The Job

missoulaThe Job

When Daisy comes back from work that afternoon she looks flustered. She looks as though she’s had one hell of a day. I take her coat and hang it up for her. There’s chilli con carne bubbling away on the stove. I tell her to sit down in the living room, I’ll fix her a drink. Give me a big scotch, she says, the bigger the better, with plenty of ice. Coming right up, I say. The ice bucket is empty so I have to go into the kitchen to fetch some more. I turn down the chilli while I’m there. I don’t want it to dry out. While I’m tipping the ice out of the tray I can hear Daisy talking to herself. She sounds really worked up. Never known her to be so distressed. My poor Daisy!

Back in the living room I pour her a good measure of whisky and leave the bottle close to her chair. I sit down on the sofa near her and wait for her to tell me the worst. Daisy doesn’t like to be pressurized when she gets in and that’s a feeling I can relate to all right. I’m the same way when I’m working. Now that she’s the breadwinner she deserves even more respect. Not that I’ve ever failed to respect her. Daisy and I are real close, so close it’s like we’re not even married. That’s our little joke. Married people just aren’t this close, she’d say to me and I’d look at her with a big grin on my face and say, Honey, are you suggesting that what we’re living is not legal. No I’m not, she’d say, but married people are supposed to fight and shout at each other and sulk and turn their backs and have long faces and we don’t do any of those things. And then we’d laugh, both of us. It was a ritual, I suppose, a way of telling each other that this time we were going to make it, that there would be no repeats in our life. You see, both of us have been married before, we both have one disaster under our belts.

He did it again, she says after she’s taken a long hard pull on her drink. The dirty creep did it again. Immediately I feel my pulse rate go up. I know what she’s talking about. Daisy works for this haulage firm in Missoula. She’s there in the accounts office on the word-processor. It’s a responsible job looking after bills and dealing with customers’ enquiries. And it’s a job she likes because it brings her into contact with a whole lot of different people. But she has this manager who is nothing if not a pain in the butt. His name is Anderson and he’s about thirty-six and newly divorced and very careless with his hands. I’m angry, angry for her but I don’t want to rush things, let her tell me in her own time. She stares down into the bottom of her glass. Her face is flushed. I was typing out an invoice, and he comes up behind me breathing down my neck. First I feel a hand on my shoulder and then he leans forward and points to something on the screen, some detail or other he thinks I should alter. But as he takes his hand away it grazes my breast and just for a second I feel his fingers tighten around my breast. Can you believe that? His fingers on my breast—she has beautiful breasts, small and round and firm and soft-nippled and I love to curl my fingers around those breasts of hers—. And when I jerk back and say Hey, what the hell’s going on here, he removes his hand and says What do you mean what’s going on here, nothing’s going on. Jesus you women are all the same. But he knows full well. It was no accident, his fingers were there long enough to have a good pinch of flesh. He’s. . .I’m telling you that man is simply disgusting. I raise my glass to my lips and drain it in one gulp. It makes me so mad to hear of Daisy being treated that way. You did complain, I ask her, topping up her glass before pouring myself another drink. You did tell someone about this creep, someone who can put him in his place. Like who, she says. Like who? I’ve tried that, Gerry, you know I have. But nobody wants to listen. Take him to court they say. Get proof, evidence and then take him to court. It’s as though this thing is an every day occurrence and nothing they can waste their time on, she says.

Daisy is such a sweet thing, I know it’s not in her nature to raise a storm over nothing. She doesn’t want trouble, just to be allowed to get on with her work unmolested. In this day and age is that too much to ask? But now she’s upset. It kind of takes the shine off a job when you know that in the course of a day some slime-ball is going to start trying to feel you up. Anyway we eat the chilli and Daisy says it’s delicious. She always did like my cooking but more so now that I’m not employed and I have more time to concentrate on getting the seasoning just right. I’ve become, though I say so myself, something of a perfectionist, and not only with meals. I send her back into the room while I clear away the dishes and tidy up. Christ, she says, when I join her later, it sure is good to have a man like you around the house. You put your feet up honey, I say to her. Move over and put your feet up. She does as I say and I get her another drink and one for myself and then I sit down beside her. You want to watch a film, I ask. No, she says. Let’s just talk. Talking unwinds me more than television. She looks tired. I know this Anderson business is still on her mind. I slip my arm over her shoulder and give her a kiss on the cheek. I think to myself, another drink and then we’ll hit the sack. That’s what she needs, an early night.

I was real worried when I lost my driver’s permit. Wasn’t sure how Daisy would take it, you see. But she was great. These things happen, was her reaction. They happen all the time, Gerry. Of course when I lost the permit I also lost my livelihood. I was a driver for an express courier service. That was something my lawyer tried to impress on the court. I needed the permit or I’d lose my job. The judge was not at all sympathetic. Your client should have considered that before he got behind the wheel of his car in a state of intoxication, that was the judge’s comment. So they took away the permit and naturally I lost my job. That was six months back and ever since then I’ve been looking for work. But these are hard times in Montana. People don’t believe you when you tell them but these are, I would say, miserable times. All this talk of boom times, it makes me sick. What boom, I say, show me the signs, show me the evidence. What boom, for Christ’s sake?

Daisy’s great. She understands the problem. You take your time, she said to me. Something will turn up and it may be better than a driving job. We can manage for the time being, so don’t you go rushing into something that’s not going to make you happy. I don’t want to have to deal with a mopey face around the house. I want you to be contented. That’s love for you. Real love. A lesser woman would have thrown me out on my ear. Like my ex- for example. She’d have kissed me goodbye and changed the house locks. Correction, forget the kiss. She’d have locked me out plain and simple. She was a hard woman and sometimes when I think of her—which is not often, thank God—I really cannot recall one single thing I liked about her. I’m telling you, when I do make mistakes, I make them good. Daisy’s different. She appreciates me. This place is looking fantastic, she said to me one day when she got in from work. Not a speck of dust anywhere and you’ve polished all the silver and the wood is sparkling and it’s. . .it’s so fantastic. I stood there listening to her praise and I thought to myself, Jesus Christ, Gerry Swain, you’ve finally done it, you’ve finally found yourself a woman who’s not afraid to express her feelings. It gave me a real boost. This, she added, is your vocation. You have a talent for housework that is truly rare. I must have been standing there like a proud little boy because she then walked over to me and put her arms around my neck and gave me a big wet kiss. Other men might not have coped in my situation. They might have felt that housework was beneath them, that Daisy’s attitude was really a big put-down in disguise. Well let them. I felt special. . .she made me feel special, like nobody ever made me feel before. After all I’d worked hard all day to get the place into shape and make it just that little bit more comfortable for Daisy and I had achieved my aim. Her delight was my reward. Fair enough?

Next morning I sensed that Daisy was a little nervous before she left for work. Come here, honey, I said to her. You look gorgeous. I put my arms around her and gave her a big hug. You look the most beautiful thing in God’s creation. She looked up at me and smiled. She was wearing a black woollen skirt with grey patterned tights and a bright yellow jacket over a crimson blouse. All of them good strong colours. And she had on her heels, the black heels I’d bought her for her birthday. Sensational! I bet no one else in that office can hold a candle to you, honey, I said to her. Really you are one of God’s rare gifts. When he created you, he had style in mind. This seemed to relax her a bit and she laughed. I hugged her again and gave her a long kiss on the forehead—not wanting to smudge her immaculate lip-gloss. Neither of us mentioned Anderson, the creep, and that seemed best. But as soon as she was out the door, I thought of nothing else. You see, that’s the down side of being out of work. There’s so much time, and you get to thinking and sometimes you just can’t help yourself and you go through an entire day worrying an idea until in the end you think you’ll go mad. Keep busy, that’s the answer, if there is an answer, which there probably is not. But busy helps.

Around ten that morning, after I’ve changed the bed-linen and vacuumed all over, I give Daisy a call. I love to call her at work anyway. Just the thought of that tall, slim body of hers on the other end of the line is always enough, is always enough to send shivers right down my spine. I visualize her, as though I’m face to face, staring into those deep green eyes, those bright pools of light. But this time I’m calling not just for the thrill of her voice, the purr of her warm breath, but to check in to see that she’s all right. She sounds pretty up-beat and I’m pleased. I was thinking of doing us a roast tonight, honey. What would you say to a roast, a good cut of red meat? I’d say a roast would be just fine, she says. With broccoli and carrots, I add, and a thick wine sauce with mushrooms. Sounds wonderful, she says. And then her tone changes. Look, sweetheart, I can’t talk too long, she says, we’re really snowed under here, but I’ll ring you back later if I get the time. Fine, I say. But don’t forget, I’m out this morning. Down to the mall, pick up a few bits and pieces, your suit from the cleaner’s for example. That’s right, she says, sounding now as though her mind is on other things. That’s right. You are an angel. I love to hear her call me that. Okay, she says, if I try you and you’re not there I’ll know where you are. And then she blows me a little kiss down the line which I return, of course, and then she’s gone.

Coming out of the butcher’s in the mall, I meet Tony Dunn. Haven’t seen Tony in over a month. How are you, I ask him. Jesus Christ, he says with a broad smile on his face, I haven’t felt better in years. Tony used to work as a tool maker until his company went bust. No job, I ask. He shakes his head, but he doesn’t look too upset. Nope, he says, but Dorothy’s still working. They promoted her last week. She’s chief sales manager now. Can you credit that, Dorothy head of sales? That’s marvellous, I say. And I really am delighted. Dorothy and Tony are a great couple. So what’ve you been up to, I ask. This and that, he says, a little golf in the afternoon. Matter of fact I’ve a big game on tomorrow, perhaps you might like to come out? I shake my head. No can do, I say. No car. That’s right, he says. Tell you what, if you’re on, I’ll pick you up. How’s that sound. Great, I tell him. I’ll be there. By the way, Tony says, lowering his voice. You hear about Andy and Muriel? I haven’t heard. All over, he says. Walked out on him. I don’t believe you, I say, not those two. Those two were welded together, you’d need an oxyacetylene to prize those two apart. Not any more, Tony says. She’s moved in with a Texan, a Texan engineer up here prospecting for oil. Jesus Christ, I say, poor Andy, he must be devastated. That’s the word, Tony says, you should see him. A shadow of his former self. I don’t think he’s eating or anything. I’ve never seen anything like it. Poor Andy, that’s just too bad. Tony raises his hand and makes the gesture which signifies Time for a shot of malt? I’d love to, Tony, I really would, but I have to get my hair done and then I want to get back early to get the roast in the oven. Maybe tomorrow, after the game. Great, he says, I understand. Call you later.

They have one of those new unisex parlours in the mall, all black leather seats and marble fittings. I want to give Daisy a surprise, so I ask Angela if she can do something about the grey hairs that are beginning to overrun my temples. Sure, she says, no problem. We can handle that. Angela is a superb hairdresser. And what about the moustache, she asks. Made your mind up yet? I’m still not sure. What do you think, I ask her. You don’t think it might be too drastic? Not at all, she says. It’ll take years off you. Daisy’ll love it. Okay, I say, you’ve convinced me. Off it comes. Angela knows a thing or two. She’s about twenty-five and stunning and still playing the field. While she’s putting on the colour, I remember about Andy and so I tell her. My God, she says with a gasp, not those two. I thought those two were lifers. We both laugh at that. Well, I always say, you can never tell, you never can. It’s a funny old world. Christ almighty, she says, it surely is that. When the job’s done I stare into the mirror and I’m impressed. Impressed and grateful. After all man has to make the most of what he’s got. Poor Andy, I think. You see Andy recently, I ask Angela. Not for about two months, she says, and honestly, now I think about it, he didn’t look too bright then. Poor Andy!

Back home I put the joint in the oven and let it sizzle for a while before turning the heat down. Then I set to preparing the sauce. A good beef stock, plenty of salt and garlic, a dash of pepper and a large glass of red wine. The mushrooms go in later. I’m just peeling the potatoes when the phone goes. He did it again, Gerry, she says. This man is driving me insane. You’ve got to do something. You’ve got to do something or I’ll murder the bastard. Okay, okay, I tell her, you calm down. I hear her blow her nose. You’ve no idea, Gerry, no idea how it feels, she says. Tell me about it, I say. She’s quiet for a while, I hear her trying to catch her breath. Was it the breast again, I ask. No, she says. No it wasn’t. I was standing by the filing cabinet, the drawer was open. I just didn’t hear him come up. Next thing his hand glides across my butt. I turn around and slap him. I slap him good and hard across the face. And he just laughs. The creep just laughs and walks off, laughing. Right, I tell her, you leave him to me. I’ll sort him out. He won’t laugh again by the time I’ve finished with him. And you, you just take it easy, you hear? Oh and get his address. I’m going to need that. Sure, honey, she says. No problem. Love you, she whispers. Me too, honey, I tell her.

I’ve always kept a gun —an old service .45 and a few rounds— on the grounds that you never know when you might need one. I fetch it from the drawer in the bedroom and take it down to the kitchen where I strip it down and give it a good clean and oil. From time to time I get up to baste the meat and potatoes. Around five I peel the carrots and wash the broccoli. They’ll go on the moment Daisy steps in the door. The gun is ready now. I load it and place it in the pocket of my coat which is hanging in the hallway. Then I set the table. Candles and the best dinner service including the crystal glasses. I trim the stems of the flowers I bought on the way home from the mall and stick them into a tall vase. By the time I’ve finished the table looks magnificent. The meal’s going to be a real knock-out. I look at my watch. There’s just time to freshen up and change before Daisy gets back.

While I’m under the shower the phone rings and I wonder is it Tony or is it Daisy. Nothing I can do. The phone stops. Then I get to thinking of Andy, poor Andy. His life in pieces. Jesus, life can be so cruel, sometimes. I put on my best tan trousers and beige shirt and go down to the living room where I pour myself a whisky and sit in the chair, waiting for Daisy. The air is heavy with the smell of roasting meat. On the floor beside the chair, the newspaper lies open at the job ads page. I glance at it for a moment. And then I see something amusing and I can’t help smiling, just a smile to begin with until I can no longer hold in the laughter. I raise my glass and say: Well, here’s to you, Anderson, you miserable son of a bitch!

© John Lyons, 1991

Variation on the theme of autumn

bare trees

Variation on the theme of autumn                  

What it is to introduce
                   a new text into the world
free from the fret
                   of fear and hate
I have seen the sycamore
                   the beech and silver birch
stripped to their boughs
                   as a wind blew in from the East
and a flurry of tiny birds
                   caught in a sudden gust
before their final departure

This is autumnal abandonment
                   the first shivers of the year end
plumes of smoke
                   rising above the houses
as every step hastens
                   one would hope
homeward to a smile
                   and a warm supper

In the woodlands
                   the last chromatic burst
has been neutralized
                   and expectation now rests
on the buried seed
                   that will rise to pierce
the transparent air
                   in spring

And yet the withered rose
                   it would seem
has outstayed its welcome
                   as nature reinvents itself
in the guise of the poor
                   of the dispossessed
of those by force of circumstance
                   obliged to live
colourless thankless lives

What currency rules
                   this bitter world
of inequalities ?
                   What canker lies
at the heart of communities
                   that disown their own ?
And where are we to find
                   the necessary angels
of the earth
                   those not stiffened
by the pangs of greed
                   those with uncurdled hearts
who believe in the reality
                   of harsh realities ?

Nature is the great leveller
                   and months of austerity
will yield in time
                   to the bliss of abundance
the speech of truth will thrive
                   and the peace of intelligence
will dismount the stars
                   and share the fruits
of their energy
                   among one and all
and nothing will be lost

John Lyons

Ceri Richards – Self-portrait (1934)

by Ceri Richards, oil on composition board, 1934
Ceri Richards, Self-portrait (oil on composition board) 1934

Ceri Richards (1903-1971) was born in a small village near Swansea. He and his younger brother and sister were brought up in a highly cultured, working-class environment. His mother came from a family of craftsmen; and his father, who worked in a tinplate foundry, was active in the local church, wrote poetry in Welsh and English, and for many years conducted the Dunvant Excelsior Male Voice Choir. The children were all taught to play the piano, and became familiar with the works of Bach and Handel. In later years music would be an important stimulus to Richards’s painting – as would his youthful sensitivity to the landscapes of Gower and the cycles of nature. Richards trained initially at the Swansea School of Art before completing his studies at the Royal College of Art, (where in later years he became a teacher).

In this beautiful self-portrait from 1934, the influence of the surrealists is quite apparent, particularly that of Picasso. Nevertheless, the portrait remains very much rooted in Richards’s Welsh background, with the dark earthiness of the colours capturing the tone of the valleys where the artist grew up. It is very much the ‘portrait of the artist as a young artist,’ but an artist emerging from a very specific landscape, which the rugged shapes and the simplicity of the composition evoke so well. It is an action painting in the sense that the subject is proudly presenting the tools of his trade, the palette and brushes which he carries as emblems. The thick black lines enhance the notion that the artist is an accumulation of elements, yet the eye is drawn to the bright complexion and the affirmative expression which underline the pride Richards took in his work and his vocation. This self-portrait is quite simply his coat of arms.

Richards wrote: “One can generally say that all artists — poets, musicians, painters, are creating in their own idioms, metaphors for the nature of existence, for the secrets of our time. We are all moved by the beauty and revelation in their utterances — we notice the direction and beauty of the paths they indicate for us, and move towards them”.

The beauty to which Richards refers is intrinsic in every detail of this self-portrait which so clearly and affectionately references his roots in the Welsh valleys —which he appears to be wearing about his shoulders— and his belief in the rugged powers of art. Former pupils have described Richards as a cheerful, boisterous teacher, and these traits come through in this marvellous celebratory painting which is there to be admired any day of the week in the National Portrait Gallery on Charing Cross Road.

Rain is falling


Rain is falling

Across the whole of England rain is falling
falling upon the towns and the fields
falling upon the highways and the byeways
falling upon the rich and the poor

falling upon young and old alike
falling upon the fit and the infirm
upon our schools and hospitals
Across the whole of England

the sky is dark and rain is falling
falling upon those who love
and upon those whose lives
are consumed with sorrow or hatred

or bitterness or disappointment
falling upon those who will struggle
to survive and upon those who retain
a spring in their step the rain is falling

on buses and cars and trains and planes
through the polluted city air across the whole
of England the rain is falling everywhere
upon the present and the past and upon

the dreams we hope will last the rain
rains down on the living and the dead

John Lyons

In the midst of a great forest

Armando Morales, oil on canvas (click to enlarge)

Armando Morales (1927–2011) was an internationally renowned Nicaraguan artist, a contemporary and friend of the poets, Ernesto Cardenal and Carlos Martínez Rivas.

Morales was famous for his voluptuous still lives, in particular, sensual studies of apples and pears that evoked the softness of human skin. He later moved on to the painting of the female form, and in 1971, at the Galeria Bonino in New York, he showed a series of stunning nudes in which the fine detail of every muscle, of every inch of skin, reveals an unsurpassed sensuality.

I visited Armando at his studio in Vauxhall many years ago during a brief period he spent in London. On that day he was preparing a huge canvas, and in the course of our conversation many times he climbed a ladder to access the top of the canvas. In one hand he held a magnifying glass and in the other a razor blade, poring over the surface in search of the most minute imperfections, meticulous to a fault.

I have chosen his beautiful woodland study to illustrate the poem below, the title of which is based on the opening line of Dante’s Inferno.

In the midst of a great forest

What treasures I have amassed
        are immune to fire and theft
though I have indeed known loss
        loss of the body and loss of the soul
and live now in a quiet space
        catching the drift of birdsong
of the splenetic spider that plays
        upon its frosty web
I can resist all things
        better than my own changeability
I breathe the air
        but do not breathe it all
I am not proud
        and know my place :
the moth and the fish-eggs
        are in their place too
so too the bright suns
        and the wide golden moon
that shone last night
        so too the phantom dawn
that creeps through the mist
        to smother dreams
What is palpable
        is in its place
What is impalpable
        is in its place
Whether we fall by ambition
        blood or lust
like diamonds we are cut 
         with our own dust
I seek the grail of laughter
        a life that will turn
upon the axle of devotion
        a kiss not singed
by the eventual flame

These are the lanes of death
        where our footfall falls
Here love is a moment
        and pain another
and our mutual friends
        are ash and dust
moth and termite
        here time runs amok
wields a thirsty blade
        cuts to the very bone

John Lyons

The Madagascan Sunset Moth

Madagascan Sunset Moth
Madagascan Sunset Moth

The Madagascan Sunset Moth

Flying by day
           this spineless boneless
innately venomous creature
          is a paragon of brash
invertebrate beauty
           but beauty comes
at such a price
           Native only to Madagascar
it flits from bloom to bloom
           its long proboscis
supping by preference
           on the nectar of white flowers
More choosy still
           are the larvae that
that feed only on plants
           from the toxic Omphalea family
They hatch from eggs
           laid on the underside
of the leaves of these plants
           The white or pale yellow larvae
with bright red feet will
           once they emerge
mercilessly devour the entire plant
           leaf     flower     stems
and all
           before moving on
to decimate another
           of the same family
From tip to tip
           their wings span
a good three inches
            and boast shades of black
and blue and red and yellow
            and emerald green
Patterns of kaleidoscopic effect
           are produced by the wings’
curved scales creating
           optical interference
as light is reflected
           at sharply different angles
Toxicity is their defence
           for though the caterpillars
eat the poisonous plants
           the toxins are not digested :
these remain in their bodies
           through pupation
into adulthood
            To most predators
a most noxious
           foul-tasting moth—
the iridescence of their wings
           a salutary warning

John Lyons

Autumn Thoughts – Molly Rosenberg

autumn leavesIt’s that time of the year again. Clocks have gone back, the temperature is beginning to drop and we are all bracing ourselves for winter. The landscape is unrecognisable from the bright summer days, yet every season has its magic and its mood. Autumn, a sensitive time for nostalgia, for poring over memories by an open fire, for meditation; a season which John Keats has indelibly marked forever as a time for poetry. And so we are pleased today to present a new poem by our dear friend, Molly Rosenberg.

Autumn Thoughts

          Through gold
          Through ruby red
          Burnt orange
          Amber glow

Like us the magnificence of beauty
reaches its crescendo,
as the array of colours overwhelms
the Ravensbourne Valley.
It takes my breath away.
So short a time like our youth
so fleeting.


Beauty turned to nuisance now
like us when our purpose is served,
all will be swept away.

The sharpness of the air pricks
my cheeks.
I wrap myself in the softness
of cashmere.
Relish the feeling of summer feet
now clad in suede as I tread
lightly through these
golden autumn days.

Molly Rosenberg

The poor are always with us

Henley Wetherspoon
Henley Wetherspoon

Jonah, our indestructible blogsworth, is sitting in The Catherine Wheel, the charming Wetherspoon in Henley-on-Thames, on a bright autumn afternoon. He’s just had a brisk stroll down by the river. Trees turning to gold and brown and copper; seen a few herons, some geese, and more swans than he could shake a stick at; then a quick gander at the grave of poor old Dusty Springfield and he’s popped into the pub to kill the massive appetite he’s been carrying around all morning.

So he’s ordered his meal deal: a pint of what he likes and the fish and chips with mushy peas. Now he’s sitting there, sipping his drink, waiting for his grub to arrive, looking around the gaff and generally minding everyone’s business till he catches the drift of two old codgers lunching at an adjacent table:

Tom More: You been reading about tax credit cuts?
Erasmus: Alice in Wonderland?
Tom More:
Just about. Only worse. No laughs in this one; plenty of mad hatters, though.
You British, I dunno. You have an uncanny talent for political disasters. There’s gonna be trouble over this, mark my words.
Tom More:
Whatcha mean?
Poll tax and now tax credit cuts. Political bloody disaster. You people vote in these governments that then proceed to clobber part of the population to death. It don’t add up, sunshine. On the one hand it’s sadism and on the other its masochism. Fifty bloody shades of I dunno what.
Tom More:
But the deficit, the national debt. Something’s gotta be done.
But at whose expense, laddee? Not the working poor, surely?
Tom More puts down his knife and fork, wipes his lips with his serviette, coughs to clear his throat and looks Erasmus in the eye.
Tom More: No, you’re right. Makes my blood boil.
What sort of a country is this? I mean the very notion of working poor is an abomination. It’s a bad joke. Who does these jobs? Teaching assistants, social workers, so I’ve been told, but loads of other keyworkers too.
Tom More:
So what does that mean, keyworkers? Key to what? Key to whom, if you don’t mind my pompous grammar? Are these jobs not important enough to deserve a living wage?
Tom More:
Yeah, you’re right. It’s all wrong. Millions of families on or just below the breadline. . .
About to be clobbered. So many of this once proud nation’s kids growing up in poverty.
It goes quiet as the two old men take a breather and dip into their drinks. And Jonah’s meal arrives. Lovely golden batter on the fish, and the taste, so fresh.
Erasmus: You know, a country that doesn’t care for its young doesn’t deserve to be called a country. It’s a bloody disgrace. Children in need! It’s a bad joke! No wonder the Scots want out.
Tom More:
You’re right, you’re dead right, mate.
Poverty is a social construct, you know that. Nobody’s born poor, it’s not genetic. People are born into poverty or they fall into poverty, but it’s not in their DNA. It’s structured. You take the total wealth of a country, or the total wealth earned by a country in one year and you parcel it up, you decide who gets lucky and who has to struggle. I’m all for the ‘work should pay’ philosophy, but work should pay. These tax credits they want to cut, they’re not charity, they’re really nothing more than subsidies to the employers of the working poor. So to cut them is more than a bit like Alice in bloody Wonderland, “Off with their heads”.
Tom More has a faraway look in his eyes; maybe the beer has gone to his head which he now begins to shake slowly.
Tom More: One nation. . . The party of the family. . . Jesus wept.
Exactly! Suffer little children. . . !

Stations of the Cross

Stations of the Cross

St Francis of Assisi
St Francis of Assisi

On the train from Victoria he sits opposite me in his brown Franciscan habit and sandals. He is balding at the crown but wears a long beard. Forty-three years of age, pale blue eyes, slim and just under six foot, I estimate.

Life is a horizontal fall, a slow motion stampede dustwards.

From a rucksack he takes a packet of chocolate-covered raisins and tips five into his left hand: one by one he devours them, a half-decade.

Sensitive appetite is the passive power by which one is moved to some immediate response presented by the senses.

A professional-looking, large-beaded rosary hangs clipped from his rope belt and the wooden cross sways as he returns the remains of the raisins to his bag.

By the monastery path, the brittle leaves crushed underfoot. Time drops in decay.

From a bottle of water he takes a short sip, consults his mobile, which is not a smart phone and looks nervously around the carriage.

In the monastery garden, everywhere visible, time’s disfiguring touch.

Next he produces a paperback, Carlo Caretto’s Love is for living; reads a paragraph, marks his place with a label, closes the book and closes his eyes, raising a clenched fist to his breastbone.

Intellectual appetite: the passive power by which one is moved to a more reasoned response to particular objects as presented by the intellect.

He is still for several minutes, quite motionless, lost in his meditation. His eyes open. Signs of a visible sadness, a loneliness, a tangible longing.

It is not happiness but the divine will that grounds moral norms.

He reads again, now grasping and tightly twisting his beard, as though he wished to wrench it from his face. Then eyes closed, clenched fist once more at his breastbone, a deep sigh.

We need to have the power to restrain the natural appetite for happiness so that we can will as He would have us will.

The minutes pass.

Time and the world and all things dwindle.

Now he returns the book to his rucksack and sits with eyes shut and an inner focus on the heavens, and on his sacrifice.

Frost will paint the pines in winter and snow will settle on the simple wooden crosses that mark where they lie.

Down from Victoria, counting the twelve stations, the daily cross he bears, on his way back to Our Lady of the Angels.

Prayer cannot detain the torrent of descending time but one can pray for a light footfall.

Upon arrival he is the first to dismount, and as he leaves the station he halts to glance back over his shoulder at the shadow that has been following him, shadowing him throughout his journey, shadowing him throughout his life.

These are the shadows of dreams, the shadows, doubtless, of unborn time.

But he sees no one, and so he hurries off, burying himself in the distance, in the echoless darkness.

11 October 2015

Ernesto Castillo – 4 poems

ernesto castillo salaverry
Ernesto Castillo

Ernesto Castillo Salaverry (1957-1978) was born in Managua, Nicaragua; he died barely two months before his 21st birthday, fighting against Somoza’s National Guard on the streets of Leon. His poetry reads like a diary of the daily struggle against the dictatorship, interwoven with love and nostalgia. Days before his death he wrote a letter to his parents:

Sunday, August 27, 1978.

To all those who love me, and among them, especially you.

I had thought not to write these lines, because you know I do not like goodbyes, I believe that every separation is temporary because when several people are together, when they love each other in the way that we love each other, it is impossible to forget each other, and at happy times, in the sad moments, we are together, sharing, as we have done so often. You are always with me. You are in the rain, you are on the streets mingling with the people, accompanying me every time I go to work. When I talk with colleagues, and we touch on family matters, matters of love, I just smile, because I have the good fortune to have your support; I am happy to know that you understand the need to fight; happy because the training I received made me aware of the need for change, for the revolutionary transformation of an unjust society.

In addition to having you, I am not alone; colleagues who work with me are very fraternal, we live together in danger, we share the same ideology, and our Sandinista convictions make us brothers. The people, the workers, the taxi driver, the newspaper seller, the cornershop keeper, they all accompany me. They trust me, without even knowing me, they love me, they have great faith in me, in us.

For you, for them, for Nicaragua, I am willing to fight to the end.

I cannot say that I don’t miss you, that would be a lie. I’d like to be with you, sharing every moment, enjoying every word, every gesture, every look. Today it’s not possible, but we must sacrifice ourselves, and I confess that I find it hard, we must fight in these conditions so that thousands of families can come together, so that Nicaraguan mothers do not continue to see their children murdered by the National Guard.

I’m not afraid, I know I’m going to brush with death, and I’m not afraid. You, and an entire nation, are with me. I love you.


4 poems by Ernesto Castillo

The list of revolutionary
martyrs is long;
I know that the road
to Liberation is painful;
but if I fall,
another will take my place
and maybe fight
longer than me,
and his work combined
with what has been done,
may finally achieve

The streets wet with rain
reflect the night.
I crawl along the path
as though trying to prolong
the steps that must take me
to my death.


September 1978

Some are for your sister;
let her enjoy them
if she likes them ,
if not,
let her accept them,
because it was she
who created them;
not all,
just some.
The others are scattered
in women’s names
I’d already have forgotten,
had I not written them
in my poems.
The last ones,
the most recent,
are yours,
I wasn’t sure before.
These poems
and these feelings
are yours
because you earned them.

Thanks for having given me your kisses,
your moments of joy and loneliness
thanks for sharing
my problems.

I can only leave you my poems
and my memories, the memory of the silent
nights with my hands running across
your body and my eyes glistening
as our mouths met.

I see you rereading my letters and poems,
remembering the why of each sentence,
trying to revive my love in every
one of those pages.

I’ll leave my sensation of loneliness,
because where I’m going you cannot reach me;
and in your sleepless nights
you’ll remember that I can never
come running to you, that you’ll no longer
even have my distant presence,
because my body
will be eaten by worms
that will erase every trace of your
kisses on my neck.

Time will turn my bones to dust,
everyone will forget me, but you
will sometimes feel the urge to cry;
a veil of sadness will overwhelm you
and my memory will reappear in your eyes.

Translations by John Lyons

Following the United States occupation of Nicaragua from 1912 to 1933, during the so-called Banana Wars, the Somoza family political dynasty was installed, and, with US backing, would rule the country until the final dictator was ousted in the 1979 Nicaraguan Sandinista Revolution.

In the 1970s the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) had begun a guerrilla campaign with isolated attacks which led to national recognition of the group in the Nicaraguan media and solidification of the group as a force in opposition to the dictatorship. The Somoza regime, was defended by the National Guard, a force highly trained by the U.S. military, that used torture, and extra-judicial killing, intimidation and censorship of the press in order to combat the FSLN attacks. In 1977, mounting international condemnation of the regime’s human rights violations led the Carter Administration to cut off aid to the Somoza regime. By the end of January 1978, civil disobedience had turned into a full-scale popular uprising throughout the country, ending in July 1979 when Somoza abandoned Nicaragua and the first Sandinista government was installed.