I am here

I wrote this poem in 1994 after I was prompted to think back to when I was still a Minister of Religion at Mt Eden Baptist Church, Auckland, some 30 years prior. As part of that role, I became a visitor at the nearby Mt Eden Prison, where I was free to come and go, having no past connection with the inmates or their families. I was also there in case an inmate wanted to see a Minister of Religion, and though it was rare for that to happen, a few times it did. I’d see the inmates in the prison chapel, to listen mostly, never to preach, admonish or suggest what they should do to change things – they’d worked through all that themselves in their prison cells.

I was moved one time as I sat in the visitor’s room, taking in how women (wives, sisters, daughters or mothers), waited for their man, some with small children in varying stages of awareness, quiet and new to the hostile environment, waiting for their daddy to walk out and hug them close and whisper his love for them. Man and woman whispered together in case fellow inmates should hear and see them in their tender moments, a few with tears flowing. And then they held their child or children, and their faces softened with love as they held them close, feeling and breathing their tenderness deep inside, learning what it was like now, to be a father, as well as a husband, a soul-mate, and an inmate.

So, this is what I wrote of my memories of that time…

*

May I tell them of the anguish that you feel deep inside,

outsider, oh so lonely, even ‘midst the noisy thronging crowd;

tell them you don’t fit the scheming pattern of their minds,

deeply hurt by their unthinking laughs and taunts and cruel jibes?

*

May I tell them that the lack of confidence you often feel within,

at school, in sport or following the well-known family tune;

is because you are afraid, and you don’t want to let them down,

from those high ideals they’ve set for you all along the line.

*

May I tell you too, I also know at times you are so scared,

condemned by your own feelings, fearing you have lost your way;

I know you sometimes want to run and never stop,

to end the dreadful nagging pain, or else you’ll blow your top.

*

I know the inmost thoughts that often haunt and torment you,

know that your body will dictate and yes, at times, embarrass you;

I know you are afraid of the long nights and the days,

I know you can’t just pack up your bags and vanish clear away.

*

The lecture they have given you, you know it off by heart,

heard it so bloody often that it’s forcing you apart;

you know you cannot reach the goals they have damn well set,

hate the thought of growing up like so many people you’ve met.

*

May I tell you know, for you need to know before this day is through,

your parents, friends and loved ones really do deeply love you;

they hesitate and do not speak, not sure of what to say, so

scared of hurting you, lest you take flight and hide away.

*

Let me tell them then, who love you, of the things you cannot say,

that life is so frustrating dealing with each muddled day;

there are times you know you need them, and times too when you don’t;

why do they get so angry when you rock the blasted boat?

*

I am here, an intermediary, only a step away – I wait,

knowing I could stand between those close to you who care;

now, you must learn to trust me, that I see both sides and know,

I am the answer to your question: look around you, I am here.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1994

You can read an interesting blog post about conditions and riots in 1965 at Mt Eden Prison by a fellow New Zealand, here:

Poetry, live

I attended a live poetry reading Auckland some years ago. Here's what I saw...

It was an outdoor setting; brick-floored with a large canvas sail-like covering suspended above. Three large gas heaters on stands warmed us as it began to get chilly. A bar to one side kept a few whistles wet and awakened in one young man the desire to show what an idiot he was by opening his mouth and blurting some form of poetry at the wrong time. But poets are long-suffering people and those of us who kept our senses smiled with a shake of the head while the rest appeared to enjoy the silly boy's blatherings.

A young woman was announced greeted by shouts, claps and boisterous whoops aplenty as she took her place by the microphone. Slim and nicely dressed her clean and presentable look marred somewhat by the heavy black boots peeping from the hem of her long dress. Incongruous to such a dainty form I thought.
Then I saw someone else. I thought him to be some oddball who had wandered in from the doolally group; out for a brief time away from his fellow inmates in the drug rehabilitation centre. I was wrong; he was in fact the guest poet for the evening.

He presented well … I mean you couldn't miss this chap, clothed in a long black jacket, tallish black hat, clerical collar and wearing two crosses around his neck. His pants were a shiny black vinyl and got me wondering how he managed to sit down safely in them. His feet sported very high heeled boots and explained his difficulty in walking which I at first put down to too much pre-presentation plonk. The boots were painted aluminium for effect. It worked; he looked a proper Charlie, with apologies to Charlie. His pièce de résistance were his glasses; they had small light bulbs fitted to each wing looking out at us. When his performance started, these bulbs lit up … as if to say, ‘stand by, motor running’ ...but for all that I only wish those bulbs would have shed some light on what he was saying.

A fellow poet sitting next to me explained that this was an evening of performance poetry, and that the musician tuning up beside the guest poet was his musical backing. (The rest of this particular musician's performance varied from the warm-up only in that it was more bizarre: a cross between an extremely naughty brat at kindergarten who refuses to stop banging away on the old piano and a young unwashed pale-faced overdosed organist away on cloud nine in one of the ultra-modern barns where people hold religious services these days. Whatever else he was supposed to be doing on his amplified electronic keyboard with side-drum … music, it was not.)

The lady announcer introduced the guest poet and a hush fell on the assembled folk. A number of them were half under the table with the drinks already consumed. The guest looked at his notes on the stand before him, lifted his right hand towards his accompanist and it seemed as if all hell had been let loose for he carried on as if he had to use every note on that confounded keyboard. Once that was out of the way he chose different notes at random aiming wild swipes at the drum by his side. At some point this intro’ must have concluded for he then took up a piece of equipment that took us all by surprise. He placed a small loud-hailer to his lips, brought himself right up to the microphone and blew a continuous stream of notes at us, the sound distorted beyond recognition until he'd finished.

It did solve two problems for him though; it drowned out any heckling that might have arisen while freeing him from saying anything to support his performance. He had several sheets of paper which fell off the music stand in front of him but they all appeared blank from where I was sitting, which says it all really. Once or twice in the odd pause I did hear the kind of obscenities one hears at the freezing works, which shocked me really being of a sensitive nature; ladies were present too.

I half expected the management heavies to deal with him but they were nowhere to be seen. That's an unusual combination I thought, heavies with some nouse. The obscenities unfortunately encouraged some in the audience to give loud whoops and claps, the kind you hear from inane TV shows at times, and the performance went on, rather too long. He finished with little in the way of applause even from the whoopers.
Oh, but it was such a relief when he'd stopped.

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

A sentimental mood

‘Are you in a sentimental mood?’ asks Sir William Schwenck Gilbert in the 'Mikado', and then goes on to say, ‘I’ll sigh with you,’ (which is rather nice of him I think).

Most of us can get sentimental at times, especially at Christmas. I do; it’s the suitcase crammed with photographs, you see. It’s the time I usually get them out, to sift through and reminisce. One of them will start me off; I’ll smile, then shed a tear or two and sigh.

One such photograph shows four youngsters gathered round an open fireplace with one peering up the chimney; the fire is out, stockings hang from the mantelpiece and the caption reads: ‘Waiting for Father Christmas’. The year is 1934; the place is a home for children in Preston, Lancashire, England (the Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home)…and I am the boy peering up the chimney. This brings back memories because that was the first time that the meaning of Christmas, Father Christmas and presents began to seep through to my understanding.

A few days after the photograph was taken, all the children in the Home were gathered together in the main room. Let’s imagine we are there…It is evening. Christmas decorations, holly with cheerful red berries, a Christmas tree and candle-light, have all transformed the normally drab, uninteresting room into a warm and happy place to be. In a semi-circle sitting cross-legged on the floor are the children, a steady murmur rising from their midst. At the front sit the two sisters who looked after us, lovely in their crisp white uniforms. On their right, the dark-suited superintendent sits with his rather severe bespectacled wife who keeps an eye on the girl’s wing, and behind them, several members of the committee who run the Home…

(Generally life had its predictability: the boys were separated from the girls except for meals and church-going; the boys big from the small; and on visiting days, some going off with relatives while the rest went nowhere, making the days monotonously and long.)

Today was exciting, even though I’d learned it wasn’t wise to get too excited about things; sometimes it was all for nothing and the expected event didn’t happen. But this time it was different. This time we were all together and for the first time something about the meaning of the word ‘home’ became more real and emotionally satisfying.

We had games, and after that we sang carols, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I heard the boys and girls singing up close. It was wonderful, with a kind of magic in the air because everyone was happy.

Then came the big event: Father Christmas arrived, and after a few friendly words he opened the big sack in front of him and began calling out the names on each present he brought out. A steady stream of boys and girls walked forward, received a gift and returning smiling to their places. The good folk of Preston and the surrounding districts tried to make Christmas as cheerful as they could for all of us children in the Home, despite the Depression, with unemployment or poor wages being widespread throughout most countries of the world. Thankfully, I was blissfully unaware of such things at that time.

Meanwhile, back in the main hall, I was still waiting for my name to be called and the sack was looking decidedly limp, while almost everyone around me was buzzing with excited chatter as they compared gifts with each other. I was still waiting and getting worried. A short time later Father Christmas asked if everyone had received their present. I said nothing, my face burning as I felt too left out and shy to speak up. My friends nudged me and whispered, ‘Speak up, our Den!’, but I didn’t; I was too close to tears. Father Christmas called again, turning as if to put his sack to one side, and from somewhere inside of me I found the gumption to call out in a voice that sounded a long way off, ‘I ‘aven’t got one’. A hush fell, or so it seemed to me. The two sisters knew immediately who it was that had spoken; they’d looked after me since I was two and a half years of age, and one of them whispered something to Father Christmas who looked around and smiling called, ‘Who was that?’

Thus encouraged, I spoke again. ‘Me, I ‘aven’t got a present yet’. A sympathetic murmuring rippled around the room as Father Christmas called out, ‘Come on then, young Dennis. Let’s see what I’ve got here for you.’ Everything was sorted out, of course. I got my present and a special hug from the two sisters along with kisses, in front of all those people too; and it made feel heaps better.

In 1965 I was living in Auckland, New Zealand, and I learned from a friend that the two sisters who knew and cared for me at the Home when I was a boy were living a short distance away, and would like to meet me and my family. My friend gave me their address and phone number, and yes, they were same two sisters: Sisters Mary and Anne Smith. After the hugs and greetings, and cups of tea, they gave me a photo of our time at the Home. It’s a large black and white photo showing a group of boys and girls playing in some sand; Sister Mary Smith along with another adult, sat on two chairs keeping watch over us. I stand out as the boy with a small patch of ring-worm on my scalp, while a short distance away, my sister Jean is playing there too. We had a great reunion with Mary and Anne Smith, who became firm friends of my wife and honorary aunts to our daughters until the sisters died…and of course, now I’m in a sentimental mood all over again.

Me, third boy from the left. My sister Jean, centre front girl, sitting on her knees. Sister Mary Smith, centre seated at the back.

Dennis Crompton © 1996
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Go on, feel my breast!

This is a true story, written to describe an event that occurred during my time as a Baptist minister in Auckland, New Zealand.

I was never quite sure what kind of reception I’d receive from the different people I’d visit as minister of the church they attended then; being in the oldest part of the city of Auckland, New Zealand. Most of my calls were to elderly folk who I found entertaining in a variety of ways, for there was a kind of formula to follow, and I couldn’t proceed to the next call on my list until it had been completed. On a few occasions the pattern would take an unexpected twist; this is one of those.

The lady I visited that day was rather well-proportioned who carried all before her, so to speak. I was invited inside with the usual warm smile and breezy comments about the weather, the garden, her husband who was out at the time, and the cat which was too often in. We moved to her spacious lounge, I sank back on a well-cushioned seat and onto stage one of the formula.

We discussed my home and family; the church and its elderly members; her husband, one of the pillars of the church given to outbursts of suggestions for the improvement of the services; the buildings and the membership. An effervescent man, likeable, even when red in the face and dangerously close to bursting a blood vessel as he suggested the line that would be profitable for me and the church to take.

Stage two: tea and dainties time arrived and then with the things cleared away a little later, after a word of prayer together it was time to leave. I made my way to the front door and began my farewells and these were going well when I was stopped by her mentioning her health. Large-bosomed, warm-hearted, carefree lady that she was, she was however a little doubtful about a small lump that had appeared. A lump, my mind thought? She went on: ‘My doctor said it was nothing.’ She wasn’t sure though.

Stage three: ‘They don’t know everything do they’, she said softly, her face coming closer to mine, and, speaking in rather a husky voice came the question:’ What do you think?’ She looked at me, eyes smiling. She didn’t seem to be too worried I thought as she was feeling her left breast. Well part of it, she couldn’t possibly handle all of that at one go I thought. It’s there!’ she said, moving the wobbly item about with her fingers. ‘Not a big lump, but it’s there. Feel it!’  My heart thumped wildly; we’d been warned in our lectures at theological college that things of this nature might happen. We were standing on her front doorstep, clearly visible to the people passing on the main street. My mind filled with pictures of people stopping to watch; maybe they’d get ideas too! Maybe they’d be witnesses later at my trial. What was I to do?

She was smiling: ‘Go on, feel my breast. It’s alright. Just feel it!’ Then my hand seemed suddenly to have a mind of its own, for it did reach out and it did feel something. Whether it was the lump she meant, or thought she had I’ll never know. Thankfully she seemed satisfied with whatever it was I murmured to her about it. I’d complied with her wishes and I found myself walking down the street thinking to myself: ‘I’ve just been invited to touch her beast!’

You’ll be pleased to know that I heard no more about it. I did tell my wife later that day and she dissolved into laughter and fortunately I joined in too. It was too big a burden for me to carry around for the rest of my ministerial life. The lady and lump are both gone, some years ago now and you’ll be interested to know that I was never again asked: ‘What do you think?’ in such an open way again.

Dennis Crompton. © 1995
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)