Jacqueline Rackham Photography. My efforts were disappointing since I was so early they were asleep still.
When
I sadly put our little poetry circle, Scribblers on hold for this horrible time
in our lives, it turned out that I was not the only member of the group that
was old enough to recall a previous time of deprivation. I was born just a couple
weeks before World War II broke out.
With
my father being immediately called up for service in the army, my mother left the
rented home they my parents lived in, in
East Worthing, packed one suit case and scuttled off with my brother and I to
my dad’s family in Yorkshire. We lived in cramped conditions, three of us in
the little box room, for the duration of the war. We did not return until I was
approaching school age.
The
state of the world right now with food shortages caused by frightened people
stock piling and being wary about the danger surrounding us, not to mention the
feeling of helplessness at being pressed to withdraw from our normal happy
social lives. So far we have still
been able to run train even if it does involve getting up very early in the
morning to avoid to silly crowd who are still pretending that nothing is
different. We are also so lucky to live in the sticks where there are woods and
downland that are relatively quiet although the sea front is to be avoided now
because it is like August bank holiday down there with everybody out walking in
the glorious sunshine that is making an appearance after months of wind and
rain.
Getting
back to my poetry group it has been enlightening to hear how they intend to
keep themselves busy. My friend Deirdre who is multi talented, being a former
music teacher, choir mistress, pianist and church organist and translator, among
the many clever thing she has toiled to perfect. She is also one of the sweetest
people I know. She told me that being stuck indoors for God knows how long in
this crisi, that she will be sorting out her shelves and boxes full of music sheets
so that she can brush up old pieces that she had half forgotten. Private
recitals with an audience of one, though her husband can sing along perhaps, I
know that he can sing. I have borrowed some of his words from an email the he
wrote this weekend, later on in this diary page.
Steve
and I have re-planned our daily schedule to make sure that we not only maintain
of very good fitness level. More difficulty though with our small family Antiques
import export business being brought to its knees by fear of illness and death.
Travel restrictions meaning that most of our clients around the globe have
cancelled buying trips, which in turn mean dispensing with our services
completely. The warehouse shutter has been down for two weeks now. The rent on
the property will still be due though.
We have
been at home together during that time and we have both felt blessed that we were
good friends long before we were lovers and then marital partners, business
partners and sports training partners. We still enjoy each others company enormously
and have always been best friends with more useful common ground than most villages
in the countryside.
We
all find ourselves in an un-precedented situation and each of us will, no
doubt, find our own way of dealing with it. Some of us believe this Corona saga is going to
have widespread implications on our behaviour patterns looking ahead. Just
think back to how the two world wars changed societies, gender roles and
inter-communications between nations.
With
regards to the state sponsored house arrest to which we are all subjected;
I am rather looking forward to next 12 weeks, which will enable us to
deal with all the issues which have fallen between the chairs during the last 3
years. As for exercise - for us it's all about maintaining as much
of the muscle tissue and stamina gained over time as possible.
Face
time is certainly a good way of staying in touch. I use it for contact the
family, but it is of course only available to Apple users.
Skype
would also be useful for video conferencing and could work across platforms.
Whats-app I am not too sure about.
Here is a reading suggestion from another of our poetry
group, of which he says:
“I find the language used to be very moving.
Not exactly cheerful, but there you are”
.
The Great War by Vernon
Scannell
Whenever war is spoken of
I find
The war that was called ‘Great’ invades the mind:
The grey militia marches over land
A darker mood of grey
Where fractured tree-trunks stand
And shells, exploding, open sudden fans
Of smoke and earth.
Blind murders scythe
The deathscape where the iron brambles writhe;
The sky at night
Is honoured with rosettes of fire,
I find
The war that was called ‘Great’ invades the mind:
The grey militia marches over land
A darker mood of grey
Where fractured tree-trunks stand
And shells, exploding, open sudden fans
Of smoke and earth.
Blind murders scythe
The deathscape where the iron brambles writhe;
The sky at night
Is honoured with rosettes of fire,
Flares that define the corpses on the
wire
As terror ticks on wrists at zero hour.
These things I see,
But they are only part
Of what it is that slyly probes the heart:
Less vivid images and words excite
The sensuous memory
And, even as I write,
Fear and a kind of love collaborate
To call each simple conscript up
For quick inspection:
Trenches’ parapets
Paunchy with sandbags; bandoliers, tin-hats,
Candles in dug-outs,
Duckboards, mud and rats.
Then, like patrols, tunes creep into the mind:
A long, long trail, The Rose of No Man’s Land,
Home Fires and Tipperary;
And through the misty keening of a band
Of Scottish pipes the proper names are heard
Like fateful commentary of distant guns:
Passchendaele, Bapaume, and Loos, and Mons.
And now,
Whenever the November sky
Quivers with a bugle’s hoarse, sweet cry,
The reason darkens; in its evening gleam
Crosses and flares, tormented wire, grey earth
Splattered with crimson flowers,
And I remember,
Not the war I fought in
But the one called Great
Which ended in a sepia November
Four years before my birth.
As terror ticks on wrists at zero hour.
These things I see,
But they are only part
Of what it is that slyly probes the heart:
Less vivid images and words excite
The sensuous memory
And, even as I write,
Fear and a kind of love collaborate
To call each simple conscript up
For quick inspection:
Trenches’ parapets
Paunchy with sandbags; bandoliers, tin-hats,
Candles in dug-outs,
Duckboards, mud and rats.
Then, like patrols, tunes creep into the mind:
A long, long trail, The Rose of No Man’s Land,
Home Fires and Tipperary;
And through the misty keening of a band
Of Scottish pipes the proper names are heard
Like fateful commentary of distant guns:
Passchendaele, Bapaume, and Loos, and Mons.
And now,
Whenever the November sky
Quivers with a bugle’s hoarse, sweet cry,
The reason darkens; in its evening gleam
Crosses and flares, tormented wire, grey earth
Splattered with crimson flowers,
And I remember,
Not the war I fought in
But the one called Great
Which ended in a sepia November
Four years before my birth.
This present situation may not be actual an war but we should
set our minds ready for a major battle because it is certainly that my friends.
There have been thousands of deaths so far this year and I think we are in for
a much longer period than anybody thinks. My poetry group friend Barry, who suggested
this poem, reminded me that during the war people thought in the first year that
it would all be over be Christmas! The effects will be far longer lasting than any of us think. I for one do not hold any faith it the twelve week prediction we have
been told to expect.
Little kindnesses go a long way and I was warmed an hour ago by my neighbour over the road ringing me to see if I was ok and asked, was there anything I needed.
The woodland photos were taken this weekend.
Stay
safe, think positive, prepare for the unthinkable and keep focused, it’s
simple!
