In all our sanctuaries we sit at risk
  • Naming the Beast of the Year

     

    This beast has our country’s contours

    written all over it.

    It has leapt from out of the ruins

    of the city, those hollow squares,

    and from the great labrynth below ground

    where the thread got tangled,

    and from the wi-fi and the wires

    through which we do not speak

    but intone like digital toys

    or just snarl, just howl.

    The rough beast is uncaged at last.

    It stalks across the burnt horizons.

    It stretches its claws

    it grows into itself.

     

                                                                Rogan Wolf, December 2016

     

     

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  • Presidential Election Night November 2016

    All night, the great tree raged outside our windows.

    It wanted to give way to the wind, but could not.

    It wanted to fly over the hill on the wind’s crest

    lashing our house as it passed,

    smashing the roof, bursting each window.

    What agony to be pinned like this, bound by the feet,

    earth-bound by tendon, tendril, a century

    of rooting down. An owl sounded just before dawn,

    quavery, tentative. From far distance

    came answer, quietly. Then stillness and first light.

                                                                          Rogan Wolf

     

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  • Dorset in View

    From above, this region is a quilt

    of all colours, covering a vast

    and restless sleeper ; each week

    the colours have shifted, wrapped

    in season. No pause here. No holding still.

    The tractor driver spends all the daylight hours

    and more, lonely in his cab, changing

    a field’s colour inch by inch, precisely

    row by row. A young deer, ears up and pointed,

    grazes watchfully nearby, safest

    at centre, sharply in view.

     

    Rogan Wolf, October 2016

     

     

     

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  • The Dance of the Emperor who Wears no Clothes

    The Brexit dance continues. And in London, a court case has just come to an end, in which lawyers have been debating whether or not Parliament should have influence over the Brexit process. We shall hear the result of that court case in the near future.

    But its implications are profoundly important and the discussion belongs beyond the court of law and even beyond Brexit itself. For there is surely a constitutional issue here, and it concerns sovereignty in the UK.

    But also, perhaps, religion in the UK. For, since the UK’s EU referendum, irresponsibly and incompetently conceived and disreputably conducted as it was, the phrase “The People” seems almost to have a religious ring to it when it is spoken by the present British Prime Minister and by individuals who campaigned for Brexit, for whatever their assorted reasons. “The People have spoken” they say reverentially, referring (of course) to the referendum “result” – as if the speaker has just returned from the top of Mount Sinai, carrying tablets of stone. Although the “People spoke” not with thunder, not even with a still small voice, but with a bewildered, incoherent, misinformed and choking splutter, on this subject of such vast and almost impenetrable complexity, although the result of this ridiculous charade has no validity or integrity whatsoever, we must obey it, we must dance to this tune. The People’s Splutter is our command, O Master.  

    It is a self-inflicted fiasco and farce, of course, with fiction now piling upon fiction. A few people appear to be profiting from it and recent editions of the Daily Mail suggest that those people are quite frantically determined that the farce should continue, this dance of communal death.

    But now, let’s look at what’s going on, among all this disreputable fiction and manipulation – a real and valid dispute about Sovereignty.

    Where in a Democracy does the Sovereign Power reside ? In other words, who makes the final decision ? Is it Parliament, (ie the elected representatives of all the People (or those of the People willing to vote at election-time) ? Or is it “The People” themselves (ie the Executive, sitting on the shoulders of the 52% of the electorate who voted “Leave,” many of whom have now changed their minds about Brexit, many of whom believed the lies the campaigners told them) ?

    But the same issue, or question, is being struggled with elsewhere, perhaps with greater integrity. In the agonised Labour party, whose voices count most ? Its new and large membership who overwhelmingly support Corbyn ? Or its members of parliament, elected by their constituencies across the country, who must work with Corbyn, but by and large do not support him and do not see him as an adequate leader ? It is a similar issue – and carries some of the same elisions and divisions and ascribed meanings – we the People vs our own leaders and representatives, we these many here vs those few over there, we “commoners” here vs that “elite” there, we “ordinary hard-working people” here vs those “so-called experts” there.

    Does sovereign power reside with the chosen leaders or with the choosing led ? And – just as important – by what means and with what integrity of information are the decisions arrived at by this sovereign power, whatever it may be ? Does correct information, or knowledge, or expertise even matter  ? Or do we take Mr Gove’s advice and take no heed of the experts ? Why bovver ? Just listen to Mr Gove, the common man, one of Us  – anti-elitist, anti-establishment and anti-expert. In the rushing, careless and unjust world, we can trust Mr Gove. He’ll sit with us in the bomb shelter, he’ll stand beside us at the barricade, in the welfare benefit office, in the food bank. Him and Dacre and Bo-Jo the Foreign Secretary and Crosby OBE, Murdoch from Down Under and Lord Rothermere from the Upper Crust. But don’t forget to watch your back.

    Let us remember Runneymede, and the Magna Carta, when exasperated Barons confronted an unworthy King and set some limits on his power. Fast forward to the Tudors, by which time there were a representative Parliament (of a kind) and independent law courts. And in that era, wonderful and electric encounters recorded between Monarch and Commoners in the House, both sides noble and worthy of attention as they tested and explored their respective powers, duties and rights. Onto a church in Putney, London, in times of tumult and fracture across the nation, where passionate and urgent debate sought to establish to whom the vote should go and where sovereignty should lie. One speaker said that the franchise should be extended to land-owners, for – literally – these had a personal stake in the land and so their decisions would be trustworthy, their collective voice a responsible one. Then onto the nineteenth century and the belated elimination of the Rotten Boroughs and other such relics and corruptions and the enormous steps taken in that century to extend the franchise across Society.  

    What have those centuries of struggle to secure a functioning democracy really been about ? Surely, in essence, they have been about where the power should lie for essential freedoms and rights and justice to be established and protected, and how that power should be regulated ; in other words where the nation’s sovereign power should reside, so that tyranny and injustice can be resisted and defeated.

    And what is Parliament ? It is the final court of law in the land ; it is where there is open scrutiny, examination and consideration of all measures proposed by government ; a place where the executive can be held to careful, close and expert account ; a place where new law is constructed and instituted, policy decisions made, and budgets presented and passed (or rejected). Through the centuries, Britain’s two Houses of Parliament have undergone review and evolution without cease, to catch up and keep up with Society’s developments, to refresh, renew, reform, revitalise, attune. The  need for reform and revitalisation has rarely been more pressing than now.

    In the last year or two, the anachronistic House of Lords has – confusingly – been excelling itself on behalf of the people, resisting inexcusable measures proposed by the Cameron-led Executive.  The House of Commons, on the other hand, is in the doldrums, distrusted by and disconnected from the electorate. And in the process and in our disillusion, we the People have made ourselves more and more vulnerable – for a host of reasons – to the dishonest salesman, peddling phoney products and facile solutions, and to the demagogue, peddling hate, intolerance, fear and the hollow glorification of self. As Trump seeks to win American support for building a futile medieval wall against the world, so the Brexiteers have won British support for building a wall against the continent of which it is a part.

    Democracy disintegrates without trust. But in these times of social breakdown and stampeding developments, what institutions and decision-making processes are worthy of our trust ? Where lies the true sovereignty ?

    Once, it does seem that the “People,” lacking a voice, looked to Parliament to speak on its  behalf. In that sense, Parliament was the People. First, it was the means by which the People could negotiate with and check Royalty ; later, it became the means by which the People could hold the Executive to open account.

    But now there is disconnect of some essential sort. Too many of the People see Parliament as speaking only for itself. It is we of the People who do the speaking now and we say anything we like. But we talk only to each other, weaving magic spells and fantasies on Facebook. The Executive is delighted. It turns to the demagogues and the hooligans, the hate-pedlars, tax-dodgers and the plutocrats, the escapists and the lie. It seeks their alliance against scrutiny and care, truth and reality.

    And that is why the nation’s sovereign power needs to remain in our Houses of Parliament. We cannot do without accountable experts, having time and care to examine closely and without prejudice what is best to do in these fraught times, what the Executive is proposing we do ; we cannot do without informed and honourable leadership for guidance through the huge complexities of these years and the issues they throw up. For the fantasy solutions, facile scapegoating and shrill and cheap propaganda of the demagogue and Grub Street war lord will not help us.

    But Parliament and People need to connect again.

    As the disgraceful Brexit dance continues, I shall end this piece with a comparison. More and more, the Brexit process reminds me of that children’s story by Hans Christian Andersen – the Emperor’s New Clothes. A vain fool of an emperor allows himself to believe some fraudulent tailors that his nakedness is actually a very fine suit of clothes. He walks out naked, glorying in his delusion. And the People roar their acclaim of the Lie, presumably seeing it as being in their best interest to do so. But then a little boy perks up, who isn’t in on the lie. “Look at his willy !” he cries. And then the story stops, to spare us the sight of the crowd turning on the little boy and lynching him.

    When Theresa May said “Brexit means Brexit” she might just as well have said “Lynch ‘im means Lynch ‘im.” And when a disgraceful referendum campaign full of manifest lies and fraud worthy of imprisonment ends with a result of 52/48, what have the People really said ? The People have really said that they are split essentially in two and are in a conflicted muddle – not surprisingly. And, in truth, Brexit means nothing coherent at all. It is just a significant shriek, a fume, a symptom of our trouble. And Theresa May is Prime Minister of this split nation and it behoves her not to join any lynching parties. In this case, the little boy is half the nation.  And what our troubled nation has really said in its entirety is that we need some true leadership now, able to make us whole again ; and our democracy needs some rapid fumigation.    

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  • Autumn UK 2016

     

    Today our skies evicted the swallow

    and the swift was banished weeks ago

    and in Dorset the house martin

    whose tiny mud globes once crammed the eaves

    was simply absent all year.

     

    And last week Putin, unrestrained,

    bombed hospitals in Aleppo

    and Trump continued

    his debasing of America

    and Theresa May declared the date

    of Britain’s embrace of the lie.

     

    Rogan Wolf, October 2016

     

     

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  • The late David Jenkins, Bishop of Durham

    Following the death of David Jenkins on September 4th, I want to bear witness in my own small way to his great stature as a man and true priest.

    The first obituaries I read gave prominence to his Virgin Birth and Resurrection “denials.”  And of course, in his time, he was called “The Red Bishop” by our tabloid press.

    All caricature and falsification.

    He was a far larger, more potent and more significant figure than those cheap and dismissive labels and caricatures imply. (If Christ began talking now, they’d hang “Red” on Him too, of course. And they’d attack and sneer at Him for consorting with “Immigrants” and “Benefit Scroungers”, wouldn’t they ? We all know how the story would play out).

    Here is a link to a truer portrait of David Jenkins, made during the time he was Bishop of Durham, up to the day of his retirement. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Yb6wuX81UQ

    And what I think he meant in speaking of the issues of Virgin Birth and Resurrection was that his faith and stance in life were not based on the superstitions, opiate sops, fairy stories for the children, those bits of (possibly super-imposed) magic at both ends of Christ’s life. The truth doesn’t need magic tricks. And Jenkins had a burning truth to tell and reality to bear witness to and  – as the tabloids’ puerile attacks on him demonstrated – “humankind cannot bear very much reality.” That’s why we crucified Him.

    Under Thatcher’s stewardship, the false and fearsome gods Mè n’ Mine and Thè Marr Kett were busily at work all round him, destroying communities and human heart. In the middle of all that, from his base in the city of Durham, Jenkins did his work of witness with immense honesty, courage, charm, wit, warmth, intelligence and generous passion. For a while, he seemed in his own solitary person to be acting as Her Majesty’s Opposition. And he provided a rather more appealing and talented and human voice of opposition than most others we hear in parliament, especially at our present time of bewilderment and fragmentation and robot slogan.

    The passage below comes from a speech he gave to a social work conference in the late 1980’s. But I think his insight does not just apply to social workers. It applies just as much to anyone who works to nurture and keep our community together in a state of health, including teachers, doctors, nurses, prison officers, counsellors, priests, even police …

    “Social workers are a group of people who are being called upon to live dangerously at many of the pressure points in our present confused, confusing and increasingly divided society. As such you are the objects of, and therefore presumably in your own persons and reflections the subjects of, a great deal of confusion, anxiety and uncertainty. Your position is highly ambivalent and ambiguous and therefore both actually painful now and potentially promising with regard to the future of our society and, indeed, of human beings on this earth.”

    I have tried to track down the rest of that speech, without success. Apparently he did not read from prepared script, or record his words. Out they came, straight from where he stood, reliably valid and brilliant.

    We talked together at a conference, having corresponded earlier. He was one of the invited speakers, amongst various MP’s and other significant movers and shakers of the time. He was by far and away the most impressive speaker and participant there, his mind racing, his words flowing and tumbling out, his ego absent.

    Among all the pretenders and juvenalia, the egos, all that fruitless posturing, the well intentioned as well as the ill, I said to him, in frustration and disappointment : “I just can’t get into this.” I was appalled. The conference was being held in St James’ Church, Piccadilly. I had thought its subject was of central importance and could take us somewhere new and desperately needed. I had expected to feel at home and afire here. In hindsight, I think that the problem I could not solve was mostly in me myself.

    He answered reassuringly, in his slightly fastidious way : “You are loitering with intent…” Even in the middle of all this, filling a very crowded public space with his urgency, eloquence and vision, making all these waves, he could attend to me and my inarticulacy and turn that common judicial phrase upside down, and make a brilliant joke of it, with a serious point. Soon afterwards, I wrote a poem from that joke, making the same point. See below.

    But first, another and shorter poem. This one too came from his words. These are difficult times, he said. You must endure. Don’t allow yourselves to be reduced or cast down in isolation. Help each other. Form “communities of endurance”. To be always ready in case of better times. And seek to help bring those times about, as and in all ways you can.

    I think David Jenkins was one of the great Englishmen of his era. His faith, his church and his nation all have cause to be proud of him, grateful to him, and presently and properly attentive to what in his life he was saying.

     

    Keeping Station

     

    The Late “Red Bishop” proposed to several congregations

    a new and active strategy for hope and creation

    in the 3rd millennium. He called it

    “Communities of Endurance.”

    He meant (I believe) that people who keep heart open

    in times of frenzy

    are likely to know themselves outcasts –

    a debilitating experience the human race can ill afford.

    The keeping station

    the holding on

    go better when you’re not alone.

     

                                                                            Rogan Wolf, 1998 (revised 2016)

     

    Loitering

     

    Here I loiter

    with kindly intent

    tip-toeing from fragment to fragment

    stray world to stray world.

     

    I believe today I almost met someone.

    For just a few moments, possibly,

    the whirring edge of me

    disturbed some surface of attention.

     

    Perhaps in time I’ll risk being still enough

    actually to meet a whole person.

    I wonder would either of us survive

    the awe and enormity of true encounter.

     

    I loiter here between lines of thunder

    poised for the sudden break

    the momentary opening

    my own hushed moment of interruption.

     

    I must learn to do without lines.

    As soon as a line is drawn

    defeat there becomes possible

    and even perhaps significant.

     

    There is no excuse for defeat

    and significance is wasted there.

    To be invincible

    you need do nothing

    but dance at all times.

     

    I must learn to loiter

    lightly and with precision,

    poised for flight.

     

    If I am light enough

    you cannot throw me down.

    If I laugh with sufficient joy

    you cannot shame or break me

    halt or silence me.

     

    I loiter here in my fragility

    quick to respond to stray invitations

    to meet, just for a moment,

    in some carefully scouted side street cafe.

    What need for secret police

    when fear seeps

    like a poisonous cloud

    through every door ?

     

    How can we plan the way to save ourselves

    when we cannot even place in words

    the value of our distress ?

     

    I loiter here

    with love’s intent

    tip-toeing from fragment to

    fragment, stray

    world to stray world.

     

                                                                                             Rogan Wolf, 1995

     

     

     

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  • Poems for… Self at Sea

    Go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmtDPbcyves for a new collection of 30 poems on mental distress. Various authors have contributed, some of them psychiatric in-patients, one a prisoner. The video is a recording of my voice as I read each short poem. You can see the text of the poem onscreen at the same time.

    It has taken several years to put the collection together. It was funded by NHS Westminster and launched in Bristol last Autumn by the charity United Response.

    How to publish/display/promote the collection ? United Response has produced a booklet. And of course the separate pdf posters can be enlarged from A4.

    But this latest audio-visual combination is a newer possibility. It has taken us a while to produce it, but suddenly a few days ago we had the finished article.

    Might someone find this collection useful during Mental Health Week ? The poems can be projected onto walls, outside or inside, displayed one after the other. The sound can be switched off. Or kept on.

    You need to run it with the High Resolution option active. Click on the cog shape along the base of the Youtube screen on the right. Then click on “Quality” and choose the top option from the list provided there.

     

     

     

     

     

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  • Sayings

    Reaching for words
    is like searching the earth
    for stones
    and then shaping them
    one after another
    into a path.

     

     

    Your words took my breath away.

    They killed me with their song.

    They made my womb turn over.

    Sing to me again.

     

    The words I must speak

    will sentence me to death.

    I believe this, not that,

    and know that I shall burn for it.

     

    My beloved spake and said unto me,

    Rise up, my Love, my fair one, and come away.

    For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over, and gone.

    The flowers appear on the earth,

    The time of the singing of birds is come,

    And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.

     

    You believe nothing

    they screamed, through the scarves

    that hid their faces.

    In praise of God

    whom your words besmirch

    we are about to make nothing of you

    in one short burst.

     

    I demand

    freedom of speech

    I demand the right to say

    whatever I like

    and do to the truth

    whatever suits my purposes

    and defraud my neighbour

    in whatever way pleases me

    through my words

    for my gain.

     

    We made the bus bright red, he said

    in glee. So the plebs would think

    that they and we

    belong on the same side.

    Tee hee.

    Fiddle-de-dee.

    The People have Spoken

    and We must Obey.

    Tee hee.

     

    Your words

    have cut me to the quick

    they have cleaved me

    from crown to crotch.

    Split in two

    I cannot live more.

     

    Lord, I am not worthy

    that you should enter under my roof,

    but only say the word

    and my soul shall be healed.

     

    On the last day, he said :

    Tell my children that I lied

    for their sakes.

    I cheated on a people and a world

    so that my own blood might flourish.

    Though there be no world left

    and the lie now rules,

    my children will play in the sun

    and I say

    the People have Spoken,

    I say, it is the People’s Will,

    but I and my children know

    that it is my will prevailed.

    In casting my spell

    I stole their world.

     

    Your words touch me

    with such truth and delicious penetration

    that my womb turns over.

     

    I can tell a lie

    by the way my flesh

    crawls on hearing it

    and a pillar of salt

    replaces my free spirit

    and my proud city

    crumbles in ruin.

     

    Our words cleared the air between us.

    Both of us could breathe now –

    not just the one.

    We ceased

    choking on each other.

     

    Your words poisoned the atmosphere.

    Faces fell and then froze.

    A bubble of foam

    escaped between green lips.

     

    Words can mean whatever you make of them.

    They can play people like hooked fish.

    You reel people in with words.

    Then you gut them.

     

    Words fail me. I am lost for words.

    Lord, retrieve me. I fail of my being.

    I am overborne. I cannot break free.

     

    Send me word

    when you can, if you will.

    I live on word. No word

    no heart left beating.

     

    You have been killing me with your song

    so sweetly that I could have wished

    my dying could last forever.

     

    We made the bus bright red, he said.

    Tee hee.

    Fiddle-de-dee.

    The People have Spoken.

     

    Lord, I am not worthy

    that you should enter under my roof,

    but only say the word

    and my soul shall be healed.

     

                                                                                                    Rogan Wolf, 26th August 2016

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