Russia, in all those other nations whose citizenry have lost their way like us, having had their integrity of being, their national honour, their self-respect, stolen from them by those who pretend to lead them.
In the UK, we are “led” by a felon Toad. It is on public record that, on two separate occasions in the past, he has been sacked for lying, and yet still and despite that, we made him our Prime Minister. And of course, thus encouraged, he just carries on where he left off. One of his first acts after becoming Prime Minister was to lie to our constitutional head of state, the Queen ; and of course he is now insisting on retaining his lying “advisor,” this warped creature of chaos and outrage. In humanity’s many-faceted crisis, we are trapped and lost at sea, ill-captained, ill-protected, deceived, reduced, insulted.
“My eyes ! My eyes ! Where are you ? I’m blind !”
The illustration above is an engraving by Gustave Doré. It is one of his illustrations for Coleridge’s poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”
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Dear MP’s Office Manager,
Thank you for your earlier response and yes, please, I would like to hear the Cabinet Office’s response to your news, that by the 26th May you had already received 1500 emails concerning Mr Cummings.
I need to report that the responses I’ve heard so far have just left me brimming over with yet more outrage, shame and contempt for the nation’s present leadership, as exemplified now not just by Mr Cummings’ recent trips north, and his explanations afterwards, and the manner of them, but by Mr Johnson’s actions and statements afterwards, and the manner of those.
And in fact we surely already know the Cabinet Office’s response to the outrage being expressed here, by so many people. “Move on,” Mr Johnson has suggested, while he plans his next “world-beating” Covid-19 initiative which will undoubtedly fail even to work, after which there will be another cover-up, while the nation’s dreadfully high death toll continues. The leadership of this country is far worse than embarrassing. But simply embarrassing it also is.
By “moving on”, I assume he means that we should just leave it behind, as if it were water and we were ducks. We should be grateful for what we’ve been given. After all, he’s allowed us into the Rose Garden, hasn’t he, and we’ve seen Dom in a shirt for a change, and that’s quite enough treats for one season, isn’t it ? Now move on. It’s what Dom said. He said “tell them to move on.” What a genius of communication that man is (though his lies are as glaring as the look on his face).
And yes, the country will move on, but it won’t leave all this behind. We shall move on with it digested and with all that it tells us and means poisoning our nation’s system, and also Mr Johnson’s credibility – if he cares. Also his government’s and his Party’s and all its MP’s credibility – if they care.
I have said that I did not vote for your party. But I don’t think this is a party issue. This is not a disagreement over political philosophy or policy. It’s an issue of integrity, honesty and competence. In other words, of common interest, of common ground. I really fear that the hoodlums have moved into town and I see no sheriff.
I have one more thing to say, just in case you have time to read it. I earned my living as a mental health social worker and am informed by some of the knowledge-base of that occupation. One does not deploy one’s knowledge lightly, but these are frenzied times, encouraging all sorts of dysfunctional behaviour and giving space, prominence and influence to all sorts of disturbed people. I fear what Mr Cummings has in store for us, from his position of influence, now given double-strength. He likes to anger people, to provoke, to rubbish, to slight, to be the cause of disorder. A negative response is an exciting form of attention. Even his dress is a statement of contempt and provocation, a deliberate and incessant slighting of wherever he goes, of whomever he is addressing. In his “beanie”, he saunters into Number 10. That is a powerful, careful and impactful statement, I suggest. But no one talks about it. Why not ? I’m sure that it, and his objectionable manner, simply keep winding people up and is a justifiable part of our present anger. And a SPAD addressing the press in the Rose Garden ? Even that was a slighting, a kind of sneer. He scatters anger round him, like a sower. He leaves chaos and insult behind him wherever he goes.
And this will keep happening at the head of government so long he stays there. Dom is having a great time, in his own pathological way. He has become an international small dark star. And we as a nation are in serious trouble and so long as he continues in the position he has, as our felon Toad’s familiar, it will get worse for us, all of us.
And, as things stand at the moment in this nation, what force is there capable of taking action on this matter, to restore order and competence and sense and honour ? I fear there is no force – unless Tory MP’s in sufficient number refuse to play along.
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There they stand,
those old antagonists,
posing at the head of the high-walled city,
that vast coronet of ruin.
Above them, the daily familiar
blue glare of God’s regard,
far beneath them,
their radiant Aegean.
Arm in arm they stand
and eye to eye,
he fragile as ever
almost the hanging vine,
she the lioness
fine head pulled back
as if thinking : “You old bugger,
I’ve yielded good ground to you.”
Now, two thousand miles away,
exiled, here she lies. Dying,
she had no thought to spare
for that old bugger whose death killed her.
As he now feeds an Athenian silence,
she must now fade into London’s air.
Her ashes yearn to join him there
in the dry red earth, under the orange trees.
For ten months she tried
waking without him here, this side.
She didn’t like it.
In haste, she died.
Rogan Wolf, January 1993
The epitaph beneath the photograph of the couple is called “Upon the Death of Sir Albertus Morton’s Wife” and was written by Sir Henry Wotton, 1568-1639. The name of “Sir Albertus Morton’s wife” was Elizabeth Aspley. Sir Albert was secretary to King James 1st of England and nephew to Sir Henry Wotton.
The couple in the photograph are my late parents-in-law. They were Greek and can be seen here posing on the “Castro” of Monemvassia, once a major Byzantine port south of Mystras in the Peloponnese.
Medieval Monemvassia was built on a great rock with sheer cliffs, connected to the mainland only by a slender causeway. The city was essentially divided into two, one part high up along the top of the rock, the other along the rock’s base, facing out to sea, protected by walls.
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Where’s the fraught frontier between
Mercia and East Anglia ? Guards were stationed here
gazing out from within. And within
was somewhere to die for. And without
was someone to kill. I explored it once,
that fraught frontier, now footpath
between nettles. It was sunday
and Cambridge families were out walking there
after a good lunch.
And where’s
the fraught frontier between Wales
and the Marches ? Along the rivers
and escarpments, where the great dyke is,
and where King Edward’s sentries pace
to and fro behind his walls,
those battlements, those helmets.
They attract significant income these days
for the Tourist Board.
And where’s
the fraught frontier between my innocence,
and your guilt, my dread
and your threat, that roar
of hooves across the Steppes
towards my heart’s core ?
Let me
touch your shoulder, stranger.
I mean you no harm. Might you
cup my cheek, enquiringly ?
Rogan Wolf
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