Touch

Tags

butterfly kiss, Catherine Hogarth, Charles Dickens, descriptive essay, Emma Gifford, Harry in the night, Jane Austen, Michelangelo, Thomas Hardy, touch

My English teacher used to advise us to remember all five senses when we

wrote a descriptive essay, said Clammie, as she sipped an aromatic brew in

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe.

Yes, I replied.  We often forget to mention taste and touch.

I love the smell of coffee in here, don’t you?  Not so keen on the aurally

excruciating skoosh of the machine, though. 

I rummaged in my handbag and took out a notebook with Thomas

Hardy’s face on the cover.  It was one of a series of Famous Writers–

I think I had Jane Austen and Charles Dickens too, but that is by the by.

Another friend had been delighted to note when I took it out of the fluffy

depths to refer to some scribbles, that a panti pad cover had come loose

from its contents and the emergency sanitary saviour had stuck firmly to

the grand old man’s face.  She said it served him right.  Not sure exactly

why.  A few possibilities.  Maybe Emma Gifford could have given some

explanations.  Catherine Hogarth might have something to add in that

line too.

Anyway, I retrieved the notebook with the slight sticky deposit on its

cover and turned to a page at the back.

I handed Clammie an ancient poem of mine:

TOUCH

I came to touch late- unapprreciative

of its electrifying/ soothing powers.

I knew the tactile pleasure it could give:

glossy canine heads, white, waxy flowers;

brush of a butterfly kiss; a baby’s grip

on my forefinger; a vellum bible

whose worn cover would please its readership.

And there were some who were susceptible

to a soft touch of Harry in the night.

The emanantion of a healing flow

from laying on of hands was no deft sleight

of charlatan.  In the deepest sorrow

a hand on a shoulder, merest pressure

from a clasp’s interlink, upholstery

of friendly hug-comfort without measure.

Not least of all the senses, but most necessary-

Michelangelo’s divine/human charge,

elevated to sublime position.

(God’s finger reaching through space.)  Writ large:

solidarity with Man’s condition.

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The Ghost of a Smile 2

Tags

cirrhosis, clinical neurologist, Kayser-Fleischer rings, penicillamine, Primitive Methodists, purple prose, sleeping ghosts, Steeple Bayford, verderer, Wilson's Disease

…there was no question of diabolical possession.  The unfortunate

girl was clearly suffering from Wilson’s disease.  As a Clinical Neurologist,

I would be a fool if I hadn’t picked up on the symptoms you described.

The muscle twitches, postural abnormalities and spontaneous laughter

are classic signs.  Even the extraordinary colour of her eyes was owing

to the copper deposits in her irises- Kayser-Fleischer rings, to be technical.

You amaze me, Dr Lawes.  No wonder the poor child is so restless.  We

have all misjudged her and, like Legion, she has roamed among the

tombs. We must try to placate her.  Perhaps she would rest in peace if

her character could be vindicated in our Parish Magazine?  We could hold

a graveside service and apply to the Bishop for permission to reconsecrate

the ground.

The vicar’s enthusiasm was beginning to run away with him.

He persisted: Actually there are still some Nortons living in the tied

cottages in Steeple Bayford.  Some of them work in the Wilton factory

nearby.  We could invite them, though they are not C of E.  I used to

think that some of them were rather hostile- Methodists and suchlike.

Maybe they reckoned their ancestor hadn’t been treated too well in

the Established Church? suggested Dr Lawes.  I don’t think their

perceived unorthodoxy has anything to do with manifestations of the

disease per se, though they will all be carriers.  But even should

they marry another carrier, which is very unlikely, the chance of any

child developing the disease would be 200:1.

Oddly enough, now I come to think of it, reflected the vicar, I

spoke to a Mr Norton in the local infirmary, on one of my visitation

rounds, only two weeks ago.  He was suffering from cirrhosis of the

liver.  Alcohol abuse, I’d put it down to.  As I explained, he wasn’t in

too talkative a mood when he saw my dog collar.

Wilson’s disease affects the liver, Lawes pointed out.  It would

be extremely helpful and valuable for research purposes if I could

meet with his consultant.  Perhaps we could collaborate on a paper.

If you are going to be in the vicinity on Thursday, we could go

to the hospital together.  I’ll phone Mr Milton, his consultant.  He’s

a member of our congregation.  A greater awareness of the condition

might help to lay the ghost, as it were.  Give me your contact details

and I’ll see what I can do….

The smile relaxed its sneer and faded to a slight smirk and then the

greenish eyes closed their pale eyelids.

00000O00000

Mr Norton, may I introduce you to Dr Howard Lawes from Alabama?

He has a special interest in Wilson’s Disease.

Mr Milton was more effusive than he had been on a ward round for

many years.

Pleased to meet you, sir.  I will try to give you any information, but I

think it’s too late for me.  My liver seems to have packed in.  I’m tired

of explaining that my family is teetotal and has been for a couple of

generations.  Primitive Methodists, we are.  Never touch the stuff.

It seems that your family has borne moral misapprehension and

disapprobation for long enough, Dr Lawes smiled sympathetically.

We thought the illnesses were God visiting us with judgement unto

the fourth generation, Mr Norton grimaced.  Payback for Mary

Norton’s sin.

Nonsense.  Your liver problems are entirely linked to your disease

and so were those of your forebear.

I never thought a God of Love... interjected the Rev Dodgson, a trifle

hastily, but no one paid him the slightest attention.

Mr Norton shifted on his pillows: Hmmm, I don’t know that she wasn’t

a bad case, anyhow.  The family were disgusted by her behaviour, by

all accounts.

What do you mean?  asked Dr Lawes.

The patient’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper: All those carrying-ons

in the woods with her elder brother, Francis.  Of course, when the

bastard was born, they hushed it up, but everyone knew that Abraham

Norton was not her younger brother, but her son.

So, what do you reckon is the significance of this hearsay, Mr Norton?

enquired the Rev Dodgson.

Simply this.  Mary Norton may not have been possessed by the devil,

but she might as well have been, judging by the family’s reaction and

community prejudice and gossip.  We Nortons are said to have the sins

of our forefathers visited upon us to the nth generation.

Superstitious nonsense!  the Rev Dodgson exhaled.  But I suppose we

can’t lay sleeping ghosts if they don’t wish to remain supine.  I can’t really

sanction incest, anyway.  Maybe it’s better not to resurrect the past

and its scandals.

Yes, it’s a pity that the lady did not adopt ‘the serious study of virginity’,

as recommended in my namesake’s masque.  Otherwise she might have

known ‘the transport of a thousand liveried angels’ and have been

reposing in quietude.

How poetical!  exclaimed the Rev Dodgson, who appreciated these

archaic words and was no stranger to purple prose, himself.

Mr Milton, the physician broke in:  I am very glad that we have started

Mr Norton on Penicillamine.  We had a very useful session, Dr Lawes

and I promise to keep you in touch with my patient’s progress.

Great. I look forward to meeting up with you at the next ‘Gut’ meeting

in Texas.  I’ll certainly acknowledge you in our paper.

Goodby, Mr Norton.  All three moved on.

000000O000000

Above the graveyard the mouth smiled grimly.  It tried to utter something,

but only the chattering of a magpie filled the surrounding trees.  Some tears

fell as droplets of rain on the flat gravestone of Abraham Norton, aged

seventeen, who was buried with Mary’s parents and his ‘siblings’, including

Francis, his wife and three children.

Thyrsis Langford, Verderer and self-appointed local Lothario, did not even

turn over in his corner plot.

The Ghost of a Smile Part 1

Tags

Browning, catatonia, Cheshire Cat, Chilmark stone, Comus, Constable, diabolical possession, Dinton, glow-worms, Grovely Wood, Lawes masque, ledger stone, oak apple, Phillips House, Rev Dodgson, Salisbury Cathedral, St Osmond, Wilts, Wylye Valley

The late afternoon sun mellowed the creamy Chilmark stone of St

Osbert’s Anglican Church.  It was the same stone that Constable had

painted so warmly when he depicted Salisbury Cathedral.

The vicar had glanced at the latest entry in the Visitors’ Book, before

wandering into the churchyard.

Howard Lawes, MD, Alabama, he pondered.

Dr Lawes appeared to be a typical American tourist, judging by the

inordinate amount of camera equipment that he was carrying.  His

surname was ringing bells, but not in a campanological fashion, for the

vicar.  Wasn’t it the same name that was to be found on many of the

gravestones in Dinton?

The visitor was in the unhallowed burial section, adjusting his lenses and

trying to capture a special view of the steeple.  This had caused many a

photographer of lesser ability to flatten the wildflowers which grew

profusely in its shade.

Good afternoon! greeted the Rev Dodgson.  I believe you are a long way

from home?  This was a tried and tested opening gambit which may have

given some an impression of his virtual omniscience and benevolence.

Yes- and no, drawled the complex and surprisingly pale Dr Lawes,

in an expansive non-British fashion.  Yes, I am from Alabama, but my

roots are right here in the Wylye Valley.  I visited Philipps House this

morning and, in conversation, discovered quite a bit about my ancestors

and their Royalist connections.

Lawes… the vicar pondered.  Ah, the Comus link.  Have you had musical

genes passed down to you?

Sadly not, replied the photographer, screwing the lens cap back onto his

camera.  But I could have sworn that I was seeing creatures from my

namesake’s masque in your churchyard.  It may have been a trick of the

light, but a curious presence seemed to follow me around and then I saw

what looked like a human mouth begin to materialise.  It quite unnerved

me.  To tell you the truth, I’m glad to see someone else is here.  But

maybe I’m becoming paranoid.  Am I? he joked, unconvincingly.

How would one ever know if one was mad? retorted the Rev Dodgson,

lapsing into his tedious habit of responding to difficult questions by

posing further interrogatives.  I could quote MY namesake and add

‘You must be mad to come here.’  However, the fact is, Dr Lawes…

Howard, please, interrupted the American.

The Rev Dodgson ignored this plea and continued,…the fact is, you

have just espied our resident ghost, Risus Sardonicus.  The Latin

suggests a male gender, but I can assure you that she…

Why doesn’t he just say ‘you have just seen’? Lawes thought to

himself.  Aloud, he repeated: She?

Yes, she has similarities to that phantom feline, The Cheshire Cat,

but she is less forthcoming.  You are not the first to have been sneered

at by Mary Norton, she of the distinctively green eyes, which some have

assigned to glow-worm activity.  However, the stare often comes from an

elevation that not many animals could scale.

(Photo: Timo Newton-Syms, Flickr)

Do we know anything about this Mary Norton?

You were practically standing over the spot where we believe she was

buried, replied Dodgson.  It is an unmarked grave, so you were not to

know.  Maybe she doesn’t appreciate being trampled on.  This was intended

to be a mild plaisanterie.

I’m sure I didn’t intend to desecrate anyone’s resting place, apologised

Lawes, who was unsure of English irony.  Only, the view of the steeple,

with Grovelly Wood in the background, was so photogenic.

Indeed.  You couldn’t have known.  As one of our dramatists has said:

‘Youth emits smiles without any reason.  It is one of its chiefest charms.’

Don’t regard it as an expression of personal animosity.  She does it all

the time as she was not too keen on how our parishioners treated her.

I think she would have preferred to have been buried with certain of

her relatives-over there.

Is that why she’s restless? postulated the tourist, placing his heavy

camera bag on a ledger stone and then thinking better of it and laying

it more respectfully on the grass.

Hmmm…Yes.  I don’t think people like to be publicly excommunicated.

Apparently, Mary had an unfortunate habit of bursting into totally

inappropriate laughter at Eucharist and other services.  The locals thought

she was demon-possessed.  She would rock back and forth…

Catatonia?

The vicar ignored the interruption: …emitting guttural noises, her

tongue lolling.  Maybe the girl was ‘touched’ but these were less

tolerant times.  People were quick to detect blasphemy.  No one knows

the precise manner of her death.  Her body was discovered in Grovelly

Wood.  She’d been exercising her ancient right to collect free firewood.

I think she died on May 29th, Oak Apple Day, in 1865. All the youngsters

used to go to Salisbury and dance on the lawns in The Close.  Then

they’d lay oak boughs on the altar.  I forget why.

Well, there she lies- or doesn’t.  I could say with my favourite poet,

Browning: Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, whenever I passed her;

but who passed without much the same smile? Unfortunately, though

commands have been given, the smiles don’t stop altogether.

Lawes was tiring of the literary references, but he had been thinking

very hard during this expatiation.

Poor Mary Norton! he reflected.  No wonder she is so unquiet.  Her ears

have not yet materialised, so perhaps she will not hear my thoughts on

the matter.  I can assure you, sir, that there was no question of diabolical

possession.

(Photo of oak apple by Bob Embleton)

to be continued…!

Roundel

Tags

Buddleia, Painted Ladies, peacock butterfly, roundel, St Swithun's Day

Forgot to post this on St Swithun’s Day.  The weather was changeable, as I

recall, so this hopeful poem, written many years ago, may not be

appropriate for this year!  Still, one has to be optimistic.

Now welcome Summer with its clear blue sky,

its dim green tunnels with enticing shade-

the humid air buzzing with insect life.

St Swithun’s Day has left us high and dry.

Forty days of rain we now evade.

Now welcome Summer with its clear blue sky,

its dim green tunnels with enticing shade.

Buddleia blossoms to the ground are weighed,

where Peacocks, Painted Ladies are arrayed.

Now welcome Summer with its clear blue sky,

its dim green tunnels with enticing shade;

the humid air buzzing with insect life.

(Wikipaedia and Wikimedia: photos.

Butterfly by Sharp Photography.)

Back to the Future

Tags

Assumption, BBC Director General, Bento box, Born Again, Canon Dr Judith Maltby, Celts, crystal ball, David Cameron, Dean of St Paul's, divine imprimatur, Eastenders, Evan Davis, Gordon Brown, Helen Boaden, Hilary Benn, Horatio Hornblower, Hugh Grant, Ioan Gruffudd, James Bond, Last Judgement, Leroy Rosenior, Linda Carter, Mark Ford, Martha Lane Fox, Miliband, Nicola Sturgeon, Pandora's Box, Pepuzians, Piers Brosnan, Priscillians, Queen Vic, Recording Angel, Rev Giles Fraser, Sean Connery, Shriti Vadera, The Guardian, Timothy Dalton, University of Cambridge Vice-Chancellor, wasabi

So, how are you getting on with your belated Spring cleaning and

general clear-out?  Brassica asked me.

It’s too difficult.  Every time I investigate a box, I start reading

its contents.  Today, for instance, I found a ‘Guardian’ supplement

from 2004 which was all about predictions for 2020.

Hmm…crystal ball gazing.  Did they get things right?  she enquired,

munching something out of her Bento box- Costamuchamoulah’s

latest fad.

Well, there was an article in Part Two, dated 28th September,

2004, called ‘Who Will Be Who?

Ooh, do spill the beans!

It predicted that Ioan Gruffudd would be James Bond.

You mean that guy who was Horatio Hornblower?

Yip.  Timothy Dalton was Welsh, remember!  So, they may have

been thinking in similar terms.

Brassie looked sceptical.  She has always liked Sean Connery,

followed by Piers Brosnan.

Then it advocated Martha Lane Fox as possible Vice Chancellor

of the University of Cambridge.

Because she is big on marketing and global brands?

I was surprised that Brassie had heard of her.

Yes, students are customers now, you must realise.

What about the monarch?

Oh, they assumed The Queen would be carrying on.

Charles will be 71 then.  The Queen will be 94.

Who did they think would take over from Miliband?

They didn’t know then that Ed would have been Leader!

Of course not.  Who did they back?

Hilary Benn.

They might be right.  Could do worse.  They backed David Cameron

for Leader of the Conservatives.  Back then he was a fresh-faced

Chief Policy Co-ordinator, aged 37.  They said he was leader of The

Notting Hill set.

I thought that was Hugh Grant.

They did mention his ‘raffish good looks.’

No, they must have mixed him up with Hugh Grant.  Anyway, who

else was nominated?

Leroy Rosenior as England Football Manager; Helen Boaden as BBC

Director General.

I do like their clothes, Brassie sighed.

Different Boden, I explained.

Really?

Ask me another.  I pinched a sliver of sea cucumber from her

lacquered top layer.

Poet Laureate?  She shut the lid.

Mark Ford.

Who?…  Archbishop of Canterbury?

Canon Dr Judith Maltby.

Oh, I like her, approved Brassie.  I heard her in Wintonchester

Cathedral.

Only trouble is that she was nominated by Rev Giles Fraser.

And look what happened to him.

(Photo by Kaihsu Tai)

Brassie chewed reflectively.  Wasn’t he the Dean of St Paul’s?

The one that is a Real Christian.

Brassie has her own categories of Christians- ranging from Born

Again to Brain Dead and then, suddenly she will find one to whom

she will give a Divine Imprimatur, almost as if she is standing in the

wings at The Last Judgement as The Recording Angel.

See, in 2004, women couldn’t be ordained as bishops.  So, it was quite

a bold statement, I pointed out. Mind you, I think that there were three

major groups in post-Nicene Christianity that supported women priests

in powerful positions-the Pepuzians, Priscillians and some Celtic

Christians…

The Celts!  Brassie spat out a fibrous shred of something vegetable.

She doesn’t like Nicola Sturgeon and doesn’t believe she should be

encouraged in any Assumption to any powerful position.  (Women

can be so mean about other women, n’est-ce-pas?)

What about soap stars?  She changed the subject.

(Photo by Matt Pearson)

Oh, Kevin O’Sullivan of ‘The Daily Mirror’ thought that Sonia Jackson’s

baby should be kept in the ‘Eastenders’ script and could be a future

landlady, if Barbara Windsor stopped clinging to the post.

So that was two Windsors still in power, in their estimation? 

Yes.  But they were wrong about that.  The current landlady is Linda

Carter, I believe- though I never watch it.

I looked around Costamuchamoulah nervously.

(Photo by Portlandvillage)

I could tell Brassie was losing focus now.  She was more interested in

opening the Pandora’s Box- I mean the Bento box.  I wondered what she

had in there.  Maybe it would be like a Goya nightmare, with all sorts of

weird and frightening creatures escaping and circling our heads.  And that

was only the sociological prophecies, not the contents of her lunchbox!

She took off the top layer.  Yum!  Beef and noodles!

Don’t you want to know who they thought would be Governor of The

Bank of England?

Not especially.

Well, it was the then economic adviser to Gordon Brown.

(Photo-Wikimedia Commons.  Official gov.uk portrait)

She looked sardonical.  Here!  Try a wasabi-flavoured forkful of this!

My throat was on fire, so I didn’t tell her Evan Davis’ recommendation:

Shriti Vadera.

I bet they didn’t have Bento boxes in Suttonford in 2004.

Poem for Jenny

Tags

allegory, Aslan, Charn, CS Lewis, Edgeware Road, Emily Watson, Jadis, Jenny Nicholson, London Bombings, Magician's Nephew, multiverses, Rev Julia Nicholson, The Deplorable Word, Tube, Underground, Vale of Tears

(Photo of Edgware Road Tube Station by Sunil 060902)

Brassie was reminding me that it had been the tenth

anniversary of The London Bombings.

Be careful if you are going up to London, she cautioned.

It’s okay.  I’m aware of it.  It was all over the news.

I also watched the drama about Jenny Nicholson, the girl

who was killed in the Edgware incident.  I was deeply moved

by the fact that she had been reading the novel ‘The

Magician’s Nephew’ by C S Lewis.  I had to re-visit

the book to remind myself of its depiction of Aslan and

the triumph of Good over Evil.  The fact that her mother-Emily

Watson in the film-was a priest only led pathos, but veracity to the

fact that Evil can affect anyone and one’s religious profession offers no

immunity to being a member of the human race and therefore subject

to the seemingly random events that perplex us all in this sublunary

Vale of Tears.

That’s pretty deep, Candia.  No doubt you dealt with it in your

usual way?

Yes, I wrote a poem, but was unsure as to whether to call it

‘Poem for Jenny’ or ‘The Deplorable Word’.  In the end I settled

for the former as I wanted to give Good the foregrounding…

POEM FOR JENNY

(Photo by Kevin Pluck: The King)

The Deplorable Word was uttered

some time around nine o’clock that morning.

The girl had just been reading about it-

how witch Jadis ‘owned’ the people of Charn,

though her powers did not work in England.

She must have touched the magic yellow ring,

for suddenly the prequel of her life

ceased and she was translated to a wood

between multiverses. Her watch then stopped.

And, not having the two green rings with her,

she couldn’t return.

She thought she could hear a low, growling sound,

not threatening; quite musical, really:

nothing like the noise of the Underground.

She was looking down at the Tube carriage;

she was looking down now on the carnage.

Someone was using her book to prop up

a stranger’s head.  She was glad they took it.

She had no use for it now, but she knew

she was a protagonist in its plot.

Those pages would never close; her story

would continue, not in allegory,

but as a dark, complicating event,

part of the concatenation before

the revelatory denouement.

Some worlds begin and others end like this:

not with a bang and a whimper of pain,

but with a story that can’t be untold;

part of the greatest narrative ever.

She looked into a pool and was surprised

to see the reflection of a lion

in a tranquil surface, with no shock waves.

The music seemed to emanate from him.

In the beginning was his word

and now she knew he would have the last one.

PRIVATE VIEW

Tags

Beardsley, Gabriel Fabre, hermaphrodite, l'heure bleue, necrophilia, Neptune, Pluto, Redon, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Salome, Sidonia von Burk, Simeon Solomon, sphinx, Tate

I never used to notice gay couples, remarked Brassie.  Twenty

years ago, people were not ‘out’ when they were out, if you see

what I mean.

You used to see them at art galleries, I replied.  That was the

place where I first became aware of men being ‘together.’  I suppose

a lot of us were naive then.  I once went to a Private View…

…and wrote a poem about it, no doubt, laughed Brassie.

Well, yes…

And here it is:

PRIVATE VIEW

It’s a Tate Private View, at l’heure bleue,

with earnest, shaven-headed male couples,

hip-joined, dressed in black, affecting ear-rings;

sharing an Exhibition Guide, as Friends.

There’s an occasional hermaphrodite:

self-contained, apparently orthodox.

Some linger by Simeon Solomon’s

Love in Autumn; study flagellation

of shivering Cupids, with detachment;

whisper about Redon’s castration theme,

look puzzled at an enigmatic Sphinx.

They pause before the liminal figures.

Politely, they wait for me to step back

so they can see Sidonia von Burk,

with her snake-knotted overdress and filet;

Macdonald’s spermatozoaic princess;

Salome’s necrophilia.  Climax

by Beardsley is received rather limply.

They almost link hands before Lamia,

while my heterosexual girl friend

hyperventilates over architraves.

Self-obsessed I spot inaccuracies

in the labelling.  Pluto, not Neptune,

you fools.  And who is Gabriel Fabre?

Decadent afternoon over, we walk

to Waterloo’s surreal ‘normality.‘

The escalators do not tolerate

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: everyone must

enter the turnstile with their own ticket.

Curiously, the ear-rings have vanished.

Epithalamium

Tags

Brides of Christ, calvaire, Clydeside, doxology, Epithalamium, expiation, First Communion, Proddy Dogs, Rangers fans, triptych

Brassie was trying to draw me into a theological debate,

but I wasn’t going to discuss childhood religious backgrounds-

except in verse.

So, here it is:

EPITHALAMIUM

(Photo by Brian Harrington Spier)

They processed, two by two, into the ark

of the Pineapple *-first communicants,

flouncing their frothy frocks, not stained or marked:

virginal white; wee brides of Christ; amantes

at seven years , plighting their childish troth.

They flocked past three pollarded limes on grass-

a lawned intersection, where both

roads diverged-down for schooling; up for Mass.

Sentinels crowning the brow of the hill,

the tallest, Christ, the other two the thieves.

(Calvaire framed by the sill

of our window.)

I watched their falling leaves

through foggy condensation and the chill

miasma of Clydeside theology,

while daily swallowing its bitter pill.

Jealous of their time off school; espousal;

jaundiced by their elect doxology.

In my heart a reprobate arousal:

angered at exclusion.  Why all these

bigamously betrothed and me left out?

Had Mary instituted these decrees

to snub Proddy Dogs**…Rangers fans who doubt

her omnipotence?

We didn’t have oil

in our lamps, so we’d no invitation

to their marriage feast, though we were loyal

to our god.  Tickets on this occasion

were for her guests.  Their initiation

gave them female relatives’ attention.

My trees, grave symbol of expiation,

were a triptych of my soul’s retention

of a fierce individuality.

I would not batter at the banquet door,

for I preferred to face reality-

that from outside, I’d worship and adore.

Later I sneaked in and put a spadeful

of earthworms in the holy water stoup.

I did it, not because I was hateful,

but so my God could have His little coup.

(* Pineapple- ‘chapel’ in Clydeside argot.

** Proddy Dogs- Protestants)

Graduate of TV University

Tags

Antiques Roadshow, Beijing, buffalo, China, Deng, Guanzhou, Hope Project, Zhaoqing

(Photo by Sumeet Moghe)

You went to China, didn’t you? Brassica reminded me.

Oh, ages ago, I replied.  In the mid-to-late nineties.  We

took some students with us.  We saw quite a bit of the

country, as we travelled its length on the train, from Beijing.

That must have been fascinating.

Well, we had guides to keep an eye on us.  I think I wrote

down my impressions at the time. I’ll try to fish them out.

No doubt another poem is coming my way, sighed Brassie.

Aren’t you the lucky one?! I retorted.

GRADUATE OF TV UNIVERSITY

Our Zhaoqing guide was a smiling Tiger:

See, I used to be a buffalo boy,

he said.  And now my family benefit

because I send some of my wages home.

You’ve heard of TV University?

That’s how I studied English, got this job.

Deng’s motto was ‘not the best; good enough.’

He prattled on his microphone.  It worked.

Look! he grinned.  I even have tiger teeth.

Maybe I’ll save up for some dental work.

He switched off and so did we: too fatigued,

having just journeyed for 36 hours,

from Beijing to Guanzhou by the night train.

Buffalo boy would have conjured up jade

ornaments, bronzes collected by those

who appear on Antiques Roadshows.  But now,

having seen settlements in paddy fields;

putrid ponds, wallowing pigs, flash motorbikes,

ancestral headstones placed among sparse crops,

we knew where he had come from; just how far

he had travelled; understood Hope Project,

where wealthy cities subsidise the poor.

Though awash with Americanisms,

at ease in marble foyers of hotels,

he sat and ate his meals apart from us,

smiling at our ineptness with chopsticks:

romantic buffalo boy, denying

the not-so-distant cannibalism

China practised through desperate famines.

We turned up our noses at jellyfish;

he was grateful for a well-filled rice dish.

At the end of our stay he gave out forms,

requiring us to measure him against

some idealistic concept of guide.

Although he told us very little,

between the lines he’d told us quite a lot.

He got his tip, learned a few extra words

which alienate him further from his home.

So what, if he gains some gleaming moped,

pays many yuan for a cosmetic brace;

orthodontically has a Western face?

His buffalo will be slaughtered for food

and a billion tigers may show their fangs,

while we watch TV University

and travel the Web, rather than the world.

Maybe one day we’ll meet him again on some screen

and we will recognise him by his smile-

the one that doesn’t seem to reach his eyes,

but demonstrates his newly acquired bite.