Birthday:

I look around me and my old world,
The one I grew up in,
And was formed by,
Is becoming jaded,
Or, indeed, has disappeared.

My heroes are old, some now pathetic,
Or they are dead, and often times
Their memorial is people trying to sully their name,
Or belittle their achievements.
Sir Winston Churchill is one such.
He was, and remains, a giant.

The world is now, I believe, a better place, however,
Than the one in which I flowered,
(Or turned into a weed!)
But I regret the loss of many things,
Becoming nostalgic for much which I took for granted,
Which yes, includes a whole different way of life
Which would be unrecognisable to most.

I can, too, look back on certain decisions,
And needs must make an effort not to get caught
In some useless trap of regrets, maybes and if onlys.
I am obliged, also, to wonder at what I have achieved.
It is not always that comfortable.
I have achieved a fair amount of good
In my efforts to be of service, I am told,
But I could have done so very much more.

I also feel a touch of guilt concerning
Just how much I loved my work.
I do not know that it is right that I was so lucky.
Mondays were my favourite days,
And I was able to make a difference.
But my free time was also rich and joyous.
It doesn’t see quite fair.

I am guilty, too, for loving too much.
I have adored and been loved by
Some extraordinary women.
I did not deserve their love,
For always, until now,
When my good fortune knows no bounds,
I eventually left them,
And caused so much pain
It appals me to think about it.

And now, in fifty days,
I can no longer run and hide from the fact
That I am an old man.
I have always either not been interested,
Or positively enjoyed birthdays.
This was especially so when I was sixty five.
I have burned the candle at both ends and in the middle
When I have not been working,
With doctors and Ali having said whilst doing that too,
And reaching sixty five, an age which through the
History of humanity has been denied to most,
Was truly a wonderful privilege which I didn’t deserve.

And when I consider people I have loved
Who didn’t make it, I feel wretchedly guilty as well,
Especially for poor, dear and lovely Barbara Magee.

Sixty six had a sort of symmetry which
Seemed somehow rather jolly,
But in fifty days I am sixty seven, if I’m lucky,
And the age, my creaking body,
Pain which has become an old friend
And the mirror tell me that which I
Cannot run from. I am old.

Understand me, though I worry about the method
Of my death – preferably in my sleep after doing
Serious damage to a bottle or three of
Remy Martin VSOP,
With family and friends,
And not like poor Magee –
I am extraordinarily curious to know
More about the next phase after this,
Where I’m confident some of my questions
Will be answered, though not all.
For all answers I will need many
More cycles of life; maybe eternally,
And I hope I can make them useful,
And rich in learning, mine and others,
And find some way to be of service.

No, I’m worried about timing.
You see, I’m not ready.
There is so much more I want and need to say.
As Keats said, considering mortality,
(And no, in no other way am I comparing myself
To the incomparable genius Keats)
‘When I have fears that I may cease to be;
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain’ etc.

And my body is a bit of a wreck
Which is partly my fault,
So time is becoming a bit less likely to be in
Anything other than short supply.
Thus I set my alarm and rise at 7.00 each morning,
Do my best to carpe the hell out of the diem,
And feel most melancholy if I do not write
A reasonable amount each day – I am becoming
Somewhat driven since retirement has allowed
Me time to explore more fully the world and
The inside of my quantum computing mind,
With it's entangled and tunnelling particles,
And to study things other than education.

I also know I need to make an effort to be published,
Or else I am writing for the very few
Or, no doubt, often times for myself.
(As, ironically, could be the case with this!)
Do you know how many people have had
Their first serious works published when they
Were my age? No, nor do I, quite possibly because
They are few and far between, or possibly non-existent.
And in my case there’s lots of it!

Going back though, to the nostalgia which also
Confirms that I am an old man,
I miss good manners. I don’t mind swearing – indeed it is
Often a colourful addition to speech - but I mind the lack
Of please and thankyou and good morning, and smiles,
And don’t like not feeling right about holding doors
For ladies or offering my seat. I miss little bows,
And people ignoring the telephone whilst they are
In the middle of talking to somebody else.

What’s with that, by the way? You’re chatting
With somebody, or are maybe earnestly deep in
Conversation and nearly always, even if they don’t know
Who it is, when the phone rings, people answer it,
Which says what, exactly? It says they’d rather talk
To somebody they don’t even know rather than continue
To talk to you; and when I’m talking with somebody
And the phone rings and I ignore it, they ask me if
I’m not going to answer it? Does this mean they’d
Rather I talked with somebody – anybody! –
Else and not then be talking with them?

And no, I don’t want to wear something
Pink to a funeral. I want to wear a suit and black tie
Because I won’t be feeling ‘pink’, I’ll be feeling crap,
And the old rituals are there for a purpose,
To deal with some of the difficulties in life
Through the use of different kinds of ceremony.

While I’m on a roll, what’s happened to some sort
Of loyalty to the meaning of words for communication?
Example: ‘We’re getting engaged next August’?
When two people agree that they intend to marry,
Doesn’t that mean they’re actually engaged then, at that time,
You know, engaged to marry? You can then only get engaged
Next August if you’ve been unengaged
And then spontaneously
Decide next August you’re going to marry ...
Or you get engaged to somebody else.

Leaving all that aside, in my now admitted old age,
I am delighted by the reduction of violence, worldwide.
Over the period of the battle of the Somme it was almost
Deemed acceptable that 60,000 Tommies died. Now a
Whole town turns out to show their respect when even
A single body bag returns from a theatre of war.

Many people feel that because one person can inflict
Huge violence now, say by flying an aeroplane
Into a building as opposed to somebody a few
Centuries ago who could stab a few people,
That the world is more violent. It isn’t.
If you don’t believe me, read Steven Pinker,
‘The Better Angels Of Our Nature’ or similar.

People older than me – those few left! – and the previous
Generation used to say there was no vandalism and
Mugging during the war. They’re wrong, and anyway, the
The ultimate vandalism was 60 million dead,
Gas chambers, run, incidentally, by a Christian nation,
And the fact that it was okay to bomb cities
Killing civilians. Isn’t that the ultimate terrorism?

If folk do it now they’re dragged in front of the
Court of Human Rights or wherever.
Crimes against Humanity.
Isn’t that what all modern warfare is?

Anyway, all that aside as well, one of the many positives
As I have developed a longer perspective on life
Is just how delightful it is that the younger generation,
Which most certainly include my 3 sons and their partners,
Are infinitely kinder, more thoughtful and caring,
Innovative and generally enjoyable to be with,
Civilised people who are so much less boring, conventional, 
Racist, bigoted, homophobic, self-righteously judgemental,
And so much more aware of their responsibilities to their planet
And their fellow creatures than mine, and allow one to
Have real optimism for humanity in the future just so long
As the present generation of (mainly) old men don’t
Destroy the whole kit and caboodle!

So, there you have it, for now, at least, and
I’m wasting time on this self-indulgence
When I have several poems, sagas, the third book
In a trilogy and another two in my head and
One that needs a rewrite to finish, so I’ll stop the tirade.

Don’t wish my Happy Birthday this time please.
Accepting I’m an old man doesn’t benefit
By people stirring my confusion.

Oh, and by the way, no I don’t wish I was younger again.
There’s the irony; the very idea appals me.

When you’re young, somehow you think it’s
Rather clever of you, and you pity the elderly.
The clever thing is actually to get old,
And not to pity, or indeed envy, the young,
But to wish them their joy of life,
Just as you have yours,
And be humble enough to count your blessings;
They’re not guaranteed, for instance,
Sixty six and nearly a year so far,
Whereas you have been, or similar.

I enjoy being me, the age I am,
I just don’t like some of the baggage that goes with it.
Everything comes with a price, eh.
It’s really, really, really worth it though!
Peace, love and happiness to you all.

The Summer Of 69

From the window he saw below the patchwork of little fields, sewn together by blind faery folk who felt in their souls the random beauty they created.  On the tannoy came the usual pre-landing announcements which should have, in all honesty included, “We’re about to land at Aldergrove airport.  Please put your watch back 50 Years.”  It was the middle of August, 1969 and he was back in God’s Own Country to meet an old and distressed friend.  We’ll call him Tom.

Tom shambled over, a smile of delight on his weary, lined-before-time, bearded face, gave him a great bear hug as they greeted, and as dusk lay a soft veil across the land they drove in his old A35 van – a splendid pink and black it was, hand painted by him and his dear Papa, using a roller and brush, and his pride and joy which he was delighted to see Tom hadn’t crashed in his absence – and piled into the nearest hostelry, there to imbibe a pint or three of Guinness and to open discussions on Tom’s woes.  That done, they returned to the luxury of his limo – sure, isn’t everything relative? -  and headed along the Cave Hill road.  Before they started the descent, what they saw obliged him to pull over, and they stared down.

In the darkness the city lights gave it a kindly, enchanted, almost magical look where the Wee Folk would not be out of place.   The image was disturbed though, with a scar down between, as near as they could reckon, the Shankill and Springfield Road, a line of flame wild-dancing, smudged and blurred by the smoke, accompanied by the occasional flat crack of rifle fire.  This was not like the usual bonfires of 11^th July night, for he’d seen those from this very spot and heard the lambegs thundering their disturbed passion.  No, there had been plenty of rioting and burning out this summer, here in Belfast, in Derry, Newry, Crossmaglen, Dungannon, Coalisland, Dungiven and the lovely town of his birth, Armagh.  The Province seemed to be alight and one was obliged to wonder if that fire could ever be extinguished.

The burning scar, they were to later learn, was Bombay Street.  All of it.  To their shame, the army and the RUC had done little to nothing to stop it as Protestants had petrol bombed and fired all the houses and the wee cobblers shop, ironically owned by a Protestant.  A sniper, too, had been taking pot shots, killing one of the folk trying to help with the evacuation.  From the 12^th to 17^th over just 6 days, 8 people were to die, 750 were injured, 150 Homes were burnt out and nearly 2000 people evacuated.  The ‘Troubles’ had started and weren’t to end for another 30 years.

They descended to the city and drove carefully, having to turn back at barricades, avoiding carefully those areas where they knew ‘their kind’ would not be welcome.  Here they would see a man in a Balaclava pointing a Sten, there another with an old .22, a faithful .303 or a shotgun.  They saw, too, the RUC and soldiers, all seemingly very young, twitchy and more like as not to shoot first if there was anything dodgy or suspicious about their movements.   That tension was also to become part of daily life, and 3500 folk would die and countless others be maimed.

It’s said you can take a man out of Ulster but you can’t take Ulster out of the man.  It’s over 40 years since he lived there full time and he can tell you that it’s true.  Sure, he still won’t sit with his back to a door, and he assiduously, drunk or sober, keeps an eye on strangers or ‘suspicious’ (read ‘any’!) packages, but the reason you can’t take Ulster out of the man is not because of that, however.  It’s because of the great kindness.  The hearts of Ulster folk, Catholic or Protestant, Nationalist or Unionist, are the world’s biggest and most loving.

You have to understand, nearly everyone wanted peace, wanted to be able to get on with folk around them, but because of the actions of very few, on both ‘sides’, as the Troubles deepened it became dangerous and possibly fatal to hang about with  folk who were not on ‘your side’ or go into their areas.  And though the Troubles are now hopefully over, these big hearted people still send their kids to Protestant or Catholic schools – 51% to Catholic Schools and at least 38% to Protestant ones.  Great progress!  That’s bound to help Ulster society become integrated! 

Like they say, a child is not born racist; they aren’t born bigots, either, but that which you do not know in a divided society you grow up treating with suspicion.  In the Six Counties it is especially so because of those echoes of more dangerous times, the peace walls – though some have come down there are a still 108 of them to this day, varying in length from a few a few hundred yards to 3 miles - and grand graffiti on many a gable end, and continued avoidance of certain places because of ‘them’.  In truth, to this day, he’s pretty certain he’d never walk down the Falls if he had a choice – and he knows that’s more than a little sad, as the Falls is full of folk with hearts that are grand, warm and welcoming.  His natural desire to avoid violence would also preclude him attending a Linfield Glentoran ‘derby’.

Tragically, too, that legacy of sectarian suspicion is reinforced by the fact that over 80% of people still live in areas which can be defined loosely as Protestant or Catholic.  Interestingly those who sit in parliament and we laughingly call a Government don’t know that any of the above is dangerous, it appears, or they believe somehow it does not lead to prejudice.  They do nothing to discourage ghettos and wildly encourage faith schools in England, living as they appear to in an alternate universe, on the principle that it’s bound to help people integrate into society if they attend Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, Hindu, Anglican etc. education establishments and don’t get to know any of their peers in other groups, don’t get to learn how much they are alike.  Of course, they won’t get a chance to know that though.   Why?  Because the Government see how well educating children separately in Ulster has worked over the generations.  Not.  Morons!  When will this absurdity end!

So, is there anything one can do about this?  Yes.  One can rant, like I’m doing, and one can oppose the setting up of any more faith schools in the UK and ensure we don’t send our children to one, or do our best to ensure our grandchildren don’t.  I say this with amongst my headships a Church Of England school and an essentially Muslim school which I eventually amalgamated with another to form a Muslim faith school.  Am I a hypocrite?  Maybe.  Somebody was going to do it and I reckoned I would do it ‘better’ than some folk.  In those jobs I did my best to engage all the kids and as many parents as possible with people of other faiths, and ensured the curriculum really focussed on the issues of sameness across people of all faiths and none, and the common humanity which united us.

You in the UK who read this, indeed wherever you are, don’t believe that as politicians try to divide and rule us, setting one group off against another, that Ulster’s situation with the Troubles couldn’t happen where you are.  It could.   It might be different groups, different bigotries, different ignorant hatreds but the results will be the same … and if you educate your children in a ‘faith’ school, they may end up being part of the problem.   Think about it.

Oh, and by the way, if you agree with me you could always share this.  You never know, somebody might read it and have a change of heart.  One must hope.

http://egertonchesney.blogspot.fr/

Farewell To A Giant:

A giant has stepped from the stage,

Passing behind the curtain,

Out of sight,

Standing first in the wings,

Seeing all that is happening still,

Within the play of life,

But no longer part of it,

His active role complete.

This giant was a Yorkshire giant,

(And it’s hard to get more gianty than that!)

A big, robust and gentle giant,

With a big, robust and loving heart,

A bear’s big, robust hug,

And a deep robust laugh,

Which started way down low inside him,

And burst out into the room,

Like a shower of joy,

And all around,

The main characters,

And the bit players,

Would bask in the happiness drops.

He watches over them now,

Free at last of pain,

As Andrea, his beloved wife,

And his extraordinary sons,

Continue the play,

Treading the boards tentatively

Without the lead actor,

Uncertain now of the plot,

Improvising, supporting each other,

As strong main characters can,

And leading the remaining cast,

Making it up as they go along.

Slowly, as time passes,

The giant will move,

First down to the front row,

Withdrawing next to the balcony,

And then to the upper balconies,

Aptly named ‘the Gods’.

He will watch over them,

This most caring, loving giant,

Perhaps like their guardian angel,

Finding it hard to let go,

But wisely learning,

As the remaining cast

Start to make more certain steps,

That their sorrow, confusion

And anger will diminish,

Just as it should,

For he crafted well,

He and his most dear, true love,

And they will pour themselves

Into each other and the next generation,

And the next,

Each of which will carry,

Part of that which made this giant

Such a unique and glorious soul.

And he will recognise

From his new place of perspective,

That in the great scheme of things,

They will prevail;

And, watching over them still,

Know that all will be well,

And that the time will come,

As it comes to all,

When their circle of life is done,

They too will be gathered in,

And as he has been,

Embraced by the Loving Mystery,

Which follows the final act.

They too will leave the stage,

And he will be standing there, waiting,

A gentle smile upon his face,

And he will fold his giant’s arms

Around them again,

And remind them of his giant’s love,

In that wondrous place where it is everlasting.

And others, whether their parts were small,

Or absolutely central,

They will know that

They were privileged,

Privileged to know him,

A unique and extraordinary,

Larger than life,

Matchless spirit,

And his passing on

Leaves their lives –

Our lives -

Impoverished but,

Let us not forget,

Richer still by far,

Because for a little while,

Or a lot,

We were lucky;

We knew a giant,

Such a wonderful,

Well loved,

Yorkshire, gianty giant.

Adieu Mark; à bientôt.