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:

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)

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)

Memories of my early days

I don’t know if anyone is ever quite sure when speaking or writing about one's early days, whether what they recall is really a memory of the event, or a mixture of what happened and what you have been told has happened. My first memory is this: I vaguely remember being in a room where there was activity all around me, with folk going out somewhere while I remained where I was, which was under a table eating cake apparently…(this from my brother, Fred, who found it amusing).

My next memory is of lying in a cot on the first floor of Shepherd Street Mission Children's Home in Oxford Street, Preston, listening to the sounds from the street below. The window of my room was immediately about the entrance to the home. I was cared for at this time by Sister Mary Smith but I have no real memory of this care, only of having my bed apple-pied one night and not being able to sleep properly. At some stage I slipped out of the trap by wriggling above the sheets. This took place in the girl's wing where the small room for infants was.

Then I was moved over to the boy’s wing where my brother Fred introduced himself to me, and for the first time I felt a person in my own right. My two sisters, Hilda and Jean, were in the girl’s wing. The few things I remember happening there is of bath time, when the bed I occupied was closest to the bathroom door and a constant stream of lads came and went, smelling of soap and looking fresh and clean. I don't remember having any baths myself, only of one boy who, the first time he saw me, came over to me in this area, put me down on the floor then picked my up by the feet and let my head bump on the hard floor. It gave me a splitting headache but nobody knew and I slept it off anyway. He's in a photo I have; four lads standing around a rocking horse. I'm seated, the rest are standing close by. I think he could have resented not being on the horse himself.

I wasn't unhappy there; the days seemed to pass without my being aware of much. I went to school and came back up a cobble stone street with gas lamps to light the way in winter. On the way back one day, a small white dog yapped at me and gave me a nip on my hand which made me cry and with no one around to care for me it just became another small event that registered.

The small boys sat at one long table for meals, with the big boys at another table. Nothing stand out about the meals except that on rare occasions we had a dab of golden syrup on our bread, and in winter we lined up for a rare spoonful of malt, which I enjoyed. We might all have used the same spoon too.

We all dressed in grey pants and shirts, although at one stage after my move from the infants to the boy’s wing, I wore a grey pullover over darker coloured pants. One photo shows a button missing, and the pants were held them up with cloth straps for braces. I'd tied the strap through a hole I made where the button had been, making me lean forward a bit to compensate.

Our jackets and caps were on hooks in a small area just outside the door of the dining room, which was also our day room. A great jumble of coats and caps hung there and you had to remember just where you'd hung yours every time you needed them. So as far as having any place to call your own, there wasn't one.
On Sundays the girls would come over to our day room, someone played the piano and we sang choruses of a religious and uplifting nature. My sister Jean sang a solo once, 'Jesus wants me for a sunbeam', which later made Fred smile every time he heard it.

Then some weeks after that, Fred told me we would be leaving to go to our own home. And then I turned seven. Surprise, surprise, Mr and Mrs Slater arrived. Mr Slater was the superintendant and looked after the boys; Mrs Slater looked after the girls, helped by a cook and Sisters Anne and Mary Smith. They came in with their son, Tommy, I think, and he handed me a ‘Happy Birthday’ package. It was heavy and turned out to be a fire truck: the first present I ever remember being given. I don't remember having it with me when we left, nor ever seeing any other boy get a birthday present. It may have been from Dad, but I never knew.

On two occasions Mr Slater surprised us, calling the boys out into the play area outside the cloak-room, when we all stood in a semi-circle to listen to him, when he threw handfuls of sweets. I took a while for me to realise what was happening but did I did manage to get a couple to enjoy. The second time I was ready and got a few more. Another time Mr Slater came in with several large cardboard boxes which had lots of strings hanging out of the thin paper coverings. Each of us knew we could pick any string and pull out whatever was on the end, which was a small packet of sweets each. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create that delightful surprise for us.

The last Christmas we were there, we had a concert of some kind. Carols were sung, words were said, and then Father Christmas came. Excitement and happy sounds all round us as one by one, names were called, a present given and received, until each held a gift in our hands. All except me. 'Has everyone got a gift?' someone called out. Those around me knew I hadn't, but I said nothing, being somewhat bewildered, sad and confused. 'Go on Den, tell him you 'aven't!' someone prompted me. Eventually I called out: 'I 'aven't got one'.

‘Who was that?’ someone at the front said. Then I heard Sister Mary Smith say, 'That's our Dennis Crompton'.

'Come on out here then, Dennis. There's one for you here too.' All was sorted out and the day ended happily for us all. The ordinary, good-hearted folks of Preston saw to it that we were not forgotten at Christmas time.

Come the day we left. We'd seen other boys leave from time to time. This time I was taken through a door I'd never been through before to Mr Slater's office. As I stood there, my two sisters Jean and Hilda came in and a short time after my brother Fred joined us, just as Dad walked through the door. There were hugs all round as we stood together as a family after five years apart. The journey up the street took us away from the Children’s Home to the bus station.

I don't remember everything about that day, but I do remember getting on the bus to leave Preston to take the seven mile trip to Longridge, where our house was, and where we could be together as a family again. As we walked through the door of 1 Pump Street, I saw large stone paving stones on the floor, with several hand-made rugs here and there. A table covered in a nice red cloth, a big armchair and several smaller chairs round the table and a cheery fire warming the room as we entered. Two smiling women were there who'd worked to make this a home for us left a short time after so that we could be on our own at last.

Dennis Crompton © 2012
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Opportunity, missed...

I walked today along the lane

where once I met my estranged father.

What had come between us…?

oh, a trifling thing of nought,

creating doubt, anger and separation,

and neither he nor I

could meet each other’s eye.

*

So, we passed by, both heaving

sad and sorrowful sighs…

back then.

*

Oft since I’ve longed to walk that lane

and meet again my lonely aged father.

Nothing would come between us…

I’ll give my oath on that.

*

Alas! Too late! We had our chance,

though lane recalled that sad, sad passing,

time and the grave have done their sealing work.

*

Gone that unhappy and despondent figure,

forever gone the time

to make amends.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

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

 

In March 1954, I wrote a letter to my father saying that I’d joined the Royal New Zealand Air Force and would leave England in a few week’s time. We did meet and we made our peace. We wrote many letters to each other before he died a few years later.