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I Hear The Music Now



Bonhoeffer as a young student of seventeen


His Berlin study

His arrest at Berlin

On Holocaust Memorial Day, I offer a poem as a tribute to Dietrich Bonhoeffer. His family believed this gifted and 'lovable' man was destined to be a musician. But the Cosmos had other plans.

On April 9th, 1945, he was executed at Flossenburg Concentration Camp in Bavaria for his stance against the abomination of Hitler's Jewish policies. Bonhoeffer's tremendous energy in the cause of justice and peace knew no bounds, even after his arrest. He inspired and gathered about him so many of like mind prepared to do the distance.

Exactly two weeks later, on April 23rd, liberation came, at Flossenburg via the 90th US Infantry. The Third Reich fell as surely as the walls of Jericho.

On that spring dawn, a tidal power was released into the universe that has carried subsequent generations. And those born into a traumatised world within an ace of his passing were touched by his shadow and have best ridden the current of that Life he set free.


'There is meaning in every journey that is unknown to the traveller.'
Dietrich Bonhoeffer


I am breaking in two
Hell opens its mouth wide
bidding Heaven fill it

Am I a whited sepulchre?
pacific as Christ
before my warden
when a heart of anger
rages under the ribs
at living blasphemy?

Pictures from the past
assail the mind
taunting and tantalising
a Beethoven sonata at dusk
my fingers dabbling harmonies
from liquid keys

praeternatural chords
that could transform
a disordered world

Vintage values, vintage leather
a timeworn oaken table
rye bread, snitzel, sauerkraut
blessed conversation
the family as one dipping
its hand into the dish

my sister's merriment
her sparkling wit, she with whom
I shared a sacred womb

Tubingen, the Neckar's sheen
willow-teased and placid
ancient gables pinked against sky
the halls of learning
prescriptive ink, mottled parchment
a smell of dust and destiny

Embattled senses piqued
drunk on heroic visions
Wagner, Schiller, Goethe
donning the mental shoes
of Luther, Hegel, Kepler
confabulating new fire

The zeal of youth!
The rampant certainty
Good systems of belief
might slay hubris and heresy
Christians foiled, resisted, banned
the torque tightening

But no cheap Grace,
Grace the other side of pain
and prayer, Grace prodigal
and purposeful, power-releasing
stone-breaking Grace
of Heaven's radiant geode!

Orgies of cleansing
God's Chosen hounded, trampled
the burning and the broken glass
the Prince of Darkness
determined to exterminate
his own reflection

The hiding, oh, the hiding
the labyrinthine whispers
earthquaking jackboots
persecution by a buckled cross
the leading where I had no wish to go
like the Lord's disciple

I ask the warden how
his diphtherious daughter does
footsteps clatter in concrete corridors
echoing against the mindless walls
It is Time, O Lord. I am Thine,
You bid me come and die

O perfect irony! O Spring!
A round, rose-tinted dawn!
Birds fly upward like broadcast seed
I see the outlined noose, the narrow way
the gallows way, a doorway framing light
This, this is where it begins...

I hear the music now...



Flossenburg Concentration Camp - courtesy of the Holocaust History Archive


Flossenburg Castle

Not By The Wayside


New Eve Publishing 2011

A children's play about Mary Jones, a Welsh girl of Georgian times who saved for six long years and walked 25 miles barefoot to obtain a rare copy of the Bible in Welsh. Her amazing story saw the British & Foreign Bible Society launched in 1804. This edition launched to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the King James Bible.

This is a one-act/4 scenes play for 8-11 years and has been successfully performed in the UK and New Zealand. It runs for approximately 30 minutes and is especially designed as a children's presentation within an act of worship.

The play can also be read as a story.

Excerpt:


Narrator (1)

It was autumn of the year 1792. Across the Channel, Revolution was rife and King Louis XVI had only months to live. In Britain, John Wesley was at rest in his grave after a lifetime of service to his Lord. His zeal for the gospel had fired all parts of the country and had helped to stem a crisis of the kind in France. Everywhere, chapels were springing up. The Methodist mission hall in the village of Llanfihangel in North Wales was well-attended and one of its most enthusiastic worshippers was a young girl of eight. Her name was Mary and she was the daughter of Jacob Jones, an ailing cottage weaver, and his wife, Molly, who made ends meet with a patch of land and their loom and spinning wheel. Mary loved nothing better than to sing the Lord's praise and to listen to the spellbinding tales of olden times from the Bible.

One evening, after a bright and blustery day, when folk had deserted the market in Abergynolwyn and gone home to supper...












Warning (with a curtsy to Jenny Joseph)





When I am an old woman, I shall wear wine-dark velvet

in a retrospective style,

with plumed hat, tilted at a rakish angle,

and toss off a brandy in one go,

and quaff champagne because the sun is shining

or the rain won't go away,

or because a deadline has taken wing for distant climes.


I shall frequent VIP lounges as a matter of course

and rap on the door of 11, Downing Street, with the crook of my stick and say I've no money for taxes. But you can put the kettle on!


I shall recline on my couch with apricot truffles

and Lady Grey Tea, scanning the script of some hopeful writer whose narrative suffers from the present imperfect

and whose pages betray dried morsels of keylime pie

which have sustained the harrowing toil of composition.


I shall hold salons where earnest young poets may air their verses and their chagrin over royalties long imprisoned

in the fist of skinflint publishers.

I shall hear their lamentations upon editors from

the camp of the Philistines

and they shall weep upon my shoulder

at perfidious girls who giggle at sonnets

and prefer to moon over the beefcake on Top Gear.


Ah, what consolation those wordsmiths shall reap upon my finely-tuned clavicle!

How I shall milk their sighs

and their misplaced ardour!

They shall learn that skin-dew is skin-deep

and divine the subtext of kid-leather wrinkles,

etched by a spirit

that has trounced ten thousand adversities.

They shall behold the slaking twinkle of an eye

fixed on shining uplands beyond the turmoil,

where eagles do not prey,

where doves pair for eternity,

where petals do not rust

and no worm excoriates the fruit,

where cancer does not consume like swarming locusts, where there is neither health insurance

nor negative equity,

nor cynical columnists spitting tacks for effect

in hopes of sinking an overdraft.


Meanwhile, a little cerebral adventure...


Pole-trekking in the Adirondacks?

Wind-surfing off Goa?

White-water rafting in the Andes?


Dancing in the aisles at Buddy?

Or strutting one's stuff through One Singular Sensation?

And yes!

Singing the Brindisi from La Traviata with Alfie Boe...

Daring to rise from the audience and mount the stage,

unscripted, unchoreographed, in a flight of spontaneous rapture

to discover all that was lost is now found:

a voice.


Maybe I should just test the bouncy castle

at the children's party,

or soar, forbidden, to dizzy heights

on the swings at the recreation ground,

a subject for Fragonard.


What fun it shall be!

How heartening that the heart-bypass

is not destined for a hospital theatre

but could take effect

while I am singing Panis Angelicus

in the Basilica at Assisi.

I shall pass from life to Life

through fleeting shadow

and leave the Dead Land...

behind.


When I am old and no longer need crutches

and the sand in the hour-glass bears

no more footprints.


from THE TWAIN, Poems of Earth and Ether

Independent Means?



Mary Cole, the protagonist around whom the Berkeley Series revolves, was born in 1767 in the parish of St Mary de Lode, Gloucester, England, the youngest of the three beautiful daughters of Susannah and William Cole, she a wet-nurse, he a butcher and grazier. A fourth child, Billy, completed their family two years later.

The parents, and in particular the mother, instilled into their children a notion of human equality. It was an accident of birth that some people were born rich and others poor. Nobility of character and a sound understanding of how to conduct themselves was key to their aspiration to a superior way of life. The daughters took this wisdom thoroughly to heart, but Billy showed sullen resistance. The two elder girls, Ann and Susan, were noted for their airs and graces among the good citizens of Gloucester, but Mary was refreshingly humble, honest and reserved. She attracted friends easily, but betrayed none of her siblings' saucy familiarity. The difference became patently clear after the death of their father on the eve of 1783 when, for economic reasons, the family was obliged to abandon its way of life.

Ann was already married to William Farren, a butcher of Westgate, Gloucester, by whom she had at least three children. Billy became apprenticed to Mr Parker, a local surgeon, while Mary and Susan went into service in London where their contrasting characters were thrown into relief. Susan was out to exploit her betters and climb the social ladder. Mary wanted only to do things the virtuous way and was even prepared to return to the Farren household to help serve in Will's shop and look after her nephews and niece when exhaustion and homesickness threatened.

In London, the girls found a good and honourable friend in James Perry, a young Scottish lawyer, entered at the Inner Temple, who was later to become the clever and widely respected editor of the Morning Chronicle, a journal with Whig sympathies.

By way of this connection, Susan was introduced to some of his colleagues and became the mistress of one of them before rapidly graduating to a peer of the realm when she began to re-invent herself and move in exalted circles with all the panache of a lady born and bred. She appears to have carried it off extremely well for the rest of her life!

Before long, Ann, who was disenchanted with her marriage and way of life, joined her. The pair then embarked on a series of amorous adventures among the glitterati of Pitt's England and the New America. There had been prolonged consultation between the lawmakers of the American Constitution and those who were constantly refining the British one. Indeed some of the signatories to the Declaration of Independence had learned the arts of their profession in London. Thomas Heyward, for instance, from South Carolina, had studied at the Middle Temple, William Paca of Maryland, the Inner Temple.

After a colourful career, Susan Cole, who at that period went by the name of Mrs Edge, married James Heyward, the much younger half-brother of Thomas Heyward. Thomas was the son of Thomas Heyward, senior's first marriage, and James, the son of his third wife. The Heywards were the wealthy owners of rice plantations.

Ann, meanwhile, had started a new family with Major Richard Claiborne, an American revolutionary, who later became a celebrated Judge.

The trail of their movements on both sides of the Atlantic has been riveting to research and has pointed up some interesting differences in attitudes to marriage and social mores. (Susan Cole had to start claiming she had been married to all the lovers by whose names she had been known!) It has revealed, too, that despite George III's 'lost colonies', links between Britain and America were being forged apace with movement between the two continents freer than ever.




Closet Horizons















'I hope that Susan Cain (with the book and her Ted talk) would be able to convince real and closet introverts to feel proud of who they are. I also pray that educators would stop insisting on group work for every assignment as many children could get much better results thinking quietly and working on their own.'

Orna B Raz


I could write a whole thesis about quiet children, though well-disposed towards others, who are perceived a threat as unknown quantities and become the target of various shades of bullying. In group activity, they never function at their natural best and may even underplay their capabilities in order to stay out of the limelight.

This does not mean they lack team spirit when such is required.

The compliment I'm proudest of, against any other kind, is that of being a 'good sport'. After all the struggles to interact and to understand where others are coming from and what the dynamic of situations is, this is a strong achievement and an overwhelming surprise. But while introversion is necessary for the security and advancement of the species, it's true it can become overly self-indulgent. Only if you're Mozart is it wholly excusable.

Today, I guess Orna's 'closet introvert' description fits. Which, of course, is still bewildering to faithful friends when you shy from social events that encroach on precious writing time and snap the crucial thread and flow of your piece. It isn't just that; writers have to be in alternative mind-spaces and switching willy-nilly is a recipe for breakdown all round. Organisation of time is an ongoing issue, on the cusp of resolution, but never quite satisfactory.

It's a wonder that in these days of social media and easy exposure, it's actually possible for friends and acquaintances not to know that you write books, such are our solipsist agendas and the pace of living. Perhaps that says something about the concept and overall quality of friendship in the twenty-first century. There's too much to distract us from the particularity and essence of the people we meet. But that's to do with the fever for extroversion, the demand that we be overweeningly confident and assertive. We are all called to be major players onstage and cede a share in the illusory stardust.

Introversion per se is no handicap to noticing and appreciating others. Rather, it's a paradox: introversion hones perspicuity. It mines the truth of who we are and thereby refines an honest way of relating to others. In retrospect, I cannot usually tell you what a person was wearing, but I can tell you the colour of their eyes, remember their mannerisms, their turns of phrase, their aura. Very often I can spontaneously image them in scenarios which turn out to be uncannily accurate.

I find it hard to discuss my interior world. When I was growing up, being focused on anything that wasn't prescribed by others, was seen as somewhat unnerving. So I tend not to enlighten people as to the novel-writing. The prevailing silence is powerful. Even the few friends who do know seldom mention it. They are prepared to accept as they find. But one of my friends distinctly recoiled in amazement when she discovered. I had related to her on her own terms, in her distress, and wouldn't have wanted any species of awe to get in the way. We're still friends, but with just a faint tincture of betrayal on my part. I suppose there's always a chance that while some folk (who don't understand writerly methods and composite characters) want to be immortalised between hard covers, others may imagine that authors are out to exploit their situations through the connection. But writers have to be introverts. Let's face it, if Jane Austen hadn't been a closet scribe, we'd never have had Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy!

All this is not the popular view of what an author ought to be. (Poets, maybe, can get away with it.) The modern pressure to self-promote militates against creativity. It used to be well-recognised in literary circles that to talk about your story in advance undermined energy and the ability to realise it. This was respected by all in the publishing world.

To pick up on the sports analogy, there is a comparison to be made with players in that arena, for whom abstinence is recommended when the big contest looms!