Music - Finding my way back and forward - 3, and back and forward!

Mike3

This week my journey through the music of my life took an unusual turn.  I say that.  In fact it's taken many turns, backwards, forwards and sideways, linking many bits of my life together.  This is something of a long and rambling post the twists and turns of which are almost certainly much more interesting to me than to you, and to help you keep up with all those twists and turns I'm going to put some words in bold. Unless you're familiar with my love life, you'll find you soon need them, in order to get all the different Mike's straight in your mind.  (There have been three of them and all have died.)

Way back in December I was discussing the musician Johnny Coppin with a friend and mentioned that I used to own a cassette of an album of his, "Forest, Vale and High Blue Hill".  It turned out that I had rashly decided to dump all my cassettes prior to moving, including not only this gem but also recordings I'd made of my grandparents reading out loud and other family snippets from the sixties and seventies, all because I was trying to downsize and currently didn't have a cassette player.  So much spilt milk.

I tried to find a copy of the album but came up with nothing, even asking various local contacts who all reported that it seemed to be something that was only released on vinyl and cassette.

My third Mike (in a life partner sort of way), who was in fact Mike2 because I met him second, died in 2023.  He decreed no funeral or ceremony of any kind, believing as I and his elder son did at the time that the two of us would meet over an expensive bottle of wine to lament his passing.  Because of various health issues for both of us this is clearly no longer on the cards, so I'm left without a ritual to mark Mike's passing.  I've recently decided to hold a small memorial ceremony (with a celebrant) here at home and have been researching the music we might listen to.

While searching for music for Mike's memorial a week or so ago I thought I'd have one more go on the Johnny Coppin trail.  I found his website - but not the album title.  As a last step I emailed him to ask if there was a digital version floating out there in the ether somewhere.  And discovered that it had been incorporated in another album with the title "The Gloucestershire Collection".

A couple of phone calls, a bank payment and a short wait for Royal Mail and the CD The Gloucestershire Collection was in my hands.  

Many of the songs on my original album were based on poems by the Dymock Poets.  (You can find out even more about them at Friends of the Dymock Poets and by reading the book by  Sean Street, The Dymock Poets.  In one of the bizarre turns I mentioned up there ^ Sean Street and his wife are friends of mine!  The Dymock poets were from the Forest of Dean, the westermost part of Gloucestershire.

Mike1 (my first husband, who died in 1991) was also a poet and certainly knew about The Dymock Poets.  He had an extensive poetry library (around 700 books, I seem to remember) which I'm sorry to say I have severely culled over the years and although he would almost certainly have owned a copy of Sean's book, I find that I no longer do.  Forest, Vale and High Blue Hill was released in 1983 and that's when I owned a copy on cassette but again, I no longer have it.  Mike1 and I both loved Gloucestershire, although neither of us was native to it, and we frequently used to travel to places near Gloucester to watch the Severn Bore.

Naturally, as soon as the CD arrived I started listening to it and was immediately struck with some regret.  For whatever reason (the most likely  being the mundane one of no longer playing cassettes) I didn't share the Johnny Coppin songs with Mike3 (who died in 2014).  As I listened today I realised how many of them spoke his language.  He was a countryman and a true Cotswold Lad.  (He used to quip, "I'm a Gloucestershire lad, born and bred: strong in the arm and thick in the 'ed".  This last was most certainly untrue!) The poems and the tunes Johnny Coppin set them to were in forms Mike would have appreciated.  Being on the autistic spectrum was, I'm sure, why he liked music to have notable structure and tunes and songs to have verses and choruses.  The Songs of Gloucestershire deliver both in spades.  Mike appreciated the writings of poets who had gone out of fashion, such as Rudyard Kipling (he moved past the possible racism contained in Kipling's poems to appreciate them as having been written of their time.)  He would have loved the Dymock Poets if I'd introduced them to him.

I'm so pleased to be able to listen to these songs once again.  They speak, no, they sing out of  Gloucestershire.  I've lived here for nearly 50 years and spent much of my childhood visiting my grandparents in Bourton-on-the-Hill and now consider myself a Gloucestershire lass.  I should probably think of buying a fresh copy of Sean's book.

Why I love Christmas, by an atheist

 This isn't really a sad poem, or at least it isn't meant to be.  It's a poem that comes the nearest to explaining why I, as an atheist, still love Christmas and even the religious bits.

Christmas Eve

Travelling, I made sure to arrive by the start
of nine lessons and carols on Radio 4,
Dad poised to prepare sprouts, painstakingly
as a military man would,
Mum doing something not requiring machinery
and in earlier years, Aunt Jane
talking over all the quiet, meaningful moments
for all she was worth.

This Christian service for a Christian festival
still holds meaning for an atheist of forty years,
linking me to generations of family believers
and to others, non-believers, alike.

Now I build my own collection
of seasonal traditions: trifle for one;
roast turkey with trimmings
for one, or more if anyone cares to join me;
holly and ivy and red ribbons and candles;
cards posted expensively to friends;
extra phone calls, gifts, tree, fairy lights;
Jacqui Lawson advent calendar;
Terry’s milk chocolate orange in memory of Dad,
who had one every year and
I slip into the past again
all of us singing along to the carols we knew,
Mum’s clear soprano, my alto
and Dad managing the descant still
here I am, listening, and weeping
for them, and for lovers and friends

human connections
which, like the number 42, hold
the answer to life, the universe and everything
tears heralding grief
and hope
and the start of it all.

Happy Writing

Here's a poem about the question I often ask myself.  

Happy Writing
 
Why don’t I write on happy stuff
instead of being inspired by grief
or when times are really rough?
I could describe a lovely leaf
 
or sunsets making my heart burst.
Why is my utmost misery
the spur for writing my best verse
and posting it for all to see?
 
Why did I write two good prose pieces
on funerals, grief and poetry,
published in national magazines?
Why nothing else for folks to see?
 
Well, here is one and you can tell
it’s not much good, although it rhymes,
so lack of poems can only spell
the advent of much happier times.

Unstable

Unstable

UN-stabul as Mum used to say it
in her own invented
language and pronunciation
like raddy-otta-meez.
And why not.
 
“English also spoken here”
Dad said there should be a sign
on the front door
when they were first married
but he became bilingual.
 
So today I know I am living
through a time when things are
un-stabul for me,  unstabul
without my mum and my dad
and my Mike
 
who saw “breaded plaice” as
bearded plaice, which it fast
became with parents, carers
and now still me. 
They never met
 
but on the phone discussed how
a single grain of rice was a rouce:
Mum thought not but
Mike was adamant
about his invention.
 
My new house-to-be is full of labradors
and other tradesmen.
The architrave fades into less significance
compared to the builder, Jason, and
all his argonauts
 
and I am tossed around in an unstable
world, missing all three of them
feeling out of touch with my
linguistic roots and routes
through the maze of decisions
 
being uprooted myself just enough
so I am now unstable
ready to be blown down in the wind
or washed away in a rainstorm
or undermined by something small.

Leslie Wynne Prescot

28/05/1927 - 16/10/2020

Anthea Warwick Prescot

07/07/1928 - 28/11/2020

Mike Hitchens

07/12/1943 - 11/07/2023

Traffic

 

Traffic
 
I have been stuck in a traffic jam
cars and vans and lorries and bikes
jumbled up unable to make their way
forward
 
jostling for position for the getaway
nothing progressed at all for months
and all I could do was identify the
vehicles
 
that were all the many stresses in my life
not being able to focus on any one of them
compounding the stress and the traffic
jam.
 
Suddenly an acupuncturist or an osteopath,
almost certainly, has shown one vehicle how
to navigate out of the melee and start a
journey
 
making a space for the next vehicle to
straighten up and leave, like one of those puzzles
with only one space but the corner shape must
exit
 
and now all the vehicles are moving
each in a separate lane on the motorway
(though the bikes must make their by another
route.)
 
All the types of vehicle are still present
but moving at their own pace
at variable speeds stopping and starting
individually
 
and I have clarity at last
and I am back in my own body
and in my own head and I have found
myself.

Seeing the Real You at Last

 
Seeing The Real You At Last
 
today I have a glimpse of the real you at last
“we know a song about that”
(sorry Bob) in my grief
 
today you are present in that way
that dead people have
when they have got into your soul
and I comprehend the hugeness of it all
 
I hear myself reeling off
“my partner died, then Covid struck,
then I broke my shoulder, then …”
as if bereavement was a small thing
(but it is vast)
 
and at last I allow myself to consider
what my therapist would have asked,
(she, the wise woman who questioned ‘accidents’)
 
and I see, really see in that
bone-deep, mind-expanding way
 
that my lack of attention before I tripped,
“doing marvellously” when I had Covid
(the first and second time)
and generally carrying on
stoically
 
yes, stoic(ally), that thing
I never am and wouldn’t do me any good
(and hasn’t)
 
I carried on stoically,
believing I was still doing really well considering
but putting off the day
 
pointlessly, painfully, but somehow
always knowing the day would come
 
when I see the real you at last
(again) and have to grieve

 

 

 

Vulnerability

This poem is dedicated to all those who grieve, some of whom are not able to speak out about how they feel.  This is for you.



Vulnerability



Thin as the best tissue paper

clear, bright colours

salmon, startling red, pink, and white.

The white ones are first -

tiny but perfect circles;

I have never seen geranium petals

attacked like this before.



Late-season butterflies

which always seem so strong

still flutter by early autumn flowers

dodging away at high speed

when I come close;

they have war-wounded wings

with bites taken out.



My Westie thought

he was a mastiff

till he stood on a wasp

amongst windfall pears

and hobbled around

holding his wounded paw aloft,

an uncomprehending puppy again.



All exhibiting their vulnerability

for us to see

and remark on.



Mine is hidden.



We all think I'm a strong person

we all know I am dealing with a lot

we are all impressed with how

I am organising and getting through

my life and its many troubles;

we know it is hard.



But inside I ache

I weep

I grieve

I long

for a comforting cuddle

from my Mum

from my Dad

from my Mike

and actually from anyone

which I'll never have again.



This is my

hidden

hitherto unspoken

vulnerability.

Seeing Bob

I could write a small book about my relationship with the work of Bob Dylan but I'm not going to do that now.

Here are two poems.  The second one was written in 1991 by my first husband, who introduced me to the world of Bob and with whom I attended 7 performances, including the one he wrote about anticipating here.  I had the opening lines of the poem in my head all day yesterday leading up to seeing Bob that evening.

The first poem is written by me about that.  For twenty-five years I've had a friend who I met through our interest in Dylan but although separately we've seen him many times, I with various different people, we have never managed to attend a concert together until now.

expecting my last time
watching dylan

before I let him go

I am caught unawares

by the thrill

of the performance

here he is before us

bob the same bob

just being in the now

like we should all

be, telling us

things have changed

here is what he wants

to show us

this is what he feels

in these songs today

and highway 61 is joyful

and so am I

me and my dylan buddy

twenty-five years

waiting to see bob together

and it’s everything

it could be

and worth the wait

tangled up in blue

I weep for the bob-centric years

of my first lost marriage

feeling reconnected

at last to the start of

things

bob the same bob

nobody else quite right

to go with till now

restored in my heart

joyous plaintive rollicking

genius poet muso

transformative

just as it should be

leaving me wanting

the next time

knowing of course

I want to do it all again

Jane Vernon, May 2017 

last year bob

you just like a woman'd

and man in the long black coat'd

to the ceiling

of the Hammersmith Odeon
on the night the

specialists in institutionalised poison

unleashed the attack on

my invasive leukaemic cells

I listen to the tape of your

weighty cries at the foothills of thunder

              at the chords of doubt

              at the crossroads of the spirit

              in the whine of love

              in the heart of loss

as you knew them on that day

which I spent blanketed in drugs and exhaustion

a year later I tick away the days

until I see you once more

I will be there this year

to allow you to stand amid

the waves of the hugest unknowns

while east and west play armageddon

while my blood cells orgy

while beauty holds my hand

and you with you lone harmonica

sing it all for us free

as you have done

since the primal

blowin of the wind

Mike Vernon, January 1991   

Not everyone's cup of tea

Poetry isn't everyone's cup of tea.  Bereavement isn't either:  I wouldn't recommend it if you can avoid it.

I learned 25 years ago, after the death of my first husband, that it's ok for the bereaved to make jokes about death, loss and the downsides of their departed loved ones where it isn't for anyone else.  I offer the (hopefully) mildly amusing introduction to this blog post in that spirit.

Anyway, one thing that's been going on over the past few months is that my subconscious has been reminding me that it's the time of year when my second husband died.  It's been gradually feeding me the memories of the month or two leading up to his death.  I'm used to this, it happened with my first bereavement (for about twenty years) so I haven't been surprised, but it hasn't been a happy time.  I get on with my life and there are still many good things in it but I was also suffering from various minor physical ailments which increased in severity.  My system does that.  Most physical ailments I suffer from are triggered by something or other psychological.  I did what I always do - had extra acupuncture and other alternative things.  This has, thankfully, put me on the road to physical recovery.  It's also allowed my conscious mind to unlock what's been going on in my unconscious mind. 

Poetry is a valuable tool in condensing what we think or feel into a form which, if it's done successfully, conveys ideas concisely and rapidly.  I think this latest poem of mine does that.  It's been tough.

a different grief

and now unexpectedly

different grief

I didn’t know

I hadn’t done

two years

has been about the ending

bad memories

of your suffering

knowing

I couldn’t have done more

but always wondering

now suddenly

here you are

being Mike-ish

loving me

reminding me

of all the good times

two years

after your funeral

now I am suddenly

reconnected with the real you

able to miss you

at your best

and not the worst

of those final months

Writing poetry ... or not.

For me, poems just happen or they don't.  I'd like to write more of them but can never write to order.  It seems that for me there needs to be an intensity of having something to say which requires a poem and then I can write one.  I think I can write well when I have something really important to say, and sometimes that might be in prose, but if what I want to write about is worthwhile but not really important (or even if it isn't particularly worthwhile but is required) I can write well, but don't always do so (and I apologise for the posts I write here which may be more sloppily put together). 

This poem arrived about a week ago. 


 

For the record

twenty-five years

since my soulmate died

I note the occasion

with good memories

and interest

looking back

a quarter of a century

friends new and old

the real me

emerging then established

I post on social media

to make sure his memory

is honoured

then start to miss

not him, but you

love for a soulmate

is obvious, almost

unnecessary to mention

but you who were not my soulmate

were more loved

were more in a story

we unfolded together

our love and life

a more real thing

that might not have been but was

a marriage of imperfections

worked with and valued

and family

embraced and embracing

unconditionally

he had the easy life

universally liked

while you struggled

to fit in

except in my heart

New poem

Here's a new poem I think I'm pleased with.  It can be very difficult writing about something intangible but I think I've got somewhere with this.
If you've experienced it yourself you may understand it better - such is the nature of it.

Coming out the other side

I notice

I feel different

and at first can’t say how

then I realise

the place I’ve been

sometimes indefinable

sometimes indistinguishable

from the outside world

yet when you’re in it

so clearly existing

behind a force field

through which you cannot break

is

unexpectedly

not where I am

no anniversary

or event

no clue

nothing sudden

each of us makes our own journey

through where it is

not the past but not the future

accused once

(behind my back) of

doing it unnaturally fast

yet here I am again

a relatively short time on

coming out the other side

and knowing

this is right.

 

National Poetry Day

This post is possibly not for the faint-hearted.  

Here we are, National Poetry Day, and I had a few ideas about maybe posting some of my favourite poems on my Facebook page throughout the day.  When I started to look them out, though, it's not where my thoughts took me after all.  Instead, I found myself browsing my current "Writing" folder on my PC.  I don't write poems often and I have been posting them here from time to time over the last 12 months.  There are three, though, that are good enough - not good per se, not my best by any means, just good enough - that I didn't post when they were new because I wasn't sure whether people would want to read them knowing it was how I felt at the time.  To some extent they chart my progress through grief and the first two, at least, belong very much in earlier times.   So maybe it's time for them to be aired.

I don't have a jolly poem to end with but that's because I haven't written one.  Jolly things have returned to my life, as you will have noticed if you've been reading this blog over the past months.

nothing is enough

any more

with no more

you

I sit here

and carry on, though,

doing things

that are enough

in themselves

for themselves

just not enough

for me

one day

there will be things

that are enough

again

I know that

the knowing means

I can survive

this time when

nothing is enough

nearly done now,

a sunset photo

representing where I am

in time and emotionally

in three interminably

long weeks

not dodging any bullets

but facing it all

cramming in the essence

of 10 summers

beautiful places

wonderful friends

immersing myself

in the place and the life

so I can leave it

now it will be something

left behind and ended

no longer to be feared or dreaded

no longer like

a kick in the guts

Specialism

So often I’ve talked of my specialism

in husbands:

Mikes, born late summer 1942.

Red beards, ex-teachers because of stress

Divorced, two children:

an older daughter with red hair,

a dark-haired son born in ‘77.

And now another thing they share:

Died, leaving me behind.

New poems

Sometimes new poems are like internet posts you make after one too many glasses of wine - best not made public.  Encouraged by others to write openly about bereavement has meant that I've been more inclined to share poems, but if in any doubt at all, I have tried to wait at least a day to make sure a new poem is really something I want to share.   Is it too raw, too much stream of consciousness (which I confess my poems tend to be) or actually not very good at all?  It's worth writing the bad ones, I think, for reasons of self-expression, self-discovery and similar.  There's just no need to make them public and most of my poems do not, indeed, see the light of day.

I'm pleased with this one, though.
 

summer tasks like

removing the winter’s cobwebs

strimming the grass

around the house

putting out the garden furniture

and generally

making the place feel

like the home it has been.

curiously

as I wait for his children

it feels more as if

I’ve been lighting lamps

keeping the home fires burning

and other arcane winter tasks

like a beacon in the dark for them

here one last time.