In all our sanctuaries we sit at risk
  • Severn Shorts

    I am getting to know the River Severn. A longish poem about it is already up among the “collected works” on the right (“Of My Neighbour the Severn”)

    Here below are some later brief impressions, or experiences, of the Severn’s nature.

    The picture above was taken by Nicola Knoop.

     

      

      And I did a silly thing      

             (at Arlingham)

     

    And I did a silly thing

    and I’m ashamed of it now

    I carried my son across the river

    where the ford used to be

    but I got it wrong

    and crossed a few yards

    too far down and suddenly

    felt nothing underfoot no

    passage and the water

    pulled at us with shocking force

    but I found my way

    out of our trouble

    by swimming like crazy

    and so I hauled us

    onto the far bank, blowing hard.

    And this old man was sitting

    right there on a bench

    and he’d been watching us

    and he pointed at the church close by 

    and said : that graveyard there

    is full of silly buggers like you.

     

    The poem above is an approximate record of a story told me by the swimmer, elderly now.

     

                      The Severn Bore

                        near Framilode

     

    Sometimes the Severn shakes itself like a hound

    to cast off that mud, those millenia,

    those furies pent, but we see only

    the wrinkles along its back

    escape and race at speed towards Gloucester

    pursued by excited surfers and photographers

    and the occasional poet, with crowds roaring

    along its bank, until at last

    the whole arrangement settles back in place again

    and the sea-gulls relax and resume their squabbles

    and the currents and cross-currents return

    to their accustomed turmoils and all the arguments

    we know so well continue where they left off.

     

                 The Ravening Flood

                          near Aust

     

    My picture of rivers is Wind

    In the Willows, the Itchen through Winchester,

    the Test through Stockbridge – all clarity,

    gurgle and fishing rights. My kind of river

    penetrates the Hampshire style of countryside,

    twinkling politely as it goes. Saint Cross ,

    for example – good for picnics. The swans there agree.

    Enjoy your sandwiches, they say. We’ll pose for you

    among the reeds. The Severn has never learned

    polite, only powerful, disordered,

    multiple and muddy, and when the time

    comes to become Atlantic, it surges

    into the grey salt water like a ravening flood

    arriving home.

     

                                                                            Rogan Wolf

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  • Poems in Memoriam in Time for Lent

    I am uploading another collection of poems here. I am also adding it to the collections listed down the right hand side of this blog’s home page.

    “Another” collection, but not a new one. Some of its poems were written several years ago, although every year, I check them over and might revise them. They form a sort of portrait gallery of people close to me but no longer alive.

    A few years ago, I was in Mallorca with my partner and it was in the Autumn. And we came on a gathering of the local community in the large  graveyard there, celebrating the Christian ceremony of All Souls.

    I found it extremely beautiful. The service was being held outside, since that’s what you can do in that climate. Absolutely everyone seemed to be present – babies, children, parents, grand-parents. The priest was youngish and seemed to reach out to everyone, delivering the liturgy lovingly and livingly.

    And, afterwards, the families wandered round the graves and said hello to dead family members there, now just faded pictures and names and flowers. And it was lovely and somehow plain healthy, accepting and peaceful with it, often quite light-hearted, past and present just getting on together, in good and rightful accord.

    If life is to be lived, it seems that death has to be lived as well. And some people seem to know better how to do that, than others. Some eras too, perhaps.

    A few years beforehand, not in the Autumn, in the early Spring, starting in February, three people once very close to me died within weeks of each other. The reason was not some extraordinary infection as we have now, but pure coincidence, a coincidence that’s not uncommon once a certain stage and age is reached.

    Obviously, I wrote my way through those losses and experiences, since it seems to be instinctive for me that I should do so, as well as necessary, and perhaps it helps.

    Since then, it has become a sort of ritual for me to go back to those people at this time of year and spend time with them, in my mind, using those poems written then and adding a few more. The season makes me feel restless and all these memories come back and, in a way, the ritual I turn to acts for me as a kind of expiation, and brings a quietening.

    So I go over the poems again and then deliver a private reading of them in some place I eventually find, not at home. My partner has helped and it’s been important to me to have her there as active and supportive  “witness” to the reading (rather than as audience), though I know it has not always been easy for her. But I have needed someone I love to be there with me, to listen. I could not recite these words just into thin air.

    But at the same time, this cannot be just a “poetry reading” as such. It’s a kind of ceremony, an address to the dead and to my feelings for the dead.

    And over the years, the list has grown longer and the material and tone has changed and is now less to do with getting over a trauma, or a catching up emotionally with events, than with acknowledging, tracing, honouring, coming to terms with, the people concerned.

    And somehow, in this season of early Spring, or Lent, it has become my own version, or conducting, of the Autumn ritual associated with All Souls, only I don’t seem very good at it, the donning of the conductor’s role, the tension between being simply and spontaneously myself in the here and now, and something a bit more formal required of me, in my addressing of these shades from the blood-lines of the past, the hugeness of the subject of loss and death.

    And my version lacks the community aspect, the commonality. The church, the faiths, seems so much better at all this, even though many of the implicit/explicit belief systems they include cannot hold meaning for me.

    The subject matter is essentially one of bereavement, and how best to accommodate loss and the past, people and environments no longer here, yet still playing a vital and formative part in one’s present life.

    But other things crop up in my collection as well, which perhaps I ought to mention. There are physical images of death or of near-death still among the poems, which might be startling (and probably remain there at least partly because they still startle me, burned on my memory in the moment of seeing them).

    But they echo too the Greek Orthodox funeral rituals, which I respect and have grown used to (my late wife Sophia was Greek). At the Orthodox funeral, the coffin remains open. The priest who officiated at Sophia’s funeral even tried to stop the undertakers from putting make-up on her face (but was too late). And his motive for trying was based on the same principle – that a proper acknowledgement of what has happened and a proper goodbye to the dead person, include a real encounter with the physical aspect of death and what death takes away, without make-up on. So I still include the images in these poems not just as an after-effect of the shock I encountered, but as an acceptance of the plain fact.

    And one reason I am thinking that there might be something in these poems that goes beyond my own processing of what has happened, outside of church liturgy, is because of the references. These are modern images, still perhaps a bit taboo and perhaps needing more acknowledgement than we still give them. Extreme old age for a large proportion of the population is still quite a strange country and how do we learn to live in it ? Alzheimer’s affects so many families in these generations, cancer the same…

    And how widely known is it that my sister Kim’s experience of life as she got older is not uncommon among people with Down’s Syndrome ? Until it happened, I certainly didn’t.

    And here’s another point which concludes with something similar to the above, but from a different place. I’ve been struck recently by a rather remarkable long poem by a contemporary poet called Alice Oswald. It is an extremely free translation of the Iliad, with all the narrative cut out. So no story. Just a list of names of the young warriors who died in the long battle for Troy ; a list of ritualistic extended images of ancient Greek life, used by Homer and his contemporaries, each image repeated twice ; and a list of descriptions of each warrior’s death, closely linked to descriptions of each of their lives back home, before this conflict. So that the overall picture left behind does include some fierce and vivid images of death, but also a whole array, a gallery, of vivid pictures of life in that part of the world at that time. So Oswald’s poem is only slightly about the battle for Troy ; much more, it is about Homer’s world and way of living.

    So, in a way, it might also be said that this series I’ve uploaded here is as much about modern life (and death) in general, as it is about some deaths in particular.

    I have read the poems in various places over recent years, always at this time of year – within and outside a lovely small church near Malmesbury, among the gravestones there ; within a small empty de-consecrated church in a Cotwolds village ; in a car parked high in the Purbeck hills, as the rain poured down. In years to come, however many those might be, I think I would like to read the poems in the place where I expect to be laid to rest, after my own death.

    Of course I have named particular people, mostly my relatives. And I have reflected carefully, and with others, on whether it is appropriate to name and bid fare well here to these particular individuals, in their respective situations, in a public context which extends beyond the bounds of their immediate community. Each death is different, after all, and each loss is unique.

    But so, at the same time, death creates a community to which all of us belong. Grieving, acknowledging the fact, acknowledging the individual, is a part we all must play and no one is excluded from the congregation.

    Finally, this extraordinary spring of 2020, I cannot but be aware that the issue of death has come close to all of us this year. The questions of how to live death, how to live the aftermath of loss, are harder to avoid than usual and all of us are facing them at the same time. They have forced open all our doors.

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  • Live Music Sweeps the Board

     

    A few years ago, I worked free-lance in central London as a sort of facilitator on behalf of the local mental health services. I had been trained as a social worker and for decades previously had worked as a manager of community centres for people with long term mental health diagnoses.

    But nowadays, I was more often on a bike, wandering around London, exploring possibilities. And one of these possibilities was to hold musical events from time to time in local mental health inpatient units. Let there be good party food. Let there be live music of high quality.

    It was an idea that worked. Each and every concert we ran was a major success.

    The most dramatic image and memory I have is of times when we arranged for drummers to come and play for us, above all some West African drummers available in London for a few months. The agency which put us in touch with them was called “Live Music Now.” 

    We called on the drummers as often as possible during that time. Their sound was so overwhelmingly infectious (sic) that it changed everything. It swept mental ill health away, so that, for an hour or so, patients stopped being patients with psychiatric symptoms, and became just rapturous dancers instead, in their own space and time. And the nurses present stopped being nurses for a while and they too…

    And often patients and nurses were simply dancing together, with that division of roles between them also blown away. There will have been good after-effects of that infection, as well, in terms of the therapeutic relationship.

    A psychiatric hospital admission is not a good memory for those who experience it, and is a hard place to leave behind. In contrast, the memory of those concerts, would surely have cast a bit of a glow, completely separate from the labels that usually attach themselves here, the trauma of this dark time.

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  • Homage to Captain Beefheart in a Time of Plague

     

     

       And I’ll ride home
    and I’ll ride home.
    The sound of the tyres is soothing
    the sound of the tyres is soothing.
    And home’s elusive
    and home’s elusive.

    And home is where I find myself
    home is where I become
    and home is where I find myself
    home is where I become.

    And my head is my only house
    unless it rains
    and my head is my only house
    unless it rains.

    And I’ll make my way
    through wind and rain
    and through the dreams that failed me

    and I’ll make my way
    through wind and ruin
    and through the dreams that failed me.

    (It never rains
    except it pours)

    And Beefheart made his home in sound
    his sound was soothing

    and Beefheart made his home in sound
    his sound was soothing.

    And my head is my only house
    unless it rains

    and my head is my only house
    unless it rains.

    (It never rains
    except it pours)

    The sound of the tyres is soothing
    yet home is where I’ll find myself
    home is where I’ll become

    the sound of the tyres is soothing
    yet home is where I’ll find myself
    home is where I’ll become.

    My home’s elusive
    my home
    my only house
    my home’s elusive…

                                                                                      Rogan Wolf, March 14th 2020

     

     

    I came across Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band in the early 70’s. I found their music extraordinary – explosive and liberating, angry and exultant, straining at the leash.

    And the Beefheart voice out front was simply wonderful, a mighty foghorn, yet flexible and occasionally tender. And this voice spoke/sang a zany but true poetry, Beefheart’s own – ebulliant, anarchic, full of word-play and wit, yet somehow guarded, as if masking something altogether different and presumably more fragile.

    I heard him at Finsbury Park, in what is now called the Rainbow Theatre (It was the Odeon, in those days).

    The band came onto the stage one by one, with a longish gap between each. First the drummer, bare-armed and in a Viking helmet (of course). Later the guitarist, tall and skinny, with very long hair.

    And last came Beefheart himself, stocky and absolutely not a flower-child. The audience clapped and cheered wildly, but stayed sitting. He wasn’t having that, not for a minute. He strode, or prowled, from side to side of the stage, out front. He didn’t need to raise his voice. Geddup, he growled. Two or three more paces and then again, Geddup. And again, Geddup. By now we had all got up, thousands of us, and we stayed up until the concert was finished. But he was right. His music was not for sitting to.

    The guitarist was wonderful, too. His real name was Bill Harkleroad. Playing on stage, he drooped over his guitar as if needing it to to hold him up, his hair falling all round it, like a hot shower. Beefheart called him Mr Zoot Horn Rollo.

    And Beefheart’s real name was Don Van Vliet. When I saw him on that Odeon stage he was around thirty. He was an artist and poet as well as a musician, a man of furious creative energy and originality.. He was to “retire from music” in the mid-eighties and, by then reclusive, would make a steadyish income (for the first time) as a painter. He died towards the end of 2010, having lived with multiple sclerosis for some years. I mean absolutely no facetiousness in saying that, in his health as well as in his sickness, he was always inescapably multiple.

    The Beefheart record which woke me up to him (or “turned me on” – remember ?) was called “Clear Spot.” I thought it was the last word in defiant but also glorious hard rock and heavy sound, a real exclamation mark, but I was completely wrong. In “Clear Spot,” Beefheart was actually pulling back from his venturing, his risk-taking, and trying to be more commercial. He needed some dosh. “Clear Spot was generally considered a bit tame, as a result, with the exclamation marks tending instead to go the way of “Trout Mask Replica,” a slightly earlier Beefheart record, now viewed as his masterpiece. I understand why, but still find it beyond me to hear its voice, the art and meaning of it. It is straining at every boundary, every rule, every precedent, every impossibility. I find it hard even to try to listen to it.

    It is worth reading more about Beefheart. Frank Zappa and he collaborated, cautiously, to some mutual benefit.  John Peel admired him and wrote about him. The young Richard Branson tried to sign him up for Virgin Records. And so on. Clearly there was something remarkable here, but difficult to get hold of, difficult to contain. Wikipedia provides a good beginning on him, including links to short sound tracks.

    I’ll say a bit more about “Clear Spot” here. It came out in 1972, on vinyl. That’s how music came out to us in those days. Remember ?

    And the gentlest track in it, (perhaps the only gentle track) is called  “My head is my only house unless it rains.”  The track is actually a simple and rather beautiful love song, only a little bit gruff.

    This will link you to the Youtube soundtrack.

    On my computor screen, that Youtube link shows several more tracks from the same album, down the right hand side. For me they haven’t dated at all and are all worth listening to. My next link here is to the track I always found the most exciting of them, and still do. It’s called “Big-eyed Beans from Venus.” What’s a big-eyed bean from Venus ? His invention ? Quite likely. It carries his signature and is brilliant. Venus the goddess, remember. Big-eyed bean ?

    Now here below in text form are the Beefheart words for My Head is My Only House…”

    I’ll let a train be my feet
    If it’s too far to walk to you
    If a train don’t go there I’ll get a jet or a bus
    Because I’m going to find you
    You’re going to see me shadow soon around you

    And my head is my only house unless it rains

    I walk the meadow plains
    Water deserts are my eyes until I find you
    I won’t sleep until I find you
    I won’t eat until I find you
    My heart won’t beat until
    I wrap my arms around you

    My arms are just two things in the way
    Until I can wrap them around you

    You can make my sad song happy
    Make a bad world good

    I can feel you out there moving
    You’re mine, I know I’ll find you

    And my head is my only house until I’ve found you

    I hate to have other people hear me sing this song
    If this reaches you before I do
    Follow it to “I love you”
    That’s where I’ll find you
    And my head is my only house until I find you

    Source: Musixmatch/Songwriter: Don Van VlietMy Head Is My Only House Unless It Rains lyrics © Bizarre-music Co, Kama Sutra Music, Inc.

     

     

    So, Captain Beefheart, so Mr Zoot Horn Rollo, keep hitting that long, looming note. And let it float.

    Let it float across the world’s great roads and waterways and public squares and sacred centres, all deserted now.

    “Really, Earth needs a break from…humanity ! I think it’s…time for a long rest.” Ahmed Abdelhady.

    Let it float.

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  • Britain’s Return to Health

     

    I want to talk about the British Labour Party which – despite everything – still occupies the ground I look to for the beginning of this nation’s regeneration and return to health.

    But “ground” is one thing ; the withered and stunted vegetation I see presently over-running and littering that ground, is another.

    To understand better why the Party is presently so choked, so ineffective outside its own circles, so splintered and dysfunctional within them, I want to explore a bit what fundamentalism means, and what is “leadership,” and where “quality” fits in. And I might name a few beasts along the way, items and realities which – through being so little named – are haunting and hurting the Party all the more.

    The immediate context is, of course, Corbyn’s disastrous defeat in the recent UK general election, his consequent resignation, and the present weirdly stretched-out contest to establish his successor. I myself shall be voting for Keir Starmer. If he succeeds in that vote, he will inherit a profoundly dysfunctional Party and will have his work cut out to make it fit for any constructive purpose. If he loses, the Party is anyway finished. 

    It was Corbyn’s particular politics (or his translation of them) – as well as his ineffectiveness and ineptitude as leader of his Party, as well as the way he presented himself and his party to the nation  – which were rejected so emphatically last December, at this crucial time for our country. And yet, in the contest for his replacement, he still seems to maintain a crippling influence over the proceedings. Mystifyingly, a significant number of people within the Party seem to want to carry on down the same self-indulgent branch-line to nowhere that he followed. As an example, I am writing this paragraph on February 19th 2020 and have had a look at the Labour Party website today. It remains unchanged since before the election in December. There is Jez all over it, campaigning. And “Time for a change,” it says. How true. How true. And time for some plain competence. Time for reality. Time for coming to.

    Ancestry – the Inheritance

    But let’s start with some history. What Labour is now – and what it is failing or refusing to become instead – might have something to do with where it came from. Or, where it came from might at least provide us with some context against which to assess its present predicaments. I shall be as brief as possible here, in order then to draw a couple of  conclusions.

    The Labour Party was formed late in the nineteenth century, as a result of dramatically changing social conditions and new political opportunities. For a bit more detail than I’m about to give, here is the relevant link on Wikipedia.     

    Crudely, it can be said that, as the Liberal Party (once called the “Whigs”) had emerged some decades previously to give political representation and influence to the emerging middle or mercantile class, so now the Labour Party would give representation and influence to the working or “labouring” class.

    The emergence of both these parties, of course, had as its background the Industrial Revolution and the UK’s shift away from a largely agricultural and rural economy towards an urban one based on manufacturing industry. Mill, factory and mine had become the centres around which huge numbers of lives revolved, surely the majority of the nation’s populace.

    The Party’s background also includes a long succession of Acts of Parliament, throughout the nineteenth century and into the twentieth, progressively enlarging the electorate, the percentage of the population entitled to vote.

    Two points to make, on the back of these bald facts :

    1/ the Labour Party emerged at a particular time in the context of, and in response to, particular conditions, conditions which of course did much to shape it. Over hard decades it achieved great things, on behalf of the class it represented and to the benefit of the nation as a whole. But time runs on and conditions change. This nation’s economy is no longer based on manufacture as such ; and the labouring class is not nearly so distinct an entity as it was, nor –  in terms of plain political muscle – as crucial to the economy and therefore as powerful a voice.

    No party can or should survive whose life-force still relies on old frames of reference, previous cosmologies, old moorings, beachheads for curative action no longer directly applicable, animating only people formed and still rooted in the past – and maybe minor figures – old dinghies, not ships.

    For there will have been a shift, maybe unnoticed by the activists themselves. At some point, those initial frames of reference will no longer stem from, and speak to, other people’s urgent and present reality ; at some point and all too easily, those frames become mere echo chambers, familiar reference-points, thought-patterns and career-paths just for the Party activists themselves, members of the Party “family.” Dynamics change. Motivations change. Incentives change. The quality and kind of activist change. For a Party to remain an effective force, a real catalyst for social good and, in our present perilous times, even for our and democracy’s survival, it must put itself under constant review – its aims, its composition, its structures, its hierarchies, everything. Refresh. Refresh.

    2/ The Labour Party would not exist had it not been willing from the outset to work in alliance with other groups with similar aims. Yes, its emergence had much to do with extending the work of the Trade Union movement into parliament. But Labour was never, and is not, just a party of the Unions. It was the result of, and was made possible by, a set of alliances across a broad front of reform-minded activists.  I quote from the Wikipedia entry I referred to earlier  : “In addition, several small socialist groups had formed around this time [1870], with the intention of linking the movement to political policies. Among these were the Independent Labour Party, the intellectual and largely middle-class Fabian Society, the Marxist Social Democratic Federation and the Scottish Labour Party.

    And, thirty years later, Labour’s first leader, Keir Hardy, had the following motion passed at a meeting in 1900, that they would establish “a distinct Labour group in Parliament…which must embrace a readiness to cooperate with any party which for the time being may be engaged in promoting legislation in the direct interests of labour.”

    And I would add a bit more, on this point. Various groups are mentioned above. But there were more which contributed and to think just in terms of distinct groups and change-agents is anyway perhaps a bit misleading. These groups were merely part and reflective of a wider picture. For instance, the co-operative movement eventually combined with emergent Labour ; but the co-operative movement’s beginnings were more social and self-help  and economic than political and it ranged wide and involved lots of different networks, educational as well as social. And there were ties and connections with various religious groupings also seeking social justice, reform and amelioration in industrial and urban Britain – the Methodists, the Quakers… Thus, the Labour Party became the political expression of a wide-ranging social movement and uprising and in some ways was the result of that movement, the crest of a great wave. For across the country at that time, there was the deepest possible sense of urgency. The Party came into existence to address and correct human conditions across much of society, that were plainly unacceptable by any moral standard.

    What has happened in more recent years, to make Labour not merely so reluctant to work in partnership with other groups, but unable even to accept different perspectives within its own boundaries ? For a significant number of Corbyn’s supporters, it is not enough even to be “Labour” – you must associate yourself with their own exclusive and narrow wing within Labour.

    But manifestly, that way ensures annihilation for Labour as a force for change in Society. Is that what the “Far Left” want ? Surely not. But it suggests that being a “force for change in Society” may no longer be their primary concern here. That is a strange thing to say, perhaps, but these are strange, bewildering and tumultuous times and I am not suggesting any intention or behaviour that is conscious. In such times, many of us might actually just yearn to have something to hang onto in the mind, something that feels solid, reassuringly clear-cut or comfortingly familiar, or both – lines that sing to us, places of refuge, a castle on a hill. But nothing to do with Society as it really is, out there.

    People lost at sea may not be particularly discerning when it comes to grabbing hold of something that might keep them afloat. 

    But, in the present day, the consequences for all of us of no change, or not enough, or the wrong sort, do not bear thinking about. So forces for change, change towards health and sanity, have to make themselves fit and inclusive, as never before.

    The Labour Conference 2019

    The Labour Party has apparently looked hard for the reasons for its catastrophic electoral failure in December, which has allowed a grossly unworthy, fraudulent man to form a government and “take control” of this nation for the next five, dangerous years. He and his gang disgrace even their own Conservative Party and are a threat to all of us, including themselves and their families.

    I haven’t read all the conclusions so far arrived at by the Labour reviewers. But those I have are simply pathetic. They are not conclusions, but symptoms of pathological denial, myths. Rebecca Long-Bailey’s “Ten out of ten” as a score for Mr Corbyn’s leadership stays in the mind and sticks in the gullet. Another phrase that has stood out for me is the headline of a recent article by Owen Jones : “All the Labour candidates have tacked to the left, but do they really mean it ?” That word “Left.” Like a talisman. Like a miracle cure. Like a holy relic. Like a relic.

    In some ways, I don’t think there was any need to conduct painstaking studies of what went wrong for Labour at the election, especially if the studies’ real purpose was to come up with scapegoats and falsities painstakingly put together to mask the truth.

    Forget the studies. Just remember the Labour Party conference of September last year. It shows you all you need to know. The election was not yet announced, but everyone knew that an election was round the corner and Labour under Corbyn was repeatedly saying that an election was what it wanted. So here on public display was a Party claiming to be ready for government, in debate.

    First thing : just before the conference started, a plot to get rid of Tom Watson, Deputy Party Leader, hit the headlines. It seems he wasn’t sufficiently far to the left. Jon Lansman, founder of Momentum, was apparently behind that clever move. (Mr Lansman is currently advising Rebecca Long-Bailey’s campaign for Labour leader).

    Here was this force for change, for the “many not the few,” this beacon for a “new kind of politics,” on full public display, its “leaders” warming up for the election race by sticking knives into each other. 

    And then that vote from the floor. Remember it ? The motion was an attempt to persuade Labour to come off the fence on Brexit and commit to “Remain.” The Chair’s name was Wendy Nichols. “Show of hands, please.” (Show of hands ?). Wendy did a quick count – “Motion carried,” she said. But Jennie Formby, close ally of Corbyn and present Party Secretary, was sharing the platform with Wendy. Did she whisper something ? Or did she give Wendy a kick ?  “No, Sorry, sorry,” says Wendy. “Motion lost.”

    Was this a government in waiting ? This bumbling shower presenting itself to the many and saying, “Vote for us, we’re here for you (when we’re not fighting each other, that is, and fiddling the figures) – see what we’ve got for you !” The electorate looked and saw and said, no thank you.

    Better a posh liar and hoodlum repeating “Get It Done” ad infinitum, than this sorry, muddly, nasty lot, betraying their followers, betraying their predecessors, betraying their inheritance.

    Fundamentalism

    What is fundamentalism ? It seems a strange word, because – at least according to my understanding of things – “fundamentalism” has nothing to do with what is fundamental, the essence, the “central,” the “still point of the turning world.”  Whatever the word meant when it first became currency, what it now seems to mean is “literal” and externalised. “These words are the literal truth, so stop arguing and there’s no need to fret about anything or take any responsibility. Look, it’s clear, it says here…All you have to do is follow…”

    And the words on the page are not seen as human expressions of their particular time, images of that time, in search of timeless truths. The words are truth itself, truth beyond time. Moreover, they are rules. They instruct and they determine. And they don’t turn as the earth turns, yielding the principles they carry to new times and conditions. They are fixed and unmoving and they yield not an inch. You might even say that, in themselves, the words are sacred, holy writ. Idols.

    And the holy writ, this body of rules, is simple and plain and wholly right. You can take cover in this body and be sure of it.

    It acts as a kind a castle on top of a hill. Those who “convert” to its appeal and enter in, feel henceforward protected by its walls of certainty. And in there, you don’t have to worry, or ponder, or seek, or change.  You are saved and you belong.

    For you’re not alone here. All your companions have identical beliefs, and that’s a kind of togetherness and offers relief. And also it helps confirm you in your rectitude, so that now you can define yourself against the multitudes you can see outside the walls. They are clearly wrong, and either a risk to themselves or a threat to you, or both. In fact, concerned to defend your castle, you might find yourself viewing all who live outside it as threat and/or cause for contempt. You might feel entitled to attack them at any moment.

    And of course the word fundamentalism is often associated with religion and often with a conservative tendency within religion.

    But I would suggest that fundamentalism as I’ve described it is a universal human regressive tendency, or refuge, and belongs in all sorts of spheres of human behaviour and activity, including, and perhaps especially, politics, and especially, of course, in times of uncertainty and anxiety. People feeling lost draw back from doubt and anxiety. They look for some wall that looks solid and capable of sheltering and defining them. Then they look for people outside the wall, people ripe for blame. This process is presently happening all over the world. Humanity, fear-filled, is drawing back into delusional castles, when for its survival’s sake, it should be advancing and mingling, grappling humbly with reality for solutions.

    And of course what I’m heading for here is to suggest that the way properly to understand the “Far Left,” as represented by Corbyn and his allies within the Labour party, is not so much that they are extreme “socialists,” more “radical” than everyone else in the Party or on the political spectrum.

    I suggest rather that they are simply the fundamentalists of the Labour Party. And how can fundamentalists “cooperate” with anyone at all, since what they follow is holy writ, written when times were different ? How can they adapt their ideas in the light of other people’s ideas, since “other people” are all heretics and doing so might result in the walls collapsing ?

    Real “radical”, a radical based on principle and creativity rather than on habit and refuge, is inclusive and of the present. It requires high talent and courage and generosity of spirit. I do not think fundamentalists are capable of being truly radical. What they do instead is seek to make the shapes of the real world conform to the hiding places in their own minds. 

    Old Frames of Reference, New Times to Refer to

    In the previous section I have talked about fundamentalism ; in this one, I shall talk about the political spectrum, questioning its present validity. Strangely, the two sections merge slightly in their implications. Or, maybe, not so strangely.

    We all need frames of reference by which we can understand what’s happening, or try to understand, or kid ourselves that we do. One such frame, commonly referred to as if it were a natural feature of the landscape, is the “political spectrum,” with its Left and its Right and something altogether less clear between the two, called the Centre. And within that frame, or along that line, there are all sorts of other meanings or attributes given, such as “Moderate” (linked to Centre) or “Far” this, “Far” that, or “Hard” this, “Hard” that, or “Radical” associated with each of the opposite ends. 

    And it does appear, according to this way of seeing things, that in many countries the “centre” is being squeezed out or is splintering and in-fighting, while the far or hard or radical extremes on either “side” – both the right and the left, but especially the right  – are gathering power and multiplying in number across the world, drawing people towards them like magnets or – perhaps more pertinently – like whirlpools or black holes in Space.

    Thus, as I write, the American Democrat Party’s nomination process is beginning to favour Sanders, the aged radical, a most unlikely counter to Trump ; in Iran the “Moderates” have recently lost much of the ground they were gaining from the Conservatives. And in December’s UK election, the Lib Dems failed utterly ; and just beforehand, the group pressing for a second referendum on EU membership split and then vaporised ; and although Corbyn’s “hard-left” Labour was trounced, a hard-right leaning Tory party “triumphed” and Brexit – favoured by the hard right – went through with an Etonian smirk and a sorry bong.

    And even now, as Labour at last approaches the end of its search for a new leader to replace Corbyn, there is real pressure from a significant proportion of the party’s membership, as well as from his inner circle, to retain Corbyn’s programme, his position and even his presence. The adjectives used to describe progressives who do not share the Corbyn line, and wish Labour to become effective instead, are somehow pejorative, delivered with a sneer. The imputation seems to be that unless you take this “far” and “hard” position, you’re somehow a sell-out, a Blairite, a compromiser. “Moderate” comes to mean “status quo,” the “liberal elite,” the “sell-out,” and all the rest of it. Not just less than truly radical, less than truly Labour.

    But I question that whole frame of reference now, that line with Left and Right at each end of it, as if opposites, with “hard” and “radical” applicable in both cases, and wishy-washy “moderate” lost somewhere between them. I think in many ways our present time has left all previous times behind and all our previous frames of reference are therefore wide open to question and probably derelict. That is frightening and suggests in turn the real reason why far left and far right are so attractive now, as if mesmerising. They are not really radical at all. They are retreats from human presentness and complexity and a necessary openness to doubt. They offer cover and protection and they relieve you from anxiety. They are castles on a hill. They offer no solution and their cover is delusional. We seek to hide in them but they offer no hiding place.  They will not save us.

    It may be that “Left” and “Right” don’t hold good any more, as political terms. It is human pathology now, rather than political orientation. It may be that the political spectrum as a whole, as we keep referring to it, has become meaningless.

    To save ourselves, we have to let go of all precedent, all old references and familiar furnishings, and work from first principle. We have to come together again, outside all familiar castle walls however “Far” and “Hard”, and – working from First Principles – come up with something truly radical and effective in response to our present grave need.

    Quality and Quantity

    It’s as if people are already discarding from their minds anything that a computer would not recognise or accommodate. By definition, the computer categorises, quantifies, measures, counts, its assessments restricted to externals and enslaved to its programming. It’s as if the assessor sits, (and maybe takes cover) behind a screen, turning “otherness” or the outside world, or other people, into mere objects of attention, fish in a bowl, images on film, a list of measurements.

    And certainly, that measuring ability is part of being human and great good can be, and has been, made of it. But if living a human life involves only that, we die. We shrivel up.

    For the human individual is more than some vastly sophisticated computer. We experience reality as more than just a set of quantities. We give out and take in across a front vastly wider and more complex than the binary. We are artists as well as functionaries ; creators as well as customers ; we can (and must) empathise and be empathised with, as well as count and be counted ; we need community and belonging and not just acquisitions and ownership.

    I am saying the obvious here, but I am growing old in a world in which the obviously true is giving way all round me and it is frightening. What I am trying to say is partially covered by the word “quality.” We cannot flourish without a life of sufficient quality as well as material needs fulfilled. We must protect the quality of our lives, and of all that goes on in our lives, the how, as well as just the what.

    I am still saying the obvious. Yet if what I’m saying is so obvious, why are Corbyn’s qualities as a leader so little discussed ? His reach, effectiveness and natural authority as a leader were so limited and so flawed. More now to the point, what qualities should we be looking for in his replacement ? What qualities does a leader of a democratic political party need at this tumultuous time ? The ability to lie without a qualm ? The ability to work up a crowd and turn it into a mob ?

    As far as I can tell, the subject of leadership qualities is not really being discussed at all. It seems a matter more of what policies each candidate will pursue, how much of a “true socialist” each would be, how much they loved Corbyn, how “Left they really are, or whatever.

    Whoever becomes leader will need to be a good party manager, which is a huge task in itself ; old Jon will need to be persuaded to put his knives away ; old Len will need to be helped to do without the camera attention he has been so enjoying in recent years, to Labour’s cost  ; the new leader will need to be able to project him/herself as real and eloquent, warm and self-assured in a whole range of settings, including in front of the TV cameras, as well as in the Commons ; the person will need to command the respect of a wide range of people and also reach far beyond that range to extend greatly Labour’s present constituency, in these times of anxiety and uncertainty ; the person will need to seek out and facilitate and process and introduce and win widespread assent for much genuinely original and radical policy thinking ; the person will need to bring out the best in people and restore the hope and self-belief of a nation.

    I see Johnson as a felon, a toad squatting gleefully in a broken hall, a shattered forum which he further despoils, not a leader at all, but a mere symptom of a nation depressed and in disarray. A wart with a muddle of yellow fur on top. If the nation were in a healthy condition, he would not be here. This nation needs a true leader, someone worthy not just to lead but to heal. Labour has a responsibility to the nation, as well as to itself, now to choose and provide someone capable of fulfilling that momentous task.

    Without hesitation, I shall be voting for Keir Starmer to be the new leader of the Labour Party. In my view, he is the only real leader among the candidates – not because of his gender but due to his qualities and his record. But “without hesitation” does not mean in great excitement, hope or confidence. For the task is enormous, a real cliff face. Is Starmer enough of a rock-climber ? Would anyone be ?

    This piece is being written over several days and of course, as I struggle with it, different news items keep coming in. So today, I have heard that Sadiq Khan, Mayor of London, will also be voting for Starmer, saying that he would be the “best person” to unite the party, “take the fight” to Boris Johnson and return Labour to power.

    And so much more will be needed from him. But I am quoting Khan (whom I greatly respect) in order to make a final point. If the validity of the political spectrum is these days open to question, so certainly is our present party system, and much else. What is a Party for ? Just to survive ? Uniting Labour should not be the first concern. Renewing and healing this nation should be. Only so long as the Labour Party can become capable again of taking power to accomplish the task of renewing and healing the nation, does it deserve to exist or command anyone’s loyalty. To come anywhere near becoming capable again it has to renew itself, even if this means annoying the likes of old Jon and old Len. There is much to be done. Refresh. Refresh. 

    PS  Some Suggested First Principles to Work from

    Labour stands for the principle that a nation exists for the benefit of all its citizens, not just for the few at the expense of the many. It recognises also that human society will not flourish or even survive unless it ensures that the natural environment in which it exists, also flourishes. 

    The party believes, and will act in the belief, that the measure of a successful individual is not that person’s earnings or possessions, but his/her actions on behalf of the community and environment. The party will seek to ensure that all its citizens have equal and sufficient access to justice, health services, and all other essentials for lives of human dignity and fellowship ; and in the process it will prioritise communal responsibility and connectedness over individual self-interest, on the assumption that the good citizen is interested in more than mere material gain, a fulfilled life is more than the acquisition of superfluous wealth.

    PSS   The Party’s Title

    It is surely time for the Labour Party to change its name. Its past is an honourable and necessary one, worthy of pride, but in a post-industrial economy, the Party surely no longer sets out to improve conditions and secure justice for a single class only. The primary concern of this progressive party of the present is to work in co-operation with the like-minded to create and support a healthy, fulfilling and inclusive society living at peace with, and with care for, the Earth on which we all absolutely depend.

     

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  • Cat Vies with Hard Drive for my Soul

    Our race has re-made the world to be a reflection of our own chaotic inner lives and processes. We’ve fashioned our environment in such a way that it has become our self-portrait (if we dare to look). Perhaps we see ourselves for the first time, when we look out on the world we have made.

    And perhaps we choose, or allow into power, our leaders, in the same way. They represent some sort of answer to the questions that plague us, that disturb us in our sleep, questions we cannot resolve on our own. So we choose these individuals to resolve them for us, or as a living embodiment of the answers we think will do the job. Often, I believe, our assumptions of what sort of leader is needed, or what sort of person the leader we’ve turned to actually is, are wildly wrong. This is because we have projected onto them our own images of what we want them to be, blinded by our confusion and dissatisfaction, and yearning for relief, however illusory.

    I think Jeremy Corbin is a case in point. He still has a following, despite the dreadful election result, despite all the evidence he has provided of gross inadequacy and incapacity as Party Leader. A legend has been written, overriding the reality. The legend will rise again from the waves some day, waving Excalibur, this dream leader who never was.     

    Onto to a more present legend – in my terms, the legend of Mr Toad and Dr Doombeetle. Other people might give it a different title, such as Mr Johnson and Mr Cummings. I was recently struck by a correlation between these two individuals (whoever they really are) and the title of a book called “The Master and his Emissary – the Divided Brain and the Making of the Western World.” It is by Iain McGilchrist and was published in 2009. As I understand it, it took McGilchrist over 20 years to write. 

    And this book is not of some legend. It is a study of the human brain, a study, in other words, of how each one of us functions.  And the Master is the term McGilchrist gives to our right brain hemisphere. And the Emissary is the term he gives to our left. 

    And our two brain hemispheres are very different from one another and yet have to work in close partnership, despite the gap that exists between them, and the fact that they are not equal, nor easily complementary.

    And – wait for it – they are actually at odds. And the “emissary”, the more analytical hemisphere, which should be working in the service of the more imaginative right hand side, does not see the point or validity of the Master and strains at all times to unseat and replace it.  

    And McGilchrist suggests and demonstrates that the world we create at any one time, or in any one generation, reflects which of the human brain hemispheres is in the ascendant at that time. And if the emissary finally and fully comes out on top and takes over from the Master, the human race as a whole will not survive. For the emissary to “win,” runs against all our interests, including those of the emissary.

    Get the connection ?

    And a few years ago, I wrote a poem inspired by Iain McGilchrist’s great book, making my own kind of legend out of it. And, for the purposes of the poem, I called the left hand side of the brain “Hard Drive” and the right hand side “Cat.”

    Personally, I think things have got worse since the days of Cat and Hard Drive. Our present Toad is a dreadfully degenerate version of Cat, in thrall to Self and now hypnotised by Doombeetle’s world-view (so long as Self benefits from it).

    Truth and Reality are accordingly old hat. Now Dr Doombeetle stands at the wheel of our human ship, the human brain, while the Toad preens himself down below, in his first class cabin, admiring himself in the mirror.  

    Here is the poem :

     

            Cat vies with Hard Drive for my Soul

     

                                 A Confession of Bias

     

    I wish myself cat

    cats-eyes

    cats-ears

     

    I wish myself cat-alive

    cat alert,

    sonar centre,

     

    electric

    lithe advance.

    Hard-drive blunts me

     

    splits

    and thickens me

    Hard-drive weighs on me

     

    like a hump,

    an imperialist                      

    goiter.

     

                                       Cat asleep

     

    Ears at attention

    sharp as bayonets

     

    still scanning

    and reading.

     

    And eyes though closed

    are still reckoning

     

    keeping the captain                  

    abreast of all weathers

     

    as he paces

    alone

     

    on the bridge.

    Any time now

     

    those eyes will blaze

    open

     

    and cat will rise

    and crouch

     

    and bare teeth 

    and pounce.

     

                               Hard Drive in the bath

     

    Hard-drive specialises

    in mean look

    and fierce straight line.

     

    Curves dismay him

    They hint at softness

    and lying back in the bath.

     

    You don’t bathe for joy,

    proclaims Hard Drive, but for profit,

    an increase of power and standing.

     

    So yes, bathe often

    but with vigour

    and never lie back.

     

                             Hard-drive comes alive

     

    Hard-drive waits for nobody

    and never gives way.

     

    To pause is life-threatening

    and to make allowance for other life

     

    risks invasion                                

    by gargoyle

     

    possession

    by Dracula.

     

    I shall force my will

    on the landscape.

     

    I shall stamp myself on the earth

    like a brand.

     

    Hey mother, do you see

    this corpse at my feet

     

    this victim at my hands ?

    Until the moment

     

    of victory

    I had not arrived

     

    O mother, mother,

    I was not born.

     

                                        Cat in the Sun

     

    Cat glories in the sun.

    He sees it a mile off

    and knows he belongs there.

     

    He rolls in the hot dust

    and delights in that sliding, grain by grain,

    inwards to the skin

    to play among the follicles.

     

    Hard Drive can’t bear to look.

    Instead he fixes on the horizon

    in case typhoon is threatening there

    or the barbarian horse

    have broken through at last.

     

    Hard Drive busies himself

    on his preventive measures,

    glancing with contempt

    to where Cat lounges,

    absorbing the sun’s heat,

    cat ears pointy,

    muscles flexed.

     

                  Hard Drive begs to go hunting

     

    Gimme routine

    rages Hard Drive,

    you’re unsettling me,

    gimme something that stays

    the same, gimme repeats,

    gimme quarry to

    run down, gimme

    victims, gimme

    leave to blame.

     

                               Cat’s astonishment

     

    Cat spends all his life astonished.

    His astonishment exhausts him

    so he sleeps and then, on waking,

    is astonished all over again.

     

                              Interview

     

    So what do they make

    of each other, these two,

    Cat and Hard Drive 

    forced to travel on opposing sides

    inseparable  ?

     

    He leans over me

    snarls Cat, he positions

    himself way beyond his station.

    He eclipses my sun.

    He has tricked me into a cage.

     

    He frightens me, rages Hard Drive.

    Every pace we take along the path

    wears on me. It is like walking

    chained to a fire-storm.

    I never sleep.

      

                         Conclusion

     

     It is cat who carries the weight

    of true being,

     

    who loves and suffers

    in his worn flesh

     

    the seasons, the tides, the razed trees.

     

    Hard Drive lives in panic, a life-long

    franticness to avoid

     

    being overwhelmed. The fears

    of Hard-drive

     

    will overwhelm us all.

     

                                        Rogan Wolf, June 2013

     

     

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  • What does “Advisor” mean in Toadland ?

    Semantics – the study of words and their meanings – is an important subject, after all. I used to hang back from it as being peripheral, academic, finickity, pedantic. But now, especially in this era when the Lie is so greatly in the ascendant, I see more clearly that being alert to how words are used, and how subtly that use can change, is a crucial way of seeing the truth of human motivation and behaviour and the use and abuse of power. 

    For words don’t just mean. They also suggest, imply, deflect, obscure, hide, deceive. Words don’t just live. They also die and kill.

    For instance, this word “advisor.” It was being used quite a lot last week, with regard to the Toad’s reshuffling of his “cabinet” and – specifically – with Sajid Javid’s “resignation.”

    And this “resignation” was occasioned by the Toad’s insistence that, to keep his job, Javid must get rid of his Treasury “advisors” and exchange them for Number 10’s “advisors” (all of the latter answerable to Dr Doombeetle).

    But hold on. What has just been said ? Did we take note, before rushing on, or being rushed on ? Of course there’s been some discussion about Number 10’s “power-grab.” And the new cabinet’s manifest leaning towards the toadie, the rookie and the rubbery spine.

    But “advisors” ? What was really being said here ?  What is an advisor, after all, according to one’s usual or previous understanding of the term ? First, the advisor is a human being, at least in most cases, and therefore not a chattle. Second, that person might have some expertise or experience or similar set of qualities, which make him/her worth listening to. Third, you don’t have to take his/her advice. If you happen to be a Minister of State, you are the person with the power and the responsibility to make the decisions.

    But those meanings do not appear to have held good in this case, despite the word being used repeatedly.

    Here, the “advisors” appear to be toys, or furniture, or flowers, or weapons, or drones, or uniforms, ie mere objects to sweep in or out, as convenient. Not people. “Sack them ?” What for ? Incompetence, misconduct ? None of those things. Just ownership. Further, consideration of human rights, human treatment, didn’t come into it. Therefore, we must surely conclude that, at least in this case, “advisor” did not mean human being.    

    But although they’re mere objects, they seem to be regarded as very powerful and important ones. That’s why they have to be the Doombeetle’s objects and not the Chancellor’s objects.

    Maybe they’re dummies (so that, on top of Dr Doombeetle’s other extraordinary abilities, he must be a ventriloquist, as well) and that would explain why his dummies must replace those of Mr Javid. To give orders. To keep watch. Like thought-police. Like drones, hovering.

    But this is taking us a long way from what I once understood “advisor” to mean. And it is taking us a long way towards abuse of power, further debasement of quality in government, and plain abuse of people. And that already means, and in the Toad’s case has always meant, not just certain people, but any people. All people.

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  • Where the Hoodlums Are

     

    The stanza was written and uploaded on the day the UK left the EU, January 31st, 2020. The picture is of a tower built in Victorian times in belated tribute to the great William Tyndale. It stands on the edge of  the Cotswold escarpment, overlooking the Severn estuary. The lovely photograph was taken by Derek Harper.

    “A new dawn,” is how the UK prime minister described January 31st to the nation, this man already sacked twice for lying, a man no law-abiding employer would dream of even shortlisting for a job.

    In contrast, Tyndale was interested in truth and the nation can take pride in him. The parrot has now withdrawn to the top of Tyndale’s monument and will stand sentinel there, on watch for better and wiser times when we might come to realize our mistake.

    You can climb a spiral of stone steps up to the top of the tower and nowadays might meet the parrot there, glaring at you, impatient for the flood of lies to retreat and the honour and grace of this nation be restored.

    I had thought the parrot had finished writing his verses on Brexit (see “Parrot Addenda“). There are over 150 of them, after all. But, in recognition of a tragic and shameful occasion, he couldn’t resist adding a grumpy postscript here. 

     

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