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:

Smuggling

The wind blew wild on the coast of Kent as I went to join my father. It was bitterly cold where he waited on the promontory out of Dungeness. The work my father put into selling his wool to weavers in France was threatened by the duties imposed by the government, and danger lurked everywhere now. My father and his friends vainly sought the help of the local squire, and now they could lose all they'd worked for.

But recently, they learned that some of their fellow wool-growers had formed a group known as the 'Owlers'. They'd banded together to smuggle their wool across the English Channel to France, paying no duties at all. They'd felt guilty at first but the duties kept increasing, and so, in desperation, Father joined them.

Then things got worse. The government brought in maiming as a punishment for smugglers. Yesterday an Owler caught off Romney Marsh, died, when the shock of losing his hand killed him. But risks had to be taken just to survive. The weather and the sea could be their enemies, bales were lost overboard and sailors, sometimes. Why, Owlers had even been betrayed in France.

As Father and I waited together on that wild Kent coast, he told me of James Darlington, excise man, who was new to the district. He'd been responsible for capturing smugglers in Cornwall and had begun boasting that he'd do the same here.

'A man with a passion for doing his duty is fine when England's at war'; said my father to me. 'But when it means the ruin of working folk, it's wrong. I only hope I don't come across Mrs Darlington's lad, James, on these marshes, 'cause one of us won't be going home.'

They did meet; years ago now. But it was Father who died that terrible night in the battle that ensued, and our family eventually lost the farm as well. James Darlington, excise man, retired with a pension and lived handsomely atop the cliffs overlooking Shepway.

Yes, life was hard then. I remembered Father's words: ‘Justice is fine for those who have no need of it.’

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Smuggling: information from www.smuggler.co.uk

The wool smugglers of Kent generally, and Romney Marsh in particular, were called 'Owlers'. There has long been debate about how they acquired this name, and people have advanced various romantic theories, mostly centred around owls — the smugglers hunted at night, so they took the name of the nocturnal bird; or they signalled to each other by hooting like owls. The most prosaic explanation, and probably the most likely, is that 'owler' is just a corruption of 'wooler', which was a common name for anyone processing wool.