Thursday, 24 September 2015

Break, Break, Break - Tennyson

Break, Break, Break
Break, break, break,
         On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
         The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
         That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
         That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
         To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
         And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
         At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
         Will never come back to me.

Idylls of the King - Tennyson

Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.

       For on their march to westward, Bedivere,
Who slowly paced among the slumbering host,
Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:

       "I found Him in the shining of the stars,
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,
But in His ways with men I find Him not.
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
O me! for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Till the High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?
Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is:
Perchance, because we see not to the close;—
For I, being simple, thought to work His will,
And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death:
Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die."

       Then, ere that last weird battle in the west,
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear
Went shrilling, "Hollow, hollow all delight!
Hail, King! to-morrow thou shalt pass away.
Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.
And I am blown along a wandering wind,
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight."
And fainter onward, like wild birds that change
Their season in the night and wail their way
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream
Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim cries
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills,
As of some lonely city sack'd by night,
When all is lost, and wife and child with wail
Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and call'd,
"Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind,
Thine, Gawain, was the voice—are these dim cries
Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?"

       This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:
"O me, my King, let pass whatever will,
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;
But in their stead thy name and glory cling
To all high places like a golden cloud
For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass.
Light was Gawain in life, and light in death
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;
And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise—
I hear the steps of Modred in the west,
And with him many of thy people, and knights
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.
Right well in heart they know thee for the King.
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old."

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Far other is this battle in the west
Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth,
And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine
To war against my people and my knights.
The king who fights his people fights himself.
And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke
That strikes them dead is as my death to me.
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way
Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw
One lying in the dust at Almesbury,
Hath folded in the passes of the world."

       Then rose the King and moved his host by night,
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,
Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse—
A land of old upheaven from the abyss
By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,
And the long mountains ended in a coast
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away
The phantom circle of a moaning sea.
There the pursuer could pursue no more,
And he that fled no further fly the King;
And there, that day when the great light of heaven
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year,
On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.
A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea:
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew
Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold
With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell
Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,
And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;
And some had visions out of golden youth,
And some beheld the faces of old ghosts
Look in upon the battle; and in the mist
Was many a noble deed, many a base,
And chance and craft and strength in single fights,
And ever and anon with host to host
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,
Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash
Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks
After the Christ, of those who falling down
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist;
And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,
Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs
In that close mist, and cryings for the light,
Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.

       Last, as by some one deathbed after wail
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,
Save for some whisper of the seething seas,
A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came
A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew
The mist aside, and with that wind the tide
Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field
Of battle: but no man was moving there;
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,
Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro
Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,
And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,
And rolling far along the gloomy shores
The voice of days of old and days to be.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,
And whiter than the mist that all day long
Had held the field of battle was the King:

       "Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,
And beats upon the faces of the dead,
My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?—
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n
Confusion, till I know not what I am,
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.
Behold, I seem but King among the dead."

       Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: "My King,
King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,
There also will I worship thee as King.
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live
Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought
The heathen back among us, yonder stands,
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house."

       Then spake the King: "My house hath been my doom.
But call not thou this traitor of my house
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.
My house are rather they who sware my vows,
Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King.
And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,
When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd,
That quick or dead thou hottest me for King.
King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King
Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege
Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword
Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.

       So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord,
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land:
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,—
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more; but, let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword—and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king;
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word."

       To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm—
A little thing may harm a wounded man;
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

       So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept,
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

       There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag."

       To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

       Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud:

       "And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost."

       So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

       Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

       To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands."

       Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges, lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

       Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere."

       And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

       So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words;
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

       But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

       Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms,
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

       Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge."
So to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against a brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne—were parch'd with dust
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

       Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world,
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

       And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

       So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

       But when that moan had past for evermore,
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
Amazed him, and he groan'd, The King is gone.''
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
"From the great deep to the great deep he goes."

       Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb
The last hard footstep of that iron crag;
Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried,
"He passes to be King among the dead,
And after healing of his grievous wound
He comes again; but—if he come no more—
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed
On that high day, when, clothed with living light,
They stood before his throne in silence, friends
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?"

       Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.

       Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw,
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
Down that long water opening on the deep
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
From less to less and vanish into light.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

Wednesday, 9 July 2014

Finding the bottle..........explorations continue.

                         A while ago a distant uncle, whom I can only ever recall meeting once, passed away and bequeathed his little seaside summer house to me in his will. Having no knowledge of this uncle or his life, I had little idea of what to expect as I travelled from my little rented studio flat above the book shop where I worked in Exeter to the Sussex coast. However never in a million years could I have expected that a 'little summer house' would actually turn out to be a five floor seafront mansion built in the 1880's.  -   Here I chronicle my life and experiences from the house on the seafront and following my last post, I continue recounting my explorations from the very first day I arrived here. 

                                          A strange almost voyeuristic sensation swept rapidly through my mind as I further explored this seafront house that was now, at least in name, mine, although I wondered as I took the back stairs down to the lower ground floor if it ever would feel like home.  There was a half glazed door to what appeared to be a small rear courtyard, I tried the large old fashion key protruding from an equally old fashioned lock, but turn it would not and thus the courtyard would remain unexplored, for the present time at any rate.  Immediately to the left of the bottom of the stairs was another door, all natural wood as those on the upper floor, pushing it open it revealed a small cloakroom. The toilet had an old wooden seat and the cistern upon the wall seemed so old that I’m fairly sure it could have been an original feature from the 1870’s or 80’s, which made me smile for some reason. I passed a leaded light window on the rear wall overlooking the rear courtyard and found that the room opened up passed a white painted wood panelled pillar. I gasped audibly as I found myself in a large cavernous kitchen that occupied almost all of the lower ground floor stretching all the way to the front of the building. There was an incredibly large wooden table positioned in centre, its surface faded and covered in a later of dust, yet still its beauty was evident. On the left hand side of the room was two large butler style sinks, beside which appeared to be an old butchers table upon which stood old boxes and bottles of various detergents and cleaning supplies. Further along was a large free standing cupboard with frosted glass doors, through which some tins and cartons could just be made out. A range cooker the like of which I’d never seen before, at least not in real life, seemed to dominate the centre part of that long side wall. It was vast and I wondered how on earth I was ever going to be in a position to use it all, assuming of course I could learn how the blooming thing worked.  A further wooden work surface and open shelving storage beside that conveyed a myriad of pots and pans of various styles shapes and sizes that indicated Uncle John must have been a jolly keen cook.  Another freestanding cupboard with matching frosted glass doors seemed to mark the end of the kitchen area of this lower ground floor of surprises. Further exploring I found that on the opposite wall was a large upright refrigerator and next to which, of equal stature was a freezer, thankfully or not, both were empty and either switched off or unplugged. Beyond the freezer against the wall was a long dark desk, piled high with papers, books, magazines and the odd newspaper. The latest offering I surveyed was a March 2012 edition of Private Eye with a photo of Barack Obama and David Cameron on the cover and I somewhat assumed that must have been the last day this slightly ramshackle building had had any human occupiers. At the front end of this impressive room of mammoth proportions was a large open fireplace, piled with logs and beside an empty but definitely used coal scuttle and for a fleeting moment my mind fast forwarded to many month from now on a cold winters morning where I’d build up a big log fire and banish those winter chills.  The though dissipated away as I sat on the arm of a rather shabby sofa that had been pushed up against the far wall in the kitchen,  what was indeed the front of the building, under a rather high window.  It was only for this position that I noticed firstly that the floor was all flagstone, except around the range cooker where it was red brick and secondly there was another door, this time to the front of the building, which I hadn’t noticed at first. I tried the key that protruded from an ornate and old fashioned lock in an almost obscene fashion. A little resistance from a mechanism stiff with inactivity and the salty sea air eventually gave way with a resounded and reassuring thud. The handle turned freely and with a firm pull the door opened inward and the sea air once again breezed into the vast kitchen, for the first in goodness knows how long. I stepped out and looked around,  it was a small courtyard, an alcove with two dark green wheelie bins, a few old empty plant pots, a rusty tin of exterior emulsion paint and an equally rusty bicycle frame, minus both wheels and saddle. Other than an addition of what appeared to be an electricity of gas meter cupboard, there was just stone steps back up to street level, which I’d somehow missed on the way in. I re-entered the house, closing and locking the door behind me and walked back through the kitchen and up the stairs.   

For some reason the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention as I climbed the stairs,  first to the ground floor and then those of the more grandiose staircase at the front of the building. Perhaps a sensation of mild trepidation seeped into my consciousness as I took the beautifully traditional stairs deliberately, as I rounded the top stair into another foyer or landing I wondered if I’d ever feel at home here. There were a number of doors, just like the ground floor,  all natural unpainted wood, although in truth I would imagine there had been stripped back to their natural state many moons ago, I inwardly conjectured how many layers of paint would have been removed before the natural wood appeared.  The first door was an anti-climax as it transpired to be nothing more than a cupboard of shelves devoid of everything except dust. 

The second door opened to a large room overlooking the rear courtyard which had evidently been Uncle John’s study for it was occupied by a massive, almost stately writing desk positioned right in the middle of the room, facing the window. The surface of the desk was obscured by papers, documents, old newspapers, magazines and a pile of dog-eared books. Also on the desk was an old lamp with a green glass shade, much like those seen in the banks of old movies and a ceramic pot with a single pen poking lonely out of the top. Against the side wall were a number of old roughhewn packing cases, which, after a casual glance seemed to be full of old books, papers and other such items of a similar nature. The only other furniture in the room other than a small chair sat behind the desk was a shelf to the right of the rear window upon which sat a half-finished bottle of jack Daniel’s and two upturned glasses. I must admit, despite disliking the taste of the rusty orange coloured American sour mash liquor, I was tempted to reach for the bottle and take a swig. Temptation resisted I continued my exploration of the house on the seafront.  

The door to the next room opened freely and only with the merest hint of a creek and once open revealed the contents of the room which in turned cased a sudden gasped influx of breath, I’d found Uncle John’s odd special bottle collection. Before me, on wooden bookshelf’s against all the walls of this room was an amazing collection of milk bottles either decorated with painted pictures, funky designs or sporting a remarkable variety of advertisements for an equally diverse number of products and manufacturers. The sight completely took my breath away, for I had never seen such a collection before, it was most remarkable and must have been the results of many years’ worth of collecting. At first some of the bottles appeared to be still full of milk, however upon closer inspection I found plain white paper had been carefully inserted to resemble their former liquid content.  It made me chuckle to myself, Uncle John must have had plenty of time on his hands, although thinking about it, if he could afford to have a house this size as just his summer or occasional residence, he quite probably didn’t need to toil away like the rest of us.

There were a couple of cardboard boxes, the size of which must have been similar to the wooden ‘tea’ chests of old and a careful manipulation of the flaps upon the top revealed dozens and dozens of bottles sans the white paper. I was both fascinated and alarmed by the discoveries of this room, fascinated by all the various designs and adverts, yet alarmed by the notion that these were now ‘my’ processions and therefore it was my responsibility to do something or nothing with them.  I could have spent hours hour’s pondering that very question and examining each of the milk decanters, however I decided that would be a job and a question for another day, as further exploration today as necessary.  

Back in the hallway I opened the door to what I thought would be another room, only to find it was little more than a small store cupboard, with empty shelves and a broom minus its handle its only contents.  The next final door on this hallway gave a little resistance when I turned the handle and creaked loudly as it began to open.  I found myself in a grand sitting room with a high and ornate ceiling complete with fancy coving, cornicing and a central rose from which upon a big looped chain hung a chandelier.  Even in its dusty and unloved state the sight was impressive, dozens of dangling glass or crystal droplets or pendalogues still managed to shine and reflect light from the huge floor to ceiling windows on the front wall overlooking the narrow balcony. Despite it being day time and the room being filled with bright natural sunlight, I couldn’t resist flicking the light switch beside the door. After a brief flicker, a dozen little bulbs upon simulated candle sticks upon ornate crystal or glass bobeche danced into life and shafts of light from the myriad of prisms shimmered evocatively over the room. I have resented the fact that I hadn’t waiting till dusk or evening to flick the switch, for in darkness the beauty of this chandelier must be tenfold. Then just as a small child might, I filled my lungs with a giant gulp of air and blew out with force and despite its relative height, the lower levels moved and danced in the manmade breeze. However the large gust of wind from my lungs also dislodged a fair portion of dust that seemed to cloud the view somewhat. It was clear the extravagant illumination hadn’t been cleaned or dusted in a vast number of years and immediately I flicked off the switch and added its cleaning to my mental list things ‘to be done’. Occupying the central position on the right side of the room was an impressively large ornately carved fireplace. I knew little of such things, so I couldn’t even begin to guess as to its age or origination or relevance to this room, it was just an impressive sight for the eyes to behold. The relatively any coal, wood or kindling, so I knew not if it was a working fireplace, so to find out was yet another thing added to the ‘to be done’ list.

The front and two side walls were painted a rather unimaginative and disappointing magnolia, while the rear had been covered in a contrasting dark almost burgundy coloured wallpaper that seemed perfectly suited to the room and I almost wished it had been used on the remaining walls as well. The floor was laid to bare floorboards, all dark stained with age and decades of wax, polish or stain and seemed to be in apparently good order and worn much less than the floors in other areas of the house. I gazed around this rather impressively sized room, no paintings or pictures hung upon the walls and only two items of furniture occupied this cavernous chamber. For there, in the centre of the room, standing stoutly under the chandelier facing the vast windows was a single dark green traditional three seat Chesterfield sofa which seemed to evoke images of times gone by, or perhaps that was my mind working overtime, yet it seemed perfect for this room, perfect for this house and even indeed this very town.  The other item of furniture was a matching and apparently well used Chesterfield footstall immediately in front of the sofa, beside which was stacked a pile of old books. My assumption on their age came from that fact that there all appeared to hard cover volumes, sans dust jackets and you don’t seem many of those for sales in book shops these days. I walked to the windows and gazed out at the rippling sea beyond, it truly was a remarkably lovely view and I could quite easily understand why there was no other furniture in this room, it seemed perfect for sitting and reading in solitude or gazing out at the never still sea. For the briefest of moments I envied my uncle for being able to enjoy this tranquil sanctuary at will, then I remembered it was no longer his, he was no longer here and it was mine, mine to enjoy. I had to keep mentally and physically pinching myself, this wasn’t a dream, this wasn’t a fantasy, no this was a reality.

View from the balcony 

© 2014 Copyright Josh Jordan

Monday, 30 June 2014

Stolen words

Do you walk in beauty,  like the night?
Please tell me, for I’d love to know.
Can I compare you to a summer’s day, do I have the right?
Maybe we could walk hand in hand through a distant meadow,
Or down beside the lake and beneath the tree,
Would you allow me to paint your picture with bright orange poppies all around your head.
You’d laugh at all my thoughts, desires and dreams if I let them wander free,
Yet what else can I do when even my reality is equal to a dream.
I wish we could talk for hours and hours, there is so much to share,
But time is a gift so precious, there’s not a second to waste,
Oh this feeling that toys with my every waking thought is so rare,
Therefore it will not be something I’ll give up in haste.
These emotions are not new,  as all the world can tell,
Even the words that tumble here have been used before, second hand for sure.
But does it matter that, does it break the spell,
Of the truth that in my heart I could not love you more.

© 2013 Copyright

A Sunday poem

Monday, 24 March 2014

First impressions.....

Continuing on from the previous post, I’ll recount my immediate impressions and thoughts as I started to explore my new home, the house on the seafront left to me by a distant relation I can’t ever remember meeting.

A bizarre sweeping swirl of emotions contested for attention as I stepped forward in the dark and somewhat dusty interior. There was a musty, dusty aroma of the unloved and of the forgotten in the air that lingered in my nostrils after I negotiated the threshold and closed the big old wooden door. The old flaking blue paint of the outside was carried through on the inside, although protected from the English Channel’s continuous onslaught, the shade was so much darker and therefore closer to what I imagine would have been the original colour when the first strokes were applied many years ago. I tried the light switch with little hope of illumination, yet my surprise was prodigious when a fraction of a second later a single old fashioned sixty watt bulb flickered into use. My eyes were immediately drawn to the long and rather impressive imposing staircase that was immediately in front of me, half way along this entrance hall. Sure it was dusty and even from this vantage point I could see some of the banisters were missing, yet its length and width were remarkable and evocative of times gone by when the size of your staircase was a symbol of your wealth. I had an urge, albeit a rather childish one, to run all the way up the five flights and slide down all the way, I resisted, but only just, yet in the back of my mind I made a mental promise to myself to give-in too such urges before too long. I further explored the hallway, there was a dark blue colour painted upon the walls below a dado rail that ran just below waist height on all walls. Above was a dark murky green colour that first appeared to be paint, yet upon close inspection was some kind of wallpaper or covering that’s surface had been dimmed and discoloured by age. ‘One day I’ll clean that up to its former glory’ I said to myself, yet even as the words played out in my mind I knew in reality that a day for me to be cleaning anything to its former glory was a day that would be a jolly long way off!  The floor in the most part was left to bare floorboards, the wood was dark with age and decades of polishing or waxing, still managing to shine through a thick layer of dust. There was a runner carpet in the centre of the hall, this long thin strip of carpet was a deep dark red, with a swirling pattern of leaves, flowers and what appeared to be dragons. I let my eyes follow the hallway, to the bare wooden doors leading to who knew where and up to the ceiling. The colour was a rather non-descript mottled beige yellowish colour that could have been white or yellow originally. There were surprisingly few cobwebs, just a couple here and there in the corners and I wondered just how long the house had been empty. I knew nothing of this mysterious uncle of mine, so I had no clue how often he used this ‘summer’ house, it could have been every summer or once a decade for all I knew and it was this sense of the unknown that sent a shiver through me.

The first door on the left, like all the doors in the hallway had been left in its natural state, unpainted, unvarnished and unspoilt. The light wood grain showing through a thin layer of dust, for some reason my fingers trembled as I gripped the round knob and turned it gingerly. It opened freely yet with a slow yawning creek the like of which you hear in scores of horror films of a certain age that seemed to echo throughout the hallway. I was surprised that the room was appeared empty, save for a wooden sideboard along one wall and a bench seat in front of the window that overlooked the seafront. However as I stepped forward I noticed a row of hooks on the nearest wall behind the door, upon which were various coats, jackets and hats. Beside this row of outer clothing was a big brass bucket containing half a dozen or so walking sticks and umbrellas of various descriptions and styles. I allowed my fingers to stroke the back of some of the coats as I moved further into the room, noticing a row of shoes, boots and sandals on the floor under the coats as I did so. I think I may have even shivered slightly as the fabric tingled my fingertips, I was touching the past and perhaps it was a realisation that Uncle John had been a real person, that these were his clothes, his shoes, his belongings and that this was his house that caused me to take a sharp intake of breath. You see up until this moment, things had happened so fast that I had barely a second to consider this odd distant relative that I didn’t know or remember was more than just a name on a piece of paper, he was, or rather had been, a real person. He had had a life and part of that life had been here, in this house. I felt something well up deep inside me, I’m not exactly sure what, perhaps it was an ambiguous supposition that I didn’t completely belong here, that although I was now the official owner of the house, it wasn’t and would never really be ‘my’ house.

© 2014 Copyright Josh Jordan