Andorf's journey

I once went to a writer’s workshop with a woman called Rene, in Cambridge, a small town an hour’s drive from where I live, attended by eight or so writers from the district. Rene opened her session by asking us to jot down anything that we hadn’t thought of writing about before, just short headings to get our imaginations going. Fifteen minutes later, several of us were asked to speak briefly about our topic, I was one who volunteered among two others.

Andorf’s journey is the finished item, started at that workshop:

Andorf’s heart was lighter now that the village was behind them, hoping he’d done the right thing. So many people were dying because of the plague and although it had not yet reached his village, it soon would. His sister, Claire, was not strong but she seemed to be managing all right as they made their journey to another village, considered safer, as it was less frequented by travellers likely to bring the disease from other parts. He looked at Claire again and told her they’d have another rest when they reached the next mile stone.
As they walked his mind thought about the healer, and he seized on that positive thought, held it, wanting to explore and maybe even experience some of the things he’d heard about him. He’d guessed that much was exaggerated, but found it absorbing.

‘Oh … the healer’, a pedlar had replied to his question, ‘Oh yes, he’s a wonder is that man. You know he washes himself … every day!’

Strange, doing that, Andorf thought; still there must be something to it. Then he smiled as he recalled somebody adding, ‘Then there’s the kind of stuff he eats. I don’t know that I could eat nettles. Fancy that. Just the tops mind you.’ And then just a few days ago, he heard an old woman explaining the things she’d seen the healer collect from the woods one day.

Andorf paused to remove a piece of gravel from his sandal and noticed with some concern that Claire had dropped behind as they’d been walking. ‘It’s all right … just a bit out of breath. Give me a few minutes …’ she murmured softly, trying to smile as she looked at him. She was looking quite tired thought Andorf, and he felt a tugging at his throat as a sudden fear came upon him. We still have another seven and a half miles to go and it’s well past noon day, he thought. Perhaps we should have waited a few more days for her to gain more strength. But he knew as he thought that, that it wasn’t true. She came only because I insisted, he chastised himself. If she dies on the way … and he couldn’t prevent a slight sob escaping from his tight lips. As their eyes met, he coughed to hide his embarrassment and gently helped her to her feet.

They walked the rest of the way together, his arm around his sister’s waist and as they reached the next mile stone, they left the road and found a place for her to sit and rest again. Now it was only seven miles but as he looked at his sister again a sudden rush of deep concern quickened his pulse, her face was quite pale and there was a touch of beauty there now that he had not seen before, of such depth and quality, surpassing even those in the pictures on the stained-glass windows in the abbey. Then he was suddenly afraid for her and turned away lest she should see the sadness on his face.

After a while they continued slowly on past two, and then three, more mile stones, joined by others heading in the same direction. Claire was heavier on his arm now, her strength slipping away with each step. The state of the road was no help, with deep ruts filled with filthy water which they had to wade through as there was no way round them. Occasionally they’d come to a grove of trees where it was cool and refreshing and the desire to linger and rest was so inviting. But Andorf was afraid to stop, even when they came to a number of hamlets, wretched dilapidated places where people were so poor it made his heart heavy just to look at them. He blinked away the tears that seeped down into his eyes, increasing the anguish he felt for Claire, so frail and still so beautiful. Her quiet spirit and light infectious laughter had often been the cause of lifting him from some wearisome task, it would break his heart if … and he would not let himself think on but knelt down pretending to retie the thong on his left sandal to give him a moment to recover his composure. How dirty his feet were now and the nail on his big toe …then with a sudden panic he heard a low moan from Claire and turning saw her slump to her knees, her eyes staring and wide open before he could reach her, frightened him.

From one of the doors to his right the figure of a middle-aged woman came running to kneel beside Claire before he could get to his feet, she was talking quietly to her. Then even as he reached her side Claire looked at him, smiled, then closed her eyes as her head fell back onto the woman’s arms. For a moment Andorf couldn’t move, his feet and legs did not respond to his purpose to move, his voice locked within his tightening chest and he felt as if his heart would burst … and that moment seemed so very long. It ended with him feeling weak and empty as if his knees would suddenly give way beneath him as slowly but clearly Andorf knew. Something had gone from his sister, Claire. She was now an empty shell and void of life and in that dread moment, he changed from youth to man.

Somehow it passed and he left the darkness of that scene behind him, the road to the monastery seemed to lift his spirit with each step, as if some purpose for which he had been born was about to be fulfilled. He wondered how things would be for him in such a place and felt again the note inside his doublet, written by the priest who had told him of the healer and his work. Reassured, he continued on his way even though he knew only a handful of novices were taken in each year, now looking cold and forbidding in the distance.
The rising sun soon warmed him as he climbed the hill and knocked at last upon the heavy oaken door. Later that afternoon he was taken in to see the healer, who looked at him for some time before he spoke: ‘Well Andorf, you would like to join our Brotherhood then? Sit down now and tell me something about yourself.’ The voice was quiet and soothing, filled with warmth and encouragement; then the healer listened as Andorf told him of his journey.

Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

An ordinary bloke

I remember him fairly well,

an ordinary bloke

lived alone down our street,

one of the lads.

So ordinary, we hardly knew he was there,

never said much, a quiet one,

never did much …

he was just there …

one of the lads.

 *

Ambition? Some said he had none,

never showed much if he had;

sarcasm hit him when he tried,

crushed him when he succeeded …

saw the end of him did that …

stayed an ordinary bloke,

yes … one of the lads.

 *

He did have feelings … ordinaries do ...

let his emotions show,

laughed at permitting tears to fall

when some friend or animal died,

a quiet, ordinary, feeling bloke,

yes … one of the lads.

*

Not so ordinary when his country went to war,

ordinary blokes volunteered or were conscripted,

trained and sent to distant shore …

he’s there today … somewhere out there,

numbered under a military stone …

yes … a quiet, feeling, dead ordinary bloke,

one of the lads … ordinary no more.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

A time of remembrance

He’d been married three years, was enjoying life with his wife and daughter, everything was going well for them…and then the war broke out. He tried to ignore the inevitable and get on with life, together with his family but knew he’d have to leave them in the end. He was just a country lad who loved the land and animals, not up with politics and such; he just wanted - well - to be left alone and to be with his family.

Of course that couldn’t be, not with his country at war; he was a man and was expected to fight. It didn’t matter where he went, there was always something to remind him; flags flying, patriotic posters in prominent places, men and women in uniform; that and the questions folk asked, without even speaking when they saw him.

His heart was heavy; something seemed to warn him not to go; on his own sometimes he’d get a kind of a premonition, though he wasn’t superstitious. A voice, warm and proud whispering, ‘You’re going to be a hero. You’ll get a medal!’ Then a different voice, cold and matter of fact, taunted, ‘Because you’re one of those warm and sensitive types, you have to realise some things; those you leave behind; those who order you to go and those who train you, won’t have to see you shoot your rifle, use your bayonet as you advance, screaming your insane head off; and in the state you’ll be in after that, well, it’s best you don’t come back. You can see that, can’t you? But then, your country will be proud of you; you’ll be a hero!’

Of course he slept badly, waking often, imagining himself staring at his own gravestone; his name standing out amongst row upon regimental row of others, neat and trim and: ‘Ready for inspection! Sir!’

...

Whether they accomplished anything by their visits to the cemetery at Cape Helles, would be hard to say; but his beloved and his daughter placed fresh flowers on the small white slab beneath his name plate each time they went. Like all wives and family members after such visits, they both left feeling drained and unutterably sad, hating the stupid waste of it all. They left heartaches and tears as well, but you can’t record those, can you?

*

A fellow member of the Returned Services Association told me this story after he’d been to take a photograph of the battlefield where the Turkish soldier and the R.S.A. chap’s friend, a Kiwi solider, fell and died. It was through one of those strange coincidences life throws up at you sometimes, that he came to know this chap’s wife and daughter and they established a firm friendship. They met in that Turkish cemetery that day and took a photograph of his grave. The inscription read simply: ‘Private Talat Demisar, aged 22 years. He did his duty’.

And from a short distance away, the haunting strains of the Last Post hung in the quiet air as the three of them remembered, together.

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

Becoming a father changed all that...

Unidentified girls, Spanish Civil War

My friend, Robert asked me one day,

What did Hiroshima mean to you as a young man?’

 *

Well … nothing really, I’d never thought much about it, I said,

back then in 1945, I was only fifteen and patriotic,

I mean, I saw around me bomb damaged houses,

streets of them and lots of temporarily bomb-shocked humans, vacant-eyed …

scrambled-minded wrecks shuffling along the streets of my home town.

I heard the pilot-less flying bomb one night, its engine suddenly quiet overhead,

felt my heart thumping loudly in that sudden … very frightening silence

I hear it yet at times and if I should perchance forget,

I can Google it onto my computer screen - if I wish…

 *

Ground Zero for Hiroshima, August of that same year …

Oh yes! They reaped Churchill’s promised whirlwind

and that was fine by me.

 *

Becoming a father changed all that, it sure changed me…

it gave Hiroshima a meaning, a meaning that was thrust upon me one day

when I imagined my daughters there, back then, and thankfully

I’d lost my soul-destroying callowness…

 *

Now I’m part of that history, have changed, am changing now

with still more to come …

so in a way, Hiroshima had a point,

for all of us, I’d say.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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

A bruised reed

This is written about my older sister, Jean.

*

In the strongest metal there’s a point that’s weak

when fatigue or constant grinding tension

slowly drains the soul out of the metal

dissipating whatever strength is left.

 *

She was strong, could face up to situations almost overpowering

but underneath, inside, the daily battles took their toll.

I, her brother, close enough to advise her

could not prevent his hold over her;

she later married this head and feet of clay.

 *

Oh, it was fine at first, displaying supposed married love;

alas his strength was in his arm, not in his head, and

as a brute drunkenly abused, a bruised reed did make her;

until she finally left, that old so sad and familiar story.

 *

I went to see him, angry yet quite in fear of him one day,

he towering above me listened as I talked him down to size.

I threatened him and even as I trembled I took strength,

for he was near weeping as I warned him not to offend again.

 *

Later, travelling with her on a late night bus,

I sensed some vital spark had been submerged or lost,

still tried to comfort, reassure, suggesting

the future still held promise, that not all was lost.

 *

I wondered then, how such men could answer to that name,

to use their strength to subjugate a weaker frame;

from liquid daily his false courage drew,

his mates joined in and so the monster grew.

 *

Her hair is white now, her step less firm,

her heart still beats, and though oft the memory stirs …

around her feet, her offspring brighten up her day,

all was not lost to so-called manhood on that wedding day.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(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)

With these eyes I have seen

I have seen with these eyes

things to make me wonder, weep or cry;

been lifted up and cast down too

by the kaleidoscopic gamut

of happenings around.

*

Seen troops of chattering children

free from classrooms’ confining walls,

learning as they strolled hand in hand

along widening enlightening roads.

*

Frail elderlies too, sedate, composed

on their daily walk to town…when,

a sudden swirl of wheeling birds

brings them joy in the sunny air.

*

From trailer hitched to back of truck

stare two soft eyes, lovely and brown

a patient cow from out of town…

now comes a fat and friendly Labrador,

his coat a glossy black

lightly trots his sniffing round

pink tongue peeps from smiling mouth.

*

Be careful now!…he’s on the road,

inspecting something lying there;

hedgehog squashed, exposed, obscene

too late on snail patrol he’d seen

oncoming vehicle lights surprised

and just as suddenly, he died.

*

Here comes a silent, sad-faced gentleman

hurting deeply at employment lost;

services no longer required; sorry,

must lay you off, says his younger efficient boss.

*

There is beauty, wonder, sadness, love…

yes, all these things for me are free.

I can select, absorb, ignore or shut out,

the choice is mine, you see…

from my store of mind-pictures

sometimes deep emotions stir,

make me one with all mankind…

silent at night or away on my own

the call me from the library of my mind.

*

Then warmed or weeping, bless the thought:

‘These things I’ve seen I can share with you’.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

Abstract journey

Through all the years I’ve lived,

there was a time, I, as part of a family

experienced being a boy - growing up -

leaving home and country…

*

Experience being accepted,

learning different customs,

being appreciated for what I could do,

for what I could become;

for my potential … and just for being me.

*

Enjoying marriage, becoming a husband and a father;

holding close each of our three precious daughters,

heart thrilling, eyes brimming

at the wonder of their birth and their development,

and later for our summer evening cabin story times…

*

So many other things came my way

all for a time and a purpose

possible with my body and my humanity.

*

These have been times I have rejoiced,

senses alive, quickened … by eye, ear or touch … gloriously so,

reaching into my innermost being, making my soul to sing

blessings by a different name - man made from human to human -

we bring the possibility of such blessings with us;

part of our endowment, there to be used and enjoyed.

*

It has been with some sadness too, the opposite quickening,

as the bitter and the sweet need the one to justify the other,

else were the one on its own too much to bear …

*

Who can fathom the making of Man

composed of such variety of constituent parts;

Physical, mental, spiritual, the visible and the invisible,

what turning, mixing, confusing or clarified using

of the human brain in the act of thinking…

*

What marvellous variety of abstract journeys

our imagination can take us on,

with such wide ranging expressions and emotions

is each human born,

fearfully and wonderfully … and for a time and a purpose.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

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

Things unspoken...

Long ago in distant past

Big Bang theory or some Divine plan,

‘midst swirling dust plus cosmic radiation

began the continuum of exploration.

*

Male and female came to be

dwellers outside eternity,

naked learned to cover up

hide the erotic bits of fluff.

*

A given time to live a life,

man sets forth to seek a wife,

time to raise their progeny

then launch them their destiny.

*

Learning, I find on looking back

depends on background and on stock,

these and other abstract things

partly interact on me;

shaped my thoughts and actions so

but must not rock the blasted boat.

*

I’m a man but must not show

when my feelings are hurting so…

Set out to find the real me

why my true feelings I disguise;

how to be father and husband too

provide and protect all that is mine;

be a man and not a child

pretend I’m brave when I want to cry.

*

At last I discover my human clay

holds basic rights to have my say…

so I make my personal plea

since I’ve not sought to make me, thee;

for God’s sake leave me, let me be…

all that I was meant to be!

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

A step into reality

There was one August Bank holiday in England that stands out very clearly in my mind as a nine year old boy. It was 1938, and the once a year passenger train would travel up the line from Preston to Longridge for the event; a distance of about seven miles. At all other times, only goods trains travelled the line.

By gum, it’s quiet, I thought to myself as I walked over to the style in the stone wall across the street from where we lived, the vantage point where I kept my eye on things. It was about 9.15 in the morning, it was a Saturday in August, and the weather was warm. There should have been people about; they couldn’t all be sleeping in, I thought.

Then my ears caught the faint shrill sound of a distant train whistle and I turned to face the direction of the railway line. Yes, there it was, pulling up the slight incline with a line of carriages behind it; puffing and panting, smoke and sparks flying out of the engine funnel. Of course! The realisation now came to me; it was the Holiday Train, come to take the folks of Longridge to Preston and then on to Blackpool holiday resort by the sea.

I remember suddenly getting quite agitated thinking of who I could ask so that I might be able to go too, knowing deep down that it wasn’t possible but my mind just wouldn’t let go of the idea. My excitement at seeing the train made my brain think fast and furiously: ‘What could I do to make it possible for me to go?’ Then the train whistle sounded again and…oh…it’s coming back down again! Little sounds of frustration bubbled up from my stomach and throat, in small, panicky snatches as I hopped from one foot to the other. It was all so unfair, I thought to myself very close to tears now.

The train was slowly picking up speed as it moved down the incline, its carriages crammed full of people leaning out of every window, waving or holding long, coloured streamers of paper and calling out happily to other people leaning out of their windows. As their journey began, they were unaware of the lonely boy standing on the style, watching them go with a very heavy heart, taking another step on his journey into the world of reality.

All too soon it was quiet again; there was no one else around and my mind turned over the various reasons why it wasn’t possible for me to have gone to Blackpool too. It was all very clear, really. We just couldn’t afford it. I knew that if it had been possible Dad would have made sure that I was on that train.

I didn’t tell anyone how I felt at that moment; we all had to face such times of disappointment; so I wiped away my tears and after a while found something else to occupy my mind.

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

Sometimes...

So many times I have wondered how my mother felt about me. I never knew her; she died when I was one year old. Part of this poem covers those thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder at how I came to be…

From two separate entities preparing parts of me;

mother and father, loving ecstasy,

nine months later then entranced ME!

*

Sometimes I wonder what Mother’s thoughts had been,

the moment her eyes first gazed at precious me;

tired and aching reaching out to me,

held me, kissed me…then whispered, what?…to me?

*

Sometimes I wonder at the sights I came to see,

living earth, clouds and sky, ever changing scenes;

birds and beasts, fish in the sea…

the colours of nature all wondrous and free.

*

Sometimes I wonder at what life is all about;

winter and summer, floods and droughts;

the bitter, the sweet, certainty and doubt;

living and dying, a whimper, a shout.

*

Sometimes I wonder at the living mystery

of skin, blood and bone forming the visible part of me,

clothing the invisible you see as me;

sometimes I wonder…now, which is the real me?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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

Another side

Oh, but he was handsome,
with his dark eyes,
sparkling teeth,
and ready smile upon his cheeks.
And yes, I kind of envied him.

*

Pommie joker back in 1954,
I, along with others,
soon was settling down,
learning a trade along with Jeff,
saw another side of this man.

*

He was married, with a child,
his wife, good looking, wanted more.
Other guys offered, were accepted.
Jeff became worn and much neglected,
tried so hard to reach his objective.

*

Each day he struggled to maintain
a smiling face, make home a base,
and rumours false, some maybe true,
said she was an angel or a shrew.

*
And oh, I felt so sad for him.

I was not close enough to support him.
Said not a word lest it should throw him.

*
He lost his family and occupation,
then laid with pad between his teeth
was shocked and convulsed as medication.

I saw him sometimes after his therapy,
hardly recognised the shuffling effigy.
Gone were the things I once had coveted,
sadly wondering how this could be tolerated.
And oh it was so sad to see him.

 *

I was quite a young man then,
yet I can't forget my friend.
He had so much of what I wanted,
good looks, dark hair and sparkling teeth,
a lovely child and so-called help-meet.

 *

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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

Lost love

I still have so much to learn
about myself, the wonders of my being.
I claim to be myself,
no want have I to imitate another.

*

Yet how shamefully some treat me,
they care not for my tears,
with words that sear they penetrate my soul,
and laugh derisive seeking to destroy.

*

They think I do not care, think I do not feel,
that because I'm quiet then I must be weak…
but I am who I am and they do me a great wrong
dismissing me with sarcasm and their belittling scorn.

*

How else can it be, my outer form betrays me …
hides the deepest longings of my heart?
My failing spirit weakens my resolve,
I cannot lift my face to look at you
my weeping eyes, they blind me,
and you cannot see how deep the love lies there.

*

My stuttering lips, they fail me,
and so I speak not how I yearn for love…
and if I could my voice would break with sorrow,
the words are there, but locked within my breast.

*

Alone amidst surrounding throngs
I sought the eyes that maybe searched for mine.
I had so much to give,
to share with someone else who cared.

*
I sought a warm embrace,
and lips to kiss and our desires to share.
I sought a loving heart,
one with mine that to the heavens might rise.

Once, an ecstasy flowed through me…
her eyes on mine did set me all aglow.

*
Her smile, her voice, her touch,
her presence near, with rapturous delight
did make my spirit to the heavens fly.

*

She was an angel, I a mere mortal, and with
all my senses captured at her feet I fell.
Sadly, as the sun's rays kindle life in spring,
alas will also blind the one who looks too long.

*

So the heart that careless of my love outpoured,
lost love, of the one who to the end adored.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

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

Angels guard thee

Sometimes in my sleep, when I am least on my guard, somewhere just below the fully conscious surface of my mind, I realise that I am weeping. Not the surface weeping restricted by thoughts of what people would think of me, but a deep sobbing, as if some control gates have opened releasing a built-up flood behind them.
There is something quite profound and reassuringly therapeutic about what is happening that I want it to continue for a while. It is accompanied by a desire that someone be present to witness with me what is happening, as if without it, the event will not carry sufficient weight to be a sustainable therapy for me.

I've tried to think through why this has happened and reason that it is in order that some kind of rebalancing can take place. In various places around the world we can find fresh springs of water. We know that some force below is pushing the water to the surface. Those who have studied these things will have a good explanation of how this comes about.

But what causes our weeping to rise from the depths of our unconscious being? I guess psychologists and therapists of one kind or another will have their explanations. Certainly we're fortunate to possess this inbuilt safety device which detects when parts of our system have reached a dangerous level and must be dealt with. Fully conscious, our personality fights against reducing this danger by the normal process of weeping. I know my system has been influenced and shaped in the past by the false premises of: Be a man. Men don't weep. Only weak people cry. It won't do for people to see you weeping…

Fortunately we are wiser today. Counselling is provided for those in highly stressed occupations, such as the fire service, ambulance and police. These people know that at any time they can call on the services of a trained counsellor to help them whenever they feel their inner stress is becoming too much for them to cope. I am thankful for that part of my system, which like guardian angels, keeps watch, helping me to weep when things become too much.

Now cracks a noble heart.
Good-night, sweet prince.
And flights of angels
sing thee to thy rest!

Hamlet v/1.373

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