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:

Landmines never leave the battlefield

The history of man is one of aggression. This could have begun after man learned to gather food and became a hunter: you don’t have to kill berries, or the leaves of plants. You do have to kill animals in order to eat them. And eat or die is the law of nature.

Then man discovered that at the end of a day’s work it was somewhat relaxing to work with nature, sowing seeds, setting our plants and seeing things flourish and grow. Using his ingenuity, he erected fences and marked his livestock (for he found he also had to protect what was his). With this husbandry came the growth of civilisation and all the problems and joys associated with it. And in the process the weaponry he used advanced as well, from a single arrow shot from a bow, to the Kalashnikov rapid fire AK47 rifle of today.

I don’t know who it was who thought of packing explosives inside a metal casing and then connecting it to a trigger mechanism to set it off. Now men drop them from the sky, from above and below the surface of the sea, and in many other ways to seed planet earth with their deadly menace.

The most devilish and indiscriminate of these is the landmine. Today, according to the UNICEF pamphlet in our local library in Morrinsville, there is one landmine for every 20 children around the world. They’re produced for as little as $3, and remain active for decades. They’re extremely difficult to detect and cost between $300-$1,000 to remove. Afghanistan is the most heavily mined country, with 10-15 million units covering their land. Angola is next in line, then comes Cambodia, with one in every 230 Cambodian’s an amputee. Landmines continue to claim about 300 victims each month.

No matter where your caravan might rest as you travel this world, somewhere close by there’s some child, teenager, man or woman, crippled, hurt or deformed. False limbs of a sort will enable them to shuffle through each day but it’s not the same as having their own limbs, is it?

A number of years ago a young woman in Canada wrote a song which struck a blow at the heart of all this madness. I forget her name, but not the title of the song, ‘Universal Soldier,’ and I remember one line that went something like:

If every soldier refused to fight, all wars would end.

More people are adding their note of protest now. I’d like to add my protest with this suggestion: each person greedy for wealth who shuts their mind to horror and their heart from mercy, and orders landmines to be laid – along with those who paid for them and those who bury them in the ground – should take their own children to test these landmines. They could then pick up the pieces, take them home and for those still alive, fit them with artificial limbs. Perhaps then they would see the madness of their work…

Dennis Crompton © 1997

“Universal Soldier” is a song written and recorded by Canadian singer-songwriter Buffy Sainte-Marie. The song was originally released on Sainte-Marie’s debut album It’s My Way! in 1964. “Universal Soldier” was not a popular hit at the time of its release, but it did garner attention within the contemporary folk music community. Sainte-Marie said of the song: “I wrote ‘Universal Soldier’ in the basement of The Purple Onion coffee house in Toronto in the early sixties. It’s about individual responsibility for war and how the old feudal thinking kills us all.” (from Wikipedia)

Inner spring

‘Old man weeping’ from volume “82 prints engraved by F. Bartolozzi, etc, from the original drawings of Guercino, in the collection of His Majesty”

*

I weep sometimes to see a shining golden dawn awed by the sheer wonder of it all,

thankful that the glorious hues I see lift me from the burdens of the day.

*

I weep at the boundless energy and promise of the young on this amazing planet, terra firma, home of man,

with wonders past, present and still to come, beckoning the inquiring, adventurous schemers on.

*

I weep at the strangers I have let pass by, for some I know I could have made my friends;

so busy I, so carefree or just unaware, of the human that waits behind that vacant, hungry stare.

*

I weep angry, frustrated, by some politician’s glib outrageous lies, smiling, nodding, betraying promised election cries,

club members, secure now from their constituent’s plight, sit snugly ignoring what they were elected to put right.

*

I weep at the passing of a treasured friend, diminished, shocked, bereaved by sudden loss,

knowing well the inevitabilities of life must come to all, and I wonder where, and when, and how I’ll hear my call.

*

I weep that I’ve wasted so much of my life in useless wanderings just to pass the time,

there is so much I see now I’d still like to do, with body, mind and time still left for me to use.

*

I am aware now that I contain some inner source, some secret well enabling me to weep,

reflecting that it’s given me for my use, I bless the healing tears that down my cheeks now creep.

*

Without them what else could break the chain, releasing the soul-destroying burdens we contain,

thank God then for that hidden human inner spring permitting tears their healing balm to bring.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Borrowed

'Borrowed plumes' Harrison Weir's illustration of The Vain Jackdaw, 1881

Everything I have is borrowed

nothing tangible is really mine

from the air I breathe

to the body I wear

all has come from elsewhere in time.

*

I may live my life 'til I'm ninety

lesser or longer maybe

but whatever I touch

and whatever I gain

has been borrowed for my moment in time.

*

At birth I borrowed my parents

to give me the body you see

from the earth around

with its vast abounds

I still borrow the food that I eat.

*

The place where I live

and the tools I use

all borrowed from some other place

and the questions I ask

as I come to this view

is from whom have I borrowed my soul?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

The spinsters' code

 

Across the street from our home in Pump Street, Longridge, was a pebble-dashed house in which two spinsters lived.

(Swallows built their nests each year under the eaves of this house. They came in spring and left in autumn, and there was a constant swooping and diving in smooth, graceful sweeps back and forth across the street by these beautiful birds. It was always sad to see them leave but they would return, we always knew.)

The two spinster ladies were a bit of a mystery to me; I can’t remember ever having seen them clearly in full view, and I certainly never saw them outside of their home. I did catch occasional glimpses of one or the other of them, behind the white, lacy curtains across their windows. But nothing more than glimpses; nothing substantial. They did use what I thought was a code to communicate with our neighbours on the right, Mr and Mrs Wilks. I discovered this code quite by accident one day as I sat in one of the favourite places I had for playing, reading or whatever, the broad, wooden window-sill of our window looking out onto the street.

Things were fairly quiet on this particular day when I heard the sudden clatter of wooden clogs from next door, and scurrying across the street to the spinsters pebble-dashed house went Mrs Wilks, apron strings and hair flying in the wind. She cut a fairly dashing figure as I recall. A sash window opened briefly at the spinsters’ house, something was said, then back across the street Mrs Wilks came, faster I think than she went. The spinsters’ window was slid quickly down and I just caught sight of a small white card being whisked away from the upper section of the window that had opened. That was the code. Whenever the spinsters required something from the shops, a small, strategically placed white card would bring a speedy response from the two furiously pumping legs of Mrs Wilks.

I would then picture the activity of Mrs Wilks next door: a quick flick of a comb through wispy, grey hair before her hat, now nicely warmed after the cat had been evicted, was placed on her head with a quick downward thrust of both hands. Her ears had disappeared and you could only just make out two eyes peering out from under the brim. Almost ready. I would imagine Mrs Wilks mentally ticking items off her checklist of ‘things to do before I go shopping for t’ ladies across t’ street’, then off she would go, the front door slamming behind her, the rapid clatter of her wooden clogs, the blur of her form bent forward like a sprinter in a race as she flashed past the window. The sound of her clogs grew fainter as she rounded the corner of the street towards the shops, until all was quiet again. The message had been received and understood, and the latest mission for the spinsters was under way.

I wondered if those two spinsters knew of some deep, dark secret concerning Mrs Wilks and were threatening to expose her is she didn’t cooperate. (My boyish mind sought answers down some rather strange pathways at times, I can tell you.) The truth was probably much simpler, that Mrs Wilks received some small financial reward for her kind services rendered.

Whatever the situation, she was a goer, and active with it, our Mrs Wilks.

Dennis Crompton © 1994

Camping in our street

A paved Roman road

An officer in the Roman Army of occupation is said to have named the place where I spent five colourful and informative years of my boyhood. On seeing the whole district from a commanding rise, the officer said, "What a long ridge of hills!" From that time on the place was known as Longridge (a titbit included to add a nice historical dimension to my story).

My time in Longridge was great. I believe now that much of my character was formed during those days. It was common practice for children of one family to visit a friend or mate from other families, usually in the same street, and in the evenings. We called it 'camping'. I studied our neighbours at close quarters and learned a great deal about life this way, broadening my mind and thinking. The content of conversations within different families was an education in itself.

"I'm going over to t' Jamieson's camping for a bit," I'd say as I left the house, and crossing the street I would knock on their door and go in. "I've come to see Peter, is that all right?" "'Ee, that's alright lad, come in and sit thisself down."

If Peter was out or it wasn't convenient, I could either stay and sit with whoever was there or leave and try another mate's house. My mates would do the same when the fancy took them to do a bit of camping.
It was while playing games or chatting with whoever I'd gone to visit that my ear would tune in to what was being discussed by the adults. Unconscious learning, I call it now. When happenings local, national or in our street - ranging from quite serious to the infectiously hilarious - were brought to my attention, I'd listen and store them away in my memory. I extended my vocabulary somewhat too as I asked what such-and-such a phrase or word meant.

A great deal of what was said registered in this way, but now and then something special would cause me to listen more carefully, even to asking questions sometimes. If the adults deemed my ears too tender for the topic being discussed, they'd tactfully suggest it was time for me to leave. Which I would do without my feelings being in the least bit offended.

Sometimes I'd be drawn into conversations as if I was a member of that family. It was great listening to their past experiences, and I never tired of the varied and colourful manner in which they expressed themselves. Quite a few of these communications took the form of charades involving different body movements. Eyes would light up. Hands were slapped upon on a table or a knee. Fingers wagged, heads nodded, all with frequent stops to laugh or mop their brows.

What I particularly liked was when someone would say something and immediately ask someone else to confirm what they'd just said. For example, "Isn't that right then, what I just said, our Henry? You were there when Bert's foot went clean through that board on the stairs?" And the reply would come, preceded by the adjusting of false teeth, a tilting of the head and a squinting of the eyes, "Oh yes, that's right enough, Elsie lass." Then Henry would go on to add his own particular view of that remembrance. "By gum, the air were blue weren't it? I've never heard our Bert express hisself so clearly. A good job t' vicar had already left, eh Elsie?" And Elsie would agree before she or someone else took over, the to-ing and fro-ing conversation.

My memory of those times includes the early days of Word War II. Camping began to decline in our street then. Young men went off to work in the factories. Some would go away and reappear in uniform for a few days before they disappeared, sometimes forever. The black-out came in, and sirens wailed their warning of air raids. On one of those nights I wondered what it might have been like for the invading Roman soldiers when they first came here. What kind of time did they have, camping by the long ridge of hills? And more interesting to me, how a boy of my age would have learned about life while he was camping  there? Now that would be a great thing to discover.

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Assertion of identity

Young girl with a moko. Image from Whale Rider, a 2002 drama film directed by Niki Caro, based on the novel of the same name by Witi Ihimaera. The film stars Keisha Castle-Hughes as Kahu Paikea Apirana, a 12-year-old Maori girl who wants to become the chief of the tribe.

From a distance I saw

this teenager was different,

and as she came up close

I saw her moko, permanent

on her beautiful face.

*

"She's too young," suggested some,

"to wear at others' instigation

such sign upon her youthful face."

*

She appeared unmoved, disdainful

of the thoughts of others,

and with unusual maturity

for one so young, said quietly,

"That's their problem,"

and continued on her way.

*

I wondered...

were those words her own,

or where they perhaps -

as her decorated face -

imposed by proud tradition's

fierce, determinate tribal will?

*

I mused again...

or, was what had seemed to me belligerence,

simply a demonstration of an

indefinable quality of race,

which I, in my ignorance,

did not then fully comprehend?

*

Who am I...

foreigner to these shores

forty years or more,

to say it's wrong for one so young

to wear that proud insignia

of her race?

*

I had much to learn.

If she sought in truth

to assert a claim

to her own true self,

then I salute her

most sincerely for that.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Note: a moko is a Māori tattoo or tattoo pattern, usually on the face.