Limen

Fool moon by bluemoon

Concert concert-o
wild with summer hope,
with faded sunlight,
shadows, all,
longing for something
not yet lost,
trans-lu-cent memories
of a past not yet past,
caught in cobwebs
and baskets of shells
under the stairs in a Stukey cottage.

Hexfoils on old walls,
in dark-lit corners;
perfect daisy wheels,
scratchings and scribblings
and sailing ships floating
out into hollow space,
a place on the edge of time
where thy-me stands still.

I gather up my shoes
So they are not taken by the sea
I find my heart, once given freely,
weighted down by sea glass,
anchoring me to earth and sky.

And the night rocks me safe
in the hollow of her hands.

 

Hexfoil daisy wheel, c.Norfolk Medieval Graffiti Survey

Ship graffiti, c.Norfolk Medieval Graffiti Survey

 

Sargasso Sea

Deep ocean blue…

Water flowing,

silk against warmth

and sunlight, fragmented over me;

the ebb and flow, the wave and ripple

of this death, this ending,

like a fragrance

blown by other breaths.

 

Ophelia am I,

sea without shore,

water-deep and

not waving at all but drowning[1]

in sainted rains.

 

[1] With reference to Stevie Smith’s poem “Not waving but drowning”, 1957

88_by_pandoraselezneva

 

Amid the furrow and the thorn

Listen to the wraiths of morning in Flanders fields of grey,

Can you hear The Royal Sussex who came and went away

And linger still in graves unknown amidst the furrow and the thorn.

But never flinched, duty done, these sons of Sussex bred and born.

Looking eastwards towards Berlin Wood with the sun rising over Tyne Cot CWGC Cemetery. http://www.westernfrontphotography.com

100 years ago today, my great-great uncle Alfred Sidney Mercer – known as Sonny – died on the battlefront in Belgium.

Despite being underage (just 15) Sonny, from Farnham in Surrey, enlisted at either Aldershot or Guildford in early September 1915, and was assigned to the Royal Sussex Regiment. How did his parents feel? Did they give him their blessing, or did they only find out when it was too late to do much about it? And what of his siblings reactions? My grandfather Rev, named after a once-revered soldier-general, was next in age to Sonny; did he yearn to join up, too?

Teenage recruits, British Army, WW1

Sonny was placed in the 11th Service Battalion of the 1st South Downs (the Battalion having moved from Sussex to Aldershot in September 1915 and in October 1915 to Witley, south east of Aldershot and Farnham, whereby it came under command of the 116th Brigade in 39th Division).

In February 1916 the 39th mobilised for war and landed at Havre in March. After further training the Division were soon involved in a diverse and what appear to be continuous (and remorseless) series of action on the Western Front. These included: 1916 – an attack near Richebourg l’Avoue, The fighting on the Ancre, The Battle of Thiepval Ridge, The Battle of the Ancre Heights, The Battle of the Ancre. 1917 – The Battle of Pilkem Ridge, The Battle of Langemarck, The Battle of the Menin Road Ridge, The Battle of Polygon Wood, The Second Battle of Passchendaele. 1918 – The Battle of St Quentin, The Battle of Bapaume, The Battle of Rosieres, The fighting on Wytschaete Ridge, The First Battle of Kemmel, The Second Battle of Kemmel, and for Sonny finally, The Battle of the Scherpenberg. Such a blunt, factual list of battles, which can in no way could begin to describe  the mayhem, violence and terror endured by the men and women, animals and landscape of the Western Front.

Scherpenberg Hill, the scene of the Battle of Scherpenberg in April 1918

The days (weeks, in reality) leading up to the 29^th April 1918 were marked by constant, at times heavy – or as the 116^th’s War Diary stated, “violent” – shelling. During the course of this day Sonny went missing, and was ultimately presumed dead. The one detail his official Army death record omitted was his age. Sonny was just 19 years old.

He is remembered at Tyne Cot Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery and Memorial to the Missing in Zonnebeke, Belgium  as one of these missing. A modest memorial also stands in Gostrey Meadow in Farnham which commemorates the fallen of Farnham during the Great War, with “A.S.Mercer” inscribed among the many other names.

Memorial to the Fallen of WW1, Gostrey Meadow, Farnham, Surrey, England

As children I remember how we would stand on its plinth and trace with our fingers the engraved letters of his name. I did not know how I should feel. Pride? Grief? Some kind of innate understanding of what his loss meant to his parents and siblings, and to his wider family? I was a child, but I think I knew even then that I should, and wanted to, feel more than just a thrill of excitement that a family member’s name was on public display in the park where we so often played.

The Next of Kin Memorial Scroll WW1

Sonny was, and is, one unique piece in a myriad of puzzle pieces which make up a family, a country, and a collective humanity. While there never was, and never will be anything humane about war, about injury, about loss and grief, yet these experiences are each part of the tapestry which binds us together.

And I reflect upon a forever 19-year-old young man, missing, never found, sunk into the landscape of a green field, come battlefield, now pasture again, and I wonder which part of the ground is nourished by his body? Macabre? No more so than when I visit my mother’s grave, and appreciate the flowers blooming and thriving where her body lies.

We rise, we live, for either a moment or a seeming eternity, and we fall. Even we, even so.

Passchendaele Mud. Taken near Tyne Cot Cemetery, which commemorates almost 35,000 men whose remains are still in these fields. http://www.westernfrontphotography.com

Mercy for Sonny

Barbed wire buried

deep in the fields I am grown in,

enmeshed roots, sods, earth,

bound tight,

scented loam

holding light and rain and warmth,

rusting the wire,

burnishing…

Sap rising

sap quenched…

 

April 28, 2018

The poppies of Flanders fields

Leaving Home

Connected

The cord connecting our two universes

is tautly s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d;

We feel the thrummm of its vibrations

resounding and multiplying,

and we fear

the line will not endure this pulling,

and that our worlds will separate.

You talk of your heart your pulse your feeling

and this cord which runs between us,

you speak of endurance,

of acceptance, and of pain

(all of it, mine…?)

while I open the store held within me

and spill it at your feet.

And we stand, connected,

our eyes, our mouths

and our hands part of the flowing,

separate, yet aligned,

connected and vibrating –

our rhythms sing-ing out

along the stretch of the cord.

You, in the north,

I, in the south, remaining.

Called into existence

Who knows whether

what is contained

within the human heart

has not always been there?

Beneath the surface, waiting,

a pattern of embrace

begun under the layers

of this start and ending

which shelters myth and

el-e-ment.

I rest here in the tearmann

of Gortnagan Beg,

having hung a Beltane cross

and fired the age-black hearth,

my eyes open, prayerful to the unknown

and the longed-for,

in hope to wake again

after such a journeyed sleep.

Gortnagan Beg, West Kerry

A bridge into the unknown

When I was young, I was sacred, beloved and infinite, I was the beginnings of a mighty dream, I was truth, and I was all. Now I map my way to destiny, unafraid and ever-longing for completion of the pattern that spins around my head. And as yet there are no answers, and paths change with every step, and I slow to choose direction and forget to raise my face. Yet beloved, I will continue, I will echo out, forever, I will trace patterns with my fingers, I am the dreamer of the dream…

In the Christian tradition, the belief is that God reveals himself in dreams, although conversely, the dream is also the place of diabolical revelations. So, in this place and in this state, is revealed to me the pattern and the fabric and the influences on my heart, which I may often miss in my more awakened state.

Jung espoused the dream as a mirror for the ego, for dreams can reveal those things which, when conscious, I keep hidden. Dreams can both teach me and guide me to confront these things; they can encourage and assist me to actively play a part in the growth and development of my personality, an ongoing and fluid creation of consciousness. Each day, I become more fully myself.

The room, wherein lies the bed, is the central, pivotal stage for the development of ego and of self. The unconscious seeks to make itself known. Inscribed over the doorway of Jung’s home and on his tomb are the words: ‘Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus adevit’ –‘Called, or uncalled, God is present.

The bed is a tangible, physical representation of the dream, a place where I, the ego, I, the body and I, the conscious mind go forward to meet the unconscious, wherein lies the mystery and the wisdom of myself. The bed, and the dream, are bridges over which I cross into the unknown. I cross my bridge; I pass, trembling, over fast-moving waters.

When I close my eyes to the light and enter sleep, immersing myself like a swimmer entering warm waters, I let go of my ego, putting my faith in the God within.

Now I lay me down to sleep/I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

And if I die before I wake/I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Bed space, my heart and my life, distilled down to this moment, this landscape and this me. Centre of my universe, my universe in microcosm, witness to my words and deeds, reflecting my intent, and energy.

When I enter my bed, I am naked in soul and self, stripped away of all pretence, all costume, all position and title. The bed space requires that I am unclothed, and devoid of pride and arrogance. Here, I am myself, I am accepted, and am humbled.

When I go to bed with my love, I embrace the comfort and closeness, or I can vibrate with the absence of it; I tangibly feel the distance and the coolness of the sheets I lie upon.

My children join me here, having once laid here within me. We breathe in unison, as if they had returned to me, under my ribs, safe and conjoined. We are one, living being, dancing to the shared music in our veins.

Now we two, we three, lay within the bed’s embrace, encouraged by its acceptance. We sleep, we nestle, we move to and from each other, we form again and break, we speak of hidden worlds and dreams. I nurse them here, in shadowy silence, the only movement our breathing and our rhythm. I fall asleep over them, lulled by the wash of breath, and life, and peace.

‘A story from your time, Mummy’ a daughter asks, nestling against my curves, creating a groove in the covers and cushions surrounding us, and I begin: ‘Once there was a girl…’, and she and I glance at each other, full of expectation, uncertain of the outcome, though certain of the journey.

I have shared this place with friends and lovers and enemies, I have talked myself inside and out, I have emerged fighting and screaming and have retreated back once more, like an insane wave, falling on a constant shore.

‘It is time for bed’. Who leads who? Who draws the curtains and lights the flame, who sings out the music? The bed receives, the bed responds, the bed becomes the stage for the performance, and the encore.

I lay awake here, hours and days and years, aching with the pain of the loss of self, and love, and direction, my grief absorbed into the depths of my mattress, and my pillow unable to cushion the defeat I feel, but valiantly trying, always trying.

‘Let us say goodbye’ I say, as I lay beside him, once my friend and lover, the father of my daughters, now the stranger he has become to me and to our union.

‘I did not mean for it to be like this’ he says as we both weep, exhausted and desperate.

‘But it is’ I reply, with far more kindness than I will later feel, taking his head and cradling it to my chest, so that we breathe in unison, one last time.

Before I move away forever, I turn to him in a final expression of consolation, and at this moment of separation, when I acknowledge the end, I have perhaps never felt as close to him. I hold him, full of grief and relief, dying another little death, which will be forever etched like acid into my psyche. The bed respects, the bed bows in defeat but still supports me. Goodbye at last to this pretence, this empty, hollowed-out gourd, oh, lay me down to sleep…

A talisman, and a crystal, too…

And then the bed is reborn, with a new coverlet like the coming of spring. It has a crystal talisman to hang on the bedpost and a new mattress, too, like a galleon fitted out for a new journey into the unknown, into life and sleep, into sickness and health and discovery. I recall the words of John Donne (1630), spoken from the pulpit at St Paul’s over 370 years ago, and heard clearly by my heart today: ‘Our critical day is not the very day of our death, but the whole course of our life’, and I feel myself rise to the challenge of living, once more.

From my bed in my old faraway home, over seven years of summers, autumns, winters and springs I watched the plum tree in my neighbour’s garden rise and fall, discard all semblance of its summer self and strip itself back to its main components – its skeleton of belief and existence, revealing its structure and beauty. So I, in my bed, become myself.

The place where I rest becomes a bridge between my daily life and the unknown, the conscious and the unconscious mind and soul, each evening supporting me on my journey by both giving and receiving me. This place is where I begin my journey each morning and where I return to, faithfully, each night.  Where I lie, where I spend my night has become an expression of who I am, and how I am living my life.

My home is a place away from work and from the outside, public world and within it, my bedroom epitomises this private sphere, and is a place where I spend a considerable amount of my life. And I need this space; my bedroom is a significant way in which I construct my identity, in a way that is separate to how others may define me; it acts as a barrier, a demarcation line between myself and others. Here is where I truly begin, where I leave my public self behind to enter my intimate space, filled as it is with my valued and everyday objects.

Here is where I truly begin…

At times I feel marooned here, adrift and absent from safety and security, and at other times I am wholly who and what I believe I am, and my room and my bed then becomes a haven and a place of belonging, and I am secure.

For all the times I’ve moved between and within countries, counties, states and houses, whether caused by my mother’s marriages or her death, or my migration, and my own marriage and divorce, my reuniting with extended family, and with my love, when all around is chaos, I have come to understand that my bed, and my bed space is where I have anchored my girls and myself.  It is the centre of our home, and centre to the mysteries of our lives.

This place, this bed is where it all stops: the pretence, the roles I have, the face and image I may present. Here, in my bed, alone, is where I dwell.

This mysterious, island home… John Donne also wrote that ‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main’. Yet, living on my island – my home, my room and my bed – I am part of the main, but also distant, and distinct from it.

This is the way it is. This is what it means to be sublimely human.

My unique bedhead, made with love

Reference List

Leunig, M (2008), ‘Pillow talk from the dreamtime’, The Age (A2), 5 July, 16.

Scott, R (1997) ed., No Man is an Island: a selection from the prose of John Donne, The Folio Society, London, UK.

The C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco (2009), website, The C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco viewed 23 August 2008 <http://www.sfjung.org/Fall2006.pdf> and <http://www.sfjung.org/index.html>

Norfolk at Fifteen

Hill House, Southrepps, Norfolk. c.Jonathan Tidsall

Motionless,

feet rooted in the earth

Fading green

and eyes of amber water,

Head in worlds of wonder,

worlds of music,

Embers, glinting on leaves

Waiting for a new dress of

yellow,

Violin strings

crying out in the still night air –

Cool and clear and velvet;

Homecoming, children are waiting,

Hours of peace

when the hills are sleeping,

Dawn upon the skyline,

blushes of awakening

Moving to the sea,

blue as skybright

Crying in the wind

as ghosts return to harbour

Houses warm with light

where dinner waits

Remembering winters of childhood,

Wearing cherry cheeks

And coats of green brown buttons

held by winking eyes –

Breathe in, and fill with silence

While the heart sings out,

Hear one voice calling

In the fire of darkness…

The past is another country…

The past is another country

We crawl through the skylight window into the pantry and hang there by our armpits, until we drop, one after the other, like little pebbles onto the concrete floor below.

Deb browses the shelves and takes down a packet of cereal, dipping her hand inside.

I stand my ground and sniff the air, trying to sense the mood of this space.

I push open the door leading into the kitchen and we stand there, side by side, feeling for the first time, a sense of alienation from the once achingly-familiar.

There stands the formica table with its six chairs – one for Mum, Dad, Nick, Jules and Deb, and one for luck.

Empty of us now, forever empty of the family we have been.

Deb takes a small, uncertain step towards the corridor.

“Stop!” I hiss, holding her by the elbow.

“There’s something wrong. There’s someone else here. It’s not…”

We smell the alien perfume hanging on the air.

Not Mum’s soft scent, but somebody else’s altogether.

“No, Deb. we can’t” I say, and she begins to weep.

I do too, but in a big-sister kind of way, so that she cannot see.

We leave by the back door.

It clicks behind us, shutting us out, with a finality I only recognise today.

Where is home now? Where do I belong?

Jindabyne Valley

Undulating grass and breath

and a flickering, enclosing silence

roaring like a road train through

the night

along the road to Jindabyne.

Emerging from the darkness into darkness,

the still of the night inside daylight,

flooded plains, and the flow

of the river through the heart

of our actions.

We choose to stay, or leave.

We are inside each moment

and the shell of time, passing

beyond horizons.

We lie, the seed of ourselves,

shell and pith.

The Beltane cross,

hung to bless this house

surrounded by the ghost of past voices,

singing

on the suck and pull

of the wind

flowing through the valley.

Having walked the tight rope…

Terrors and Pleasures of Levitation, No. 37, Aaron Siskind,1953

Within my blessed grief

I am,

being lost,

adrift on pinnacles

of diamond-ed pain.

The gulf between my mind

and butchered heart is filled

with a magnificent drumbeat

raining down.

My soul adores the slaughter, reveres the butcher,

rushes headlong down the mine shaft

that runs beneath my earth,

while I,

mole-like,

instinctively move forward

without sight or voice or fear.

I have nothing left

to fear,

having long ago

lost my way.