julianbeachwriting

[julianbeachwriting]

We're all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding.

Rudyard Kipling

[julianbeachwriting]

The new religion

We may be in the midst of discovering that the only thing worse than religion is its absence.

Every day, no, every hour, there’s a new dogma, a stampede to dream up the latest heresy. And they’re not as well thought through as past heresies. They don’t always have the bloody repercussions, yet, but you can easily foresee a situation where they will.

A new religion is being created as I type by a new generation of people who think they are non-ideological, who think they’re very rational, who think they’re past myth, who think they’re past story, who think they’re better than their ancestors, who have never even bothered to study them.

[julianbeachwriting]

A spirit moved. John Harvard walked the yard, The atom lay unsplit, the west unwon, The books stood open and the gates unbarred.

The maps dreamt on like moondust. Nothing stirred. The future was a verb in hibernation. A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard.

Before the classic style, before the clapboard, All through the small hours of an origin, The books stood open and the gate unbarred.

Night passage of a migratory bird. Wingflap. Gownflap. Like a homing pigeon A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard.

Was that his soul (look) sped to its reward By grace or works? A shooting star? An omen? The books stood open and the gate unbarred.

Begin again where frosts and tests were hard. Find yourself or founder. Here, imagine A spirit moves, John Harvard walks the yard, The books stand open and the gates unbarred.

Seamus Heaney | Villanelle For An Anniversary

[julianbeachwriting]

[julianbeachwriting]

The forest ended. Glad I was To feel the light, and hear the hum Of bees, and smell the drying grass And the sweet mint, because I had come To an end of forest, and because Here was both road and inn, the sum Of what's not forest. But 'twas here They asked me if I did not pass Yesterday this way. 'Not you? Queer.' 'Who then? and slept here?' I felt fear.

I learnt his road and, ere they were Sure I was I, left the dark wood Behind, kestrel and woodpecker, The inn in the sun, the happy mood When first I tasted sunlight there. I travelled fast, in hopes I should Outrun that other. What to do When caught, I planned not. I pursued To prove the likeness, and, if true, To watch until myself I knew.

I tried the inns that evening Of a long gabled high-street grey, Of courts and outskirts, travelling And eager but a weary way, In vain. He was not there. Nothing Told me that ever till that day Had one like me entered those doors, Save once. That time I dared: 'You may Recall' -- but never-foamless shores Make better friends than those dull boors.

Many and many a day like this Aimed at the unseen moving goal And nothing found but remedies For all desire. These made not whole; They sowed a new desire, a kiss Desire's self beyond control, Desire of desire. And yet Life stayed on within my soul. One night in sheltering from the wet I quite forgot I could forget.

A customer, then the landlady Stared at me. With a kind of smile They hesitated awkwardly: Their silence gave me time for guile. Had anyone called there like me, I asked. It was quite plain the wile Succeeded. For they poured out all. And that was naught. Less than a mile Beyond the inn, I could recall He was like me in general.

He had pleased them, but I less. I was more eager than before To find him out and to confess, To bore him and to let him bore. I could not wait: children might guess I had a purpose, something more That made an answer indiscreet. One girl's caution made me sore, Too indignant even to greet That other had we chanced to meet.

I sought then in solitude. The wind had fallen with the night; as still The roads lay as the ploughland rude, Dark and naked, on the hill. Had there been ever any feud 'Twixt earth and sky, a mighty will Closed it: the crocketed dark trees, A dark house, dark impossible Cloud-towers, one star, one lamp, one peace Held on an everlasting lease:

And all was earth's, or all was sky's; No difference endured between The two. A dog barked on a hidden rise; A marshbird whistled high unseen; The latest waking blackbird's cries Perished upon the silence keen. The last light filled a narrow firth Among the clouds. I stood serene, And with a solemn quiet mirth, An old inhabitant of earth.

Once the name I gave to hours Like this was melancholy, when It was not happiness and powers Coming like exiles home again, And weaknesses quitting their bowers, Smiled and enjoyed, far off from men, Moments of everlastingness. And fortunate my search was then While what I sought, nevertheless, That I was seeking, I did not guess.

That time was brief: once more at inn And upon road I sought my man Till once amid a tap-room's din Loudly he asked for me, began To speak, as if it had been a sin, Of how I thought and dreamed and ran After him thus, day after day: He lived as one under a ban For this: what had I got to say? I said nothing. I slipped away.

And now I dare not follow after Too close. I try to keep in sight, Dreading his frown and worse his laughter. I steal out of the wood to light; I see the swift shoot from the rafter By the inn door: ere I alight I wait and hear the starlings wheeze And nibble like ducks: I wait his flight. He goes: I follow: no release Until he ceases. Then I also shall cease.

Edward Thomas | The Other

[julianbeachwriting]

Because half-a-dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field; that of course they are many in number; or that, after all, they are other than the little shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome insects of the hour.

Edmund Burke

[julianbeachwriting]

Be Wise, Be Circumspect

It was about twenty years ago, I suppose, when my late father and I took a boat that we had spent two years restoring in a shed in Carrickfergus on a voyage up the west coast of Scotland, surely the prettiest cruising grounds on earth. Those two weeks were the longest time I ever spent alone with him and I treasure the memory to this day. One particular moment stands out….

Having carefully navigated the submerged rocks and treacherous currents of the entrance to Loch Moidart, just north of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, we dropped anchor beside Castle Tioram. After several whiskies too many and a splendid supper of pan fried mackerel, caught earlier that afternoon, we turned in for the night.

Around two in the morning I was woken by my protesting bladder and clambered on deck to relieve myself over the side. At these latitudes it never really gets dark in midsummer, so I stood for a while on the foredeck and watched as the eastern sky behind craggy Cul Doirlinn gradually lightened. In this ghostly, Arthurian setting, with the castle rising out of the sea mist and tiny wavelets lapping gently against the hull I fell into an almost trance-like state.

The calm was abruptly shattered by a piercing ‘bi-glic bi-glic’, the unmistakable flight call of a pair of oystercatchers, as they sped out towards the mussel beds below Eilean Shona. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

As quickly as they arrived, they were gone. Silence descended again, until all I could hear was rapid ‘thump thump’ of my own heart.

'Bi-glic bi-glic’, incidentally, translates from gaelic as 'be wise, be circumspect’.

[julianbeachwriting]

A Ploughland Music and Spoken Word Playlist

Right back atcha, John Lewis-Stempel...

Ludwig van Beethoven - Symphony No. 6 in F major "Pastoral" - First Movement The Albion Band - Poor Old Horse Frederick Delius - A Late Lark Humble Pie - Take Me Back Fruuup - Misty Morning Way These New Puritans - Field of Reeds Talk Talk - The Rainbow Nick Drake - Day is Done Grasscut - The Field Edvard Grieg - Solveig's Cradle Song (from Peer Gynt) Christina Rosetti - Goblin Market (read by Shirley Henderson) William D Drake - Distant Buzzing Stackridge - Purple Spaceships over Yatton Richard Thompson - Gypsy Love Songs Steve Knightley - Widdecombe Fair Alt J - Birch Tree Ralph Vaughan Williams - On Wenlock Edge Vivian Stanshall - Sir Henry at Rawlinson End Led Zeppelin - The Battle of Evermore Lindisfarne - Dingly Dell Midlake - Core of Nature John Martyn - Spencer the Rover

[julianbeachwriting]

The most improper job of any man, even saints (who at any rate were at least unwilling to take it on), is bossing other men. Not one in a million is fit for it, and least of all those who seek the opportunity.

JRR Tolkien

[julianbeachwriting]

The man the hare has met will never be the better of it except he lay down on the land what he carries in his hand— be it staff or be it bow— and bless him with his elbow and come out with this litany with devotion and sincerity to speak the praises of the hare. Then the man will better fare. 'The hare, call him scotart, big-fellow, bouchart, the O'Hare, the jumper, the rascal, the racer. Beat-the-pad, white-face, funk-the-ditch, shit-ass. The wimount, the messer, the skidaddler, the nibbler, the ill-met, the slabber. The quick-scut, the dew-flirt, the grass-biter, the goibert, the home-late, the do-the-dirt. The starer, the wood-cat, the purblind, the furze cat, the skulker, the bleary-eyed, the wall-eyed, the glance-aside and also the hedge-springer. The stubble-stag, the long lugs, the stook-deer, the frisky legs, the wild one, the skipper, the hug-the-ground, the lurker, the race-the-wind, the skiver, the shag-the-hare, the hedge-squatter, the dew-hammer, the dew-hoppper, the sit-tight, the grass-bounder, the jig-foot, the earth-sitter, the light-foot, the fern-sitter, the kail-stag, the herb-cropper. The creep-along, the sitter-still, the pintail, the ring-the-hill, the sudden start, the shake-the-heart, the belly-white, the lambs-in-flight. The gobshite, the gum-sucker, the scare-the-man, the faith-breaker, the snuff-the-ground, the baldy skull, (his chief name is scoundrel.) The stag sprouting a suede horn, the creature living in the corn, the creature bearing all men's scorn, the creature no one dares to name.' When you have got all this said then the hare's strength has been laid. Then you might go faring forth— east and west and south and north, wherever you incline to go— but only if you're skilful too. And now, Sir Hare, good-day to you. God guide you to a how-d'ye-do with me: come to me dead in either onion broth or bread.

Seamus Heaney | The Names of the Hare, Translation from Middle English

[julianbeachwriting]

A belief system which manufactures the kind of zealotry prepared to drive nail bombs into children is structurally sick and rotten to the core. But perhaps no more sick than a host society which responds with Pavlovian predictability to the horror with hashtags, vigils, and vague counsel against "division". Remember the dead. But remember also that the purpose of everything you see on the news today and in the coming days (and we could literally script what's coming) is to downgrade your anger to sadness and augment the general sense of resignation and inevitability - the collective shrug which says "this is part and parcel of our life now", as the mayor of our capital city would have us believe. It's a message for a broken and defeated people. So long as this mentality prevails, so long as one faith and one culture is shielded from any meaningful scrutiny, so long as one faith and one culture is practically and provisionally given a licence to kill, this will not stop. There are those in positions of power and influence who really do believe that children ripped apart by ordnance at a pop concert is a price well worth paying for "tolerance", who really do believe that the largely imaginary threat of "Islamophobia" is the greater social evil to be guarded against at all costs. Newsflash: It's not.

Phillip Mark McGough

[julianbeachwriting]

#FolkloreThursday | the well at Ellesmere

The Mere at Ellesmere, Shropshire, was once meadow, in the middle of which stood a well from which everyone in the neighbourhood used to fetch water whenever they pleased. When a new tenant moved in, however, he forbade people from going to the well, only allowing his own family to draw water. One morning, his wife went to the well as usual but found that the field was now a large pool. It has remained thus ever since. The owner was obliged to pay the same rent as before as punishment for his conduct. In another version of the tale, the new owner of the well started charging a halfpenny for every bucketful that was drawn, with the same outcome.

Another version of the story was put to verse by the Rev Oswald Feilden, curate of St Andrew's Church, Welsh Frankton, in the late 19th century:

I've heard it said, where now so clear The water of that silver mere, It once was all dry ground; And on a gentle eminence, A cottage with a garden fence, Which hedged it all around.

And there resided all alone, So runs the tale, an aged crone, A witch, as some folks thought. And to her home a well was near, Whose waters were so bright and clear, By many it was sought.

But greatly it displeased the dame To see how all her neighbours came Her clear cool spring to use, And often was she heard to say, That if they came another day, She would the well refuse.

Upon this little hill, said she, My house I built for privacy, Which now I seek in vain: For day by day your people come Thronging in crowds around my home, This water to obtain.

But when folks laughed at what she said, Her countenance with passion red, She uttered this dread curse: Ye neighbours one and all beware! If here to come again you dare For you 'twill be the worse!

Of these her words they took no heed, And when of water they had need Next day, they came again. The dame, they found, was not at home, The well was locked: so they had come Their journey all in vain.

The well was safely locked. But though You might with bolts and bars, you know, Prevent the water going, One thing, forsooth, could not be done, I mean forbid the spring to run, And stop it overflowing.

And all that day, as none could draw, The water rose full two feet more Than ever had been known. And when the evening shadows fell, Beneath the cover of the well A stream was running down,

It flowed on gently all next day, And soon around the well there lay A pond of water clear; And as it ever gathered strength, It deeper grew, until at length The pond became a mere.

To some, alas! the flood brought death; Full many a cottage lies beneath The waters of the lake; And those who dwelt on either side Were driven by the running tide Their homesteads to forsake.

And as they fled, that parting word Which they so heedlessly had heard, They now recalled, I ween The dame was gone; but where once stood Her cottage, still above the flood An island may be seen.

[julianbeachwriting]

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TI4FXxx4odI)

[julianbeachwriting]

When people complain about cultural appropriation, do they ever factor in the craftspeople of those cultures who make their living producing the traditional art, clothing or accessories being “appropriated?”

Japanese kimono manufacturers are happy when white girls buy authentic kimono from them.

Indian saree manufacturers are happy when white girls buy authentic sarees from them.

Navajo craftspeople are happy when white tourists buy their traditional silver and turquoise jewelry.

Moroccan craftspeople are happy when white tourists buy their handwoven traditional rugs and djellaba.

Mexican craftspeople are happy when white tourists buy their sugar skulls and serapes.

These are real people making their living. They are keeping their tradition alive and sharing it with the world. When you make it seem like buying and wearing or displaying in your home anything from another culture is “appropriation” and offensive, you’re not actually helping anyone. You’re making someone feel bad, you’re virtue signaling for your own ego and hurting the livelihoods of real people who are actually living those cultures.

[julianbeachwriting]

Huge SWILCAR shakes his tresses brown, Out-spreads his bare arms to the skies, The ruins of six centuries, Deep groans pervade his rifted rind – He speaks his bitterness of mind. “Your impious hands, barbarians, hold!"

Deaf are the ruthless ears of gain, And youth and beauty plead in vain. – Loud groans the wood with thick’ning strokes! "Yes, ye must perish, filial oaks! In heaps your wither’d trunks be laid, And wound the lawns, ye used to shade; Whilst Avarice on the naked pile Exulting casts a hideous smile. Strike here! On me exhaust your rage, Not let false pity spare my age!”

Francis Noel Clark Mundy | Needwood Forest (excerpt)

[julianbeachwriting]

[julianbeachwriting]

The ultimate endpoint of keeping our mitts off experience that doesn’t belong to us is that there is no fiction. Someone like me only permits herself to write from the perspective of a straight white female born in North Carolina, closing on 60, able-bodied but with bad knees, skint for years but finally able to buy the odd new shirt. All that’s left is memoir.

Lionel Shriver