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:

I saw the doc' today

I saw the doc' today.

Things are okay, but...

Better have it checked,

exercise ECG for you, he said.

I, of course, agreed.

*

I've seen pictures

of a treadmill in a prison.

Dreadful thing to torture humans on.

Grey lives made grayer,

to pay for crimes that

never could be paid for;

they hardly saw the light of day.

*

Thankfully the one awaiting me

is part of modern therapy,

hooked up to such gadgetry

it will record how I do

or don't perform, heart stressed

and under pressure...

*

From the data, all being well,

specialists will then meditate,

then medicate, and hopefully

I'll say: The doc' saw me today.

*

© Dennis Crompton 1996

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Have you...?

Henri Matisse
1869 - 1954
Le bonheur de vivre” (“The joy of life”)

Have you grasped the greatness of your being,

discerned somehow there’s a purpose in your life,

a miracle beyond present comprehension,

been reassured by glimmers of inner light?

*

Have you midst your everyday occupation,

or solitary, on some quiet evening stroll,

been overwhelmed on hearing strains of music

in harmony with a soul-song of your own?

*

Have you been present at birth’s miracle,

heard, as she heard with her Mum, a babe’s first cry;

then later, wondered at her first simple sentence,

new life communicate with her waiting world?

*

Have you experienced the truest joys of friendship,

somewhere on your life’s journeyings,

breaking bread in the company of some stranger,

departing more complete for such time spent?

*

Have you thought on those circumstances manipulated

in this world’s prisons with greater flaws than yours;

seen the world through their dehumanizing barriers,

as cruelly restrained as bars or cold stone walls?

*

Have you had the privilege to be present,

hearing last thoughts of another’s whispered words,

holding their hand, caring and farewelling,

knowing you were a comfort at their end?

*

Have you felt the true worth of your being,

that magic ‘something’ deep within your soul;

that come what may and though your very world

did tremble round you … all would be well?

*

Should this have been your fortunate experience,

then blessed are you, a thousand times I say;

and I pray that now this privileged possession

you’ll somehow share with us of lesser clay.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Preston: school and prison

The Wesleyan Methodist School in St Mary's Street was the school I attended when we left Longridge to live in Preston around 1942. Across from the school was a small door set in very high brick wall that was almost a complete square. Inside was the Preston prison, complete with treadmill, for the prisoners to exercise on.

During World War II, on a siren warning of possible enemy action, all the pupils and staff from the school walked across the road, through the small door to the prison and into the air-raid shelters dug into the prison grounds. We never had to use them in the event of real enemy action but we did practice getting to them a few times.

As an older man, I used to shock some people by saying (with a serious look on my face), that I had to confess to a lie I had told when I joined the British Army and then the Royal New Zealand Air Force: that I had never been to prison ... then told them the above.

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