A change of message

Further to what I was saying yesterday, this is the sort of thing you can do with a couple of spare minutes and a good editing package. These aren’t very professional ‘shops, but I think they get the point across.

Back to the eighties

This chap really likes pork products

Holiday presents are often rubbish

 

Laughter is the best weapon

So where have I been since October last year? Well, obviously I’ve been right here in Exmouth and I’ve been quite busy; but I don’t particularly feel like telling the world at large what I’ve been up to.

I don’t usually go in for political commentary here, because usually everything that can be said has been said on the internet before I find out about it, but occasionally I read something utterly vulgar and depressing and I think it worthy of a punt.

The most obvious thing to deplore is what has upset the Daily Fascist, which is a paper that people read in order to be outraged. The protest during yesterday’s Armistice Day silence was vulgar, tasteless and calculated to be as offensive and nasty as possible, and it clearly succeeded in being all of those things. What it did for the plight of Muslims throughout the world is far more debatable, but somehow I doubt that was ever the point. The aim of the protesters was to become instant hate figures, and hopefully to provoke some violence from the police or members of the public. That this failed to happen is clearly not due to the forbearance of the Great British Public, which is predictably violently angry about the whole affair, but somehow I wish it were. I wish that everybody had commented on how childish it is to pour scorn on a solemn national ceremony in the hope of starting a fight; how laughable and pathetic it is to seek martyrdom when the people you want to kill you are paying more attention to what happened on The Apprentice last night than to you or your religion; or that someone who takes Armistice Day as a celebration of British military power has completely failed to understand the ceremony and is therefore an idiot.

Sadly, that is not how the people of Britain have responded. Some have set up hate campaigns against British Islam; others have simply called for the deportation of those who engage in these ridiculous publicity stunts, demanded their arrest and criticised the police for protecting them from the violence they intended to provoke. The people of Britain are in this respect failing to understand their enemy, and therefore failing to hurt him effectively; and I think that we could learn something about that from our grandparents.

The enemy in this case is the religious extremist. He has absolutely no sense of humour, takes himself very seriously, is utterly convinced that he is right and believes anything he does for the good of his religion as he sees it to be justified. He will do anything to be heard and cannot abide any attempt to argue with him; but what really hurts him is one of two things: either to be ridiculed or to be ignored. The religious extremist has a lot in common with the political extremist, and back in the ‘forties Britain had to deal with political extremists who had managed to take over a country and were therefore far more of a threat to us than a lot of cretinous hillbillies with stupid placards. Yet even while bombs were falling on British cities and the enemy was trying his hardest to break civilian morale, the civilian population was defying him with two very simple weapons: the ‘business as usual’ sign and the lampoon. People laughed about Hitler; they laughed about how fat Goering was, and what a skinny runt Goebbels looked; about Hitler’s ridiculous fringe, or how his moustache made him look like Charlie Chaplin. They refused to be afraid of their enemy and turned him instead into a figure of ridicule. They then proceeded to try as much as possible to live their lives normally, because that defies an enemy who wants to break public morale, but mainly because the only other thing to do was to give up completely.

In this respect, the Metropolitan Police have done exactly the right thing. They have denied the enemy the martyrdom he craves and instead given him the opportunity to state his case in such a way that nobody will ever agree with him who was not already a rabid supporter. They have given him enough rope to hang himself, but have prevented Britain from perpetrating a lynching, while the only people who have been dishonoured or sullied by yesterday’s vulgar display are those who perpetrated it. We have been protected from being dragged into the gutter of unreasoning violence that extremists of all stamps inhabit while demonstrating that we really believe in free speech, and we will not be the losers by that. We would do well to remember that the moment when British fascism ceased to be a realistic political movement was not at the Cable Street riot, but at Oswald Moseley’s most triumphant rally at Olympia, where the extremists had free rein to expose their moral bankruptcy to the full glare of public scrutiny.

If we must pay attention to the nutters, then, I would like it to be in the form of comedy. Perhaps their protest could be overdubbed with dialogue from Yes, Minister, or re-cut so that they appear to be dancing to the Birdie Song. I’d like to see the placards Photoshopped so that they say ‘Sorry about the bag; didn’t have time to shave’ or ‘Danish Bacon is great’. I want to see people laughing at the enemy, because it will hurt him; and I think he deserves to be hurt.

 

Monday Poetry Returns

I’ve not been updating this thing for the last week due to a sudden attack of social life. In this case, the society flew in from Canada, helped with the Oxonmoot transport costs and bought me dinner on several occasions. Thanks, Beth: it was every bit as much fun for us as it was for you.

Such excuses aside, it’s high time I posted something, and the familiar Monday evening poetry selection seems like a pretty good place to start.

Since I was at Tintern Abbey with Bethberry not so very long ago, Wordsworth provides a fitting opening for today’s collection with his misleadingly titled poem of the same name.

wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit’s cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.

Next I’ve selected one by Robert Graves that, being a First World War poem that refers to Norse mythology, should probably have appeared here far earlier than it has.

Dead Cow Farm

An ancient saga tells us how
In the beginning the First Cow
(For nothing living yet had birth
But elemental cow on earth)
Began to lick cold stones and mud:
Under her warm tongue flesh and blood
Blossomed, a miracle to believe;
And so was Adam born, and Eve.
Here now is chaos once again,
Primaeval mud, cold stones and rain.
Here flesh decays and blood drips red,
And the Cow’s dead, the old Cow’s dead.

The foregoing is a little dishonest: the saga is Snorri’s Gylfaginning, and the story is of the primeval cow, Auðumla, whose milk nourished Ymir, father of the frost-giants. She licked salty blocks of ice, from which Búri, ancestor of Oðinn, emerged. Graves adapts the myth to his own ends to connect the beginning of humanity with what he chooses to see as its apocalyptic end.

Next, John Lyly tells us a cautionary tale about playing cards with people who have Classical nicknames. Campaspe was the mistress of Alexander of Macedon and a famed beauty, but here her name is applied in true Romantic style to the poet’s current flame. I do like to see the boy Cupid humbled. To be perfectly honest, though, I find it difficult to care what happens to the poet.

Cards and Kisses

Cupid and my Campaspe play’d
At cards for kisses – Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother’s doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing on’s cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes -
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

Next is Ambrose Bierce, giving us a wry look at religious hypocrisy. Although he chooses an exotic Islamic setting, it’s more than likely that he intended his barb to be felt by people much closer to his Ohio home.

Religion

Hassan Bedriddin, clad in rags, ill-shod,
Sought the great temple of the living God.
The worshippers arose and drove him forth,
and one in power beat him with a rod.

“Allah,” he cried, “thou seest what I got;
Thy servants bar me from the sacred spot.”
“Be comforted,” the Holy One replied;
“It is the only place where I am not.”

Finally, since I’m quite tired and have already had a large glass of wine this evening, a poem about flying. Specifically, it’s about taking off in an emergency in the early years of the Second World War. The author, David Bourne, was killed in action in September 1941.

“Operations Calling!”

“Clearing Black Section
Patrol Bass Rock,”
Leaps heart; after shock
Action comes stumbling;
Snatch your helmet;
Then run smoothly, to the grumbling
Of a dozing Merlin heating
Supercharged air.
You are there
by “Z”

Down hard on the behind
The parachute; you are blind
With your oxygen snout
But click, click, click, click, you feel
and the harness is fixed.
Round the wing
And “Out of the cockpit, you,”
Clamber the rung
And the wing as if a wasp had stung
You, hop and jump into the cockpit
Split second to spike
The Sutton harness holes,
One, two, three, four,
Thrust with your
Hand to the throttle open…

“Operations” called and spoken.

I would write more, but nothing springs immediately to mind. I shall therefore leave you with the usual instruction to share and enjoy.

 

Exmouth Beach in Pictures

On Saturday afternoon I had friends over and they wanted to go for a walk. Fortunately, Exmouth is blessed with quite a lot of beach, and if you start at Orcombe Point you can finish at The Grove on the Esplanade and feel you’ve earned a swift half or six. These are some of the things you’ll see if you take that route.

This is Orcombe Point. Pick the wrong time and you'll find all of this sand underwater, so work out the tides first

Once you're round Orcombe Point, the scale of the task becomes apparent.

There are always a few sandcastles along the beach. A message requires this one not to be touched.

Exmouth's new lifeboat station, which you could just see in the distance two pictures ago.

Sand dunes along the beach.

The RNLI station from the dunes. In the distance is Orcombe Point.

This line of beach huts is about half-way along the route. The volleyball nets are only a couple of years old.

The landing stage is usually out on sunny days, but it's winched up the beach at night. It's absolutely ancient and must be on its last legs.

Eat your heart out, Washington: we have an Octagon, and it sells ice cream.

The clock tower was put up for Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee. Reaching it means that the walk is nearly over.

The inaptly named Grand Hotel. The pub is at the end of this line of buildings.

Looking out to sea from here you can see Dawlish Warren. The visible portion is the nice part of Dawlish Warren: go by sea and don't waste time on the tourist area.

The end of the line: The Grove, where you can now spend the rest of the day recuperating.

 

Monday Poetry – back to form edition

Back to form, of course, means more medievalism and more melancholy. It’s been a phenomenally busy week, and not just because I’ve been describing in nauseating detail how to do my job. The next pictorial guide will, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear, describe the walk from Orcombe Point to The Grove, comprising some two and a half miles of beach. Today, however, we have naming of verse.

First is another of Rupert Brooke’s earlier poems, this time from 1904. Yet more wistful melancholia, I’m afraid, but it seems terribly difficult to track down good comic verse at the moment.

The Path of Dreams

Go, heart, and pluck beside the Path of Dreams,
Where moans the wind along the shadowy streams,
Sad garlands wreathed of the red mournful roses,
And lilies o’ moon beams.

Strange blossoms faint upon that odorous air,
Vision, and wistful Memory; and there
Love twofold with the purple bloom of Triumph
And the wan leaf of Despair.

Go heart; go quickly; pluck and weave thereof
Dim garlands, scattering pallid dew above,
And far across the sighing tides of darkness
Lay them beside my love.

Next, more riddling from the Exeter Book. This one has an Old Testament theme, but that’s all the clues you’ll get from me.

Wer sæt æt wine mid his wifum twam
ond his twegen suno ond his twa dohtor,
swase gesweostor, ond hyra suno twegen,
freolico frumbearn; fæder wæs þær inne
þara æþelinga æghwæðres mid,
eam ond nefa. Ealra wæron fife
eorla ond idesa insittendra.

A man sat at wine with his two wives
and his two sons, and his two daughters,
beloved sisters, and their two sons,
noble firstborn; the father was there within
Of those princes both, with
an uncle and a nephew. In all there were five
Lords and ladies sitting within.

I don’t think I’ve yet put up anything in Middle English, which is quite an oversight, given the sheer variety of works from that period. I’ll rectify the omission with a little piece that I found in Kenneth Sisam’s A Middle English Reader. This was written down at a time when the old runic letter thorn (þ) was being supplanted by ‘th’, so instances of both can be seen in this piece. A bit of vocab for you: seuenist is an old spelling of sennight, which is a week. The old word ‘fortnight’ has remained in use, but sennight has gone the way of all flesh, probably because it’s easier to say or write ‘week’. Dryng just means ‘drink’, chelde is ‘cold’ and a primerole is a primrose. Other than that, welle carries the old sense ‘good’ and the rest you should be able to work out for yourselves. It’s a simple little poem, but it has a definite charm to it.

The Maid of the Moor

(Bodleian MS Rawlinson D.913)

Maiden in the mor lay,
In the mor lay,
Seuenyst fulle, seuenist fulle,
Maiden in the mor lay,
In the mor lay,
Seuenistes fulle ant a day.

Welle was hire mete;
Wat was hire mete?
Þe primerole ant the, -
Þe primerole ant the, -
Welle was hire mete;
Wat was hire mete? -
The primerole ant the violet.

Welle was hire dryng;
Wat was hire dryng?
Þe chelde water of þe welle-spring.

Welle was hire bour;
Wat was hire bour?
Þe red rose an te lilie flour.

I’ll move on from poems in difficult language to a poem that’s a bit more challenging. Sylvia Plath is famed for cryptic expression, and this is actually one of her more explicit poems.

Crossing the Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.

Next I’ve chosen a poem by a favourite of mine – Wilfred Owen. I don’t think I’ve seen this one outside the collection edited by Edmund Blunden.

The Unreturning

Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled
Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled.
Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled
When far-gone dead return upon the world.

There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke.
Each one whom Life exiled I named and called.
But they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled;
And never one fared back to me or spoke.

Then peered the indefinite unshapen dawn
With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds,
The weak-limned hour when sick men’s sighs are drained.
And while I wondered on their being withdrawn,
Gagged by the smothering wing which none unbinds,
I dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained.

Finally (and this is an edit, so apologies if Facebook jumped the gun a bit), a Thomas Hardy poem that takes a wry look at a distinctly Victorian issue. This is by way of a little joke for a friend of mine, but I’m sure we can all appreciate it.

The Ruined Maid

“O ‘Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?”–
“O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she.

–”You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!”–
“Yes: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,” said she.

–”At home in the barton you said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’
And ‘thik oon,’ and ‘theäs oon,’ and ‘t’other’; but now
Your talking quite fits ‘ee for high compa-ny!”–
“Some polish is gained with one’s ruin,” said she.

–”Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!”–
“We never do work when we’re ruined,” said she.

–”You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!”–
“True. One’s pretty lively when ruined,” said she.

“–I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!”–
“My dear–a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain’t ruined,” said she.

That’s your lot for this week. I hope I’ve managed to get a bit more variety in this time, and if it’s gone from dark to dark via abstruse that’s just the way I roll on a Monday. I hope you enjoyed them anyway: I certainly did.