Hidden Depths

You may not know it yet,
but you have a calm
deep within.

I saw it while you slept
in a Perspex box
like a doll.

I saw it when I crept
into your room at night,
and by the light
of the crack from the door,
I waited till I saw you breathe.

I saw it as you fought
from a hospital bed,
drawing from the depths
as you inhaled large gulps
of oxygen.

You have a calm.
Solid unwavering calm
that you keep hidden well.

For now you are looking back
into the box.

And the light from the door
is your light.

And your breath
is the air that feeds
those around you.

You have a calm.
And though I’m not around
to share it today,
I can feel it,
even from here.


John H Davies
16th July 2011
Juba

Juba, Republic of South Sudan

On arrival at Juba International airport I was reminded of old black and white photos from the 1950’s with family arriving at Nairobi, greeted by relatives and friends on the tarmac. The resultant chaos of the small room that served as immigration and baggage reclaim, seemed to stem from the single security scanner, through which everything was dutifully passed, and a chalk mark placed on each item of luggage before being relayed across the throng to anyone who managed to catch the eye of a handler. About an hour later my bags hadn’t surfaced and looking around I spotted the three of them piled neatly by the main entrance where a constant stream of people came and went, any one of whom could have easily made off with everything I possessed. Nothing was missing.

After 20 years of relative tedium running a small manufacturing business in the midlands, I was taking up a position with a security company owned by an on old Sandhurst friend, who by chance was looking for a replacement operations manager in the newly independent Republic of South Sudan.

North and South Sudan have been at war with each other for between 25 and 53 years depending on your source, and a Comprehensive Peace Agreement signed in 2005 led to relative stability which culminated in the formal declaration of Independence on 9^th July. Naturally I was excited at the opportunity to experience the birth of a new country, but although I arrived three days before the event, I was to see very little of the festivities.

The new capital of Juba is no larger than a provincial English town, sitting beside the White Nile, but there the similarity ends. Most of the accommodation consists of portable buildings squeezed into walled compounds topped with razor wire, and guarded in the main by my new employees. There is no reliable source of electricity so the drone of generators is all pervasive. Water is delivered by ancient trucks from outlets provided by USAID and signs by the pumps declare ‘A gift from the American people.’ The exorbitant cost of living, driven by the unabashed exploitation of NGO’s and aid organisations working here, means that a night in a portacabin at the Hamza Inn (…think down market Camp Bastion) costs more than a superior room at the Sheraton Belgravia. A laminated sign adorns the dining room door rather like a No Entry road sign, with the image of the ubiquitous Kalashnikov struck through.

But there is an underlying air of optimism that you can’t fail to notice, and as I was driven around, the roads were being washed with water and brooms, strategic curb stones painted white, and a few flower pots distributed at road junctions which uniquely complimented lounging soldiers in camouflage fatigues cradling AK 47s and rocket propelled grenades. Earlier in the week the local mayor of our area had visited each property and insisted that the front gate was painted blue, on risk of imprisonment. All in preparation for the big day and the presidential entourage.

My first task was to inspect the guards parading in the compound, something I hadn’t done since a young infantry subaltern, and now touching 50 I felt rather like Captain Mainwaring as I was treated to a display of drill which would have made my old colour sergeant swallow his pace stick, but with a commitment which would have raised an approving smile, and having taken a salute actually heard myself saying “Good turnout men!” Only Corporal Jones was missing…

Several African Heads of State and diplomats from all over the world were flown in for the ceremony, and we could only imagine the chaos at the airport, although later learnt that the air traffic operation was taken over by the Kenyans who sent in controllers to organise the constant stream of aircraft that flew in low over our office. The resourceful Kenyans are a force majeur here in Southern Sudan and whilst they provide well needed expertise, some internal grumbling has been directed towards international development groups for not employing enough local Sudanese, and my company Warrior Security has made a priority of recruiting and training local guards, in all over a thousand.

Sadly my view of the festivities was restricted to the operational base, the old hands advising it would be a fruitless exercise to venture up town as the roads would be a heaving mass of humanity. But that night the residents and staff of Hamza Inn were treated to a barbeque laid on by a long term Sudanese resident and duel Canadian citizen who we thanked and wished Happy Independence.

And we meant it. Independence has come at a price. Prolific poverty, rudimentary education and high infant mortality are only a few of the challenges that need to be addressed, along with the underlying resentments that will have evolved from years of fighting, deep tribal divisions, and on-going disputes up in the border areas that produce the country’s only major commodity, oil.

Having had a poem published in The Spectator last year I was encouraged, rashly, to write a new piece every day and post it on a blog, and managed to keep it up for 6 months. It has been a hard slog, and harder still knowing that the necessity of writing to order undoubtedly dilutes the quality of the offering. It was my intention to continue the discipline in my new environment, but the activities of the past few days have been all consuming, and I have lapsed. To my tiny band of loyal followers I say thank you, and I am certain my new surroundings will provide a refreshing fountain of inspiration. Watch this space http://dailybreadpoetry.blogspot.com/

Tuck Box

My tuck box was blue and had two catches

like an ammo box, secured with a pad lock

and containing all that I now owned in the world.

You were allowed to accompany me to the

windowless bare study smaller than our

downstairs loo, which I was to share with Henn,

until it was time to shake hands, tight lipped

as I watched you walk away along the corridor

and back to the real world that you owned.

In a very short time I’d shut the pad lock key inside

and to my shame you were summoned from sherry

with the house master and armed with a pair of pliers

you forced the lock with a shaking hand and I think

I knew then, that this was hard for you too and I cried

for the first time, and didn’t want you to go again.

John H Davies

4^th July 2011

Briggs & Stratton

Not only did she prove

that she didn’t need a man

about the place, but that

it was possible to mow

the lawn in several

different directions at once.

John H Davies

3rd July 2011

Fledgling

Rather like

a tiny dressed chicken;

bald,

but warm

as it nestled in my palm,

this blind morsel of life,

muscled out,

its miniature ribcage

expanding and contracting

in a staccato rhythm

slowly diminishing

into my cupped hand

until all its premature vigour

was expended,

and round about,

the hedgerows chirruped

in the summer sunshine.

John H Davies

2nd July 2011

Le Marche

A landscape bleached by sun
Distilled by many hundred years,
The subtle distillation
Of man’s toil and tears.

From far horizons, Sybil
Casts her beckoning shadow, now a mantle
To protect the ancient necromancers
Who, it’s said hid Pilate’s lifeless body
In the reddish depths of some demonic lake.

Here along the timeless pathways
Marched the history of our earth.
From Bronze Age man, the early Sabine
Recognised this rolling land
And merged into the countless hills
Which even now bear evidence
Of his respectful tenure.

It’s there for us to see,
As perched atop our vantage point
Towards the end of time
We delve among the sleepy hilltop villages
And ordered rows of olive groves
To find the scattered evidence
Of mighty Roman cult succumb
To mystical Byzantium.

The disparate land bore host in time
To Greeks and Gauls, and from its earth
Grew saints whose influence
Inspired great ochre monasteries
To which believers trekked on routes of faith,
Laying firm the comfort of those names
Which to this day remain.

And further down the centuries
Their message is reborn
In ducal palaces
Where music and great works of art
Impart the glory and the passion fixed
For all to hear and see
And ponder on the everlasting mystery.


John H Davies
1st July 2011

Farewell

She gave me

a second hand copy

of Love in the Time

of Cholera

and I asked her

to water the flowers

on her birthday.

John H Davies

30th June 2011

Sea Breeze

As I walked along the tree lined green lane

in the early evening, the sound of wind

gently pulsing through unseen branches overhead

reminded me of waves rolling over a shingle beach,

though I was nowhere near the sea.

John H Davies

29th June 2011

Haircut

She cut my hair

with the confidence

of one who’d

been doing it

for years,

but it didn’t

improve my headache,

or hers.

John H Davies

28th June 2011

Honey Trap

They came looking for their queen

and couldn’t escape,

these bees,

scattered on the window sill

in random stillness,

like upturned turtles;

becalmed,

unhummed,

expollinated

spider fodder.

John H Davies

27th June 2011

Late evening summer ride

A familiar shadow follows alongside.

I know it is me, because the

shirt is vibrating in the wind

and white noise fills the ears

and insects smack against cheeks

and smells of summer vegetation

and wood smoke and petrol

and burnt oil against the exhaust,

garnish the machine gun chatter

of the single eighty four millimetre

bore and ninety millimetre stroke

firing at every lamp post,

and for a brief moment man, machine

and road are phased in perfect rhythm.

John H Davies

26th June 2011

Wonderful Whether

‘I wonder what’s for supper tonight,’ he wondered,

whilst wondering whether it would rain before

he mowed the lawn, or if England would

bowl out Sri Lanka on the first day. He

wondered whether they had enough

stock at work to complete that order,

and was it any wonder  there wasn’t

anything to look forward to on TV

tonight given the rubbish they show

these days, though he would still

sit down at nine as he did every

night, wondering whether any

of this would inspire him to

think of something to post

on the blog before

midnight, or whether

something had to

change…

John H Davies

25th June 2011

Mountain Grass

Be like the mountain grass that bends
when the savage east wind blows;
its passing but a gentle kiss
that will in time
give comfort in repose.

Be like the mountain grass that bends
to the gentle breeze in June
infused with healing warmth;
that is my constant love
about your presence strewn.

Be like the mountain grass that bends
to the travellers weary tread;
cushioning the rocky path
beneath his feet
as he is homeward led.

                  John H Davies
                  24th June 2011 (revised 10th November 2011)

Close by

You will hear me
in the silent moments
between each heart beat.

You will feel me
when the sun gently kisses
the nape of your neck.

You will see me
in empty hedgerows
with the early lambs.


John H Davies
23rd June 2011

Bragging about our dads - IV

My dad works at the bank
and he can get
millions of pounds
whenever he wants –
although it’s
not his money really.
In fact it’s
not really real money,
money you can touch
anyway.
Actually there isn’t
any money at all;
there are things called
futures and options
and packages of debt,
which is what makes it
really interesting,
and apparently
most of it
belongs to all of us
anyway, so that’s good
isn’t it?


John H Davies
22nd June 2011

Pancho

Pancho was from Panama
and spoke disarmingly good English,
but you learned to trust your instinct
in this place

and guard against the plausible ones,
the bonhomie, the friendly air
and just for a moment you were
taken in

until he removed his T-shirt
to reveal a chest carefully
crossed-hatched with welted scars:
a chequer board

by his own hand. A preening display
of self harming bravado that gave light
to the glint in his eye. ‘Game of chess?’
he offered.


John H Davies
21st June 2011

Changeling

The rich dark earth
felt warm
as he sifted it
through searching fingers
before planting
Impatiens, Lobelias
and Begonias
that would in time
give silent voice
to her eternal message
that nothing is wasted;
every atom recycled,
every memory redeployed,
every event
purposed.


John H Davies
20th June 2011

Premature

I feel rather sad
when the climbing rose
sheds its white
heart shaped petals.

So early in the summer
to have peaked
in one fleeting moment,
leaving untidy piles
on the path,
like spent confetti
around a deserted
lych gate.


John H Davies
19th June 2011

Royal Ascot

They seemed excited
to be driving south
for the final day,
the dressing up, the atmosphere.

I’d felt that way too,
one summer,
because I knew
she felt important
at that kind of thing;
hobnobbing,
showing off her Burberry,
though we were still
on the outside of the fun,
wandering around
our virtual enclosure.

And I knew
it wasn’t enough
to queue for a pint
of warm Pimms.

It would never be enough.


John H Davies
18th June 2011 

A Headmasters Prayer

New boys sat on the front row

beneath the headmaster's pew,

humbly beseeching polished brogues

as he lightened our darkness.

The author of peace

and lover of concord, he shepherded

our erring and straying through

Kings and Queens like lost sheep.

Woe betide the boy who fell

into sin or ran into any kind

of off-side trap or leg before,

according to his governance.

And day by day he brought us

safely to the beginning of our humble

assaults on childhood amidst a peace

which only now I understand.

John H Davies

17th June 2011

The Party

“Come in come in,” a kiss, a hug – “have you lost weight?
You must meet Angel, oh and Rachel’s partner Brian”
(aside in hushed conspiratorial tones, for Rachel died last month)
and in I wade with good intention: “Sorry to hear about your loss,
were you together long?”
“Twenty years on and off, mostly off. A free spirit was Rachel.
She left me actually. The magic had gone, we hoped it might return.”
“No chance!” said Angel, dragging on a roll-up from the peeling bench
“I give ‘em three months and I’m off.”

Half familiar strangers loiter with vacant smiles
and piles of vol au vents on paper plates
and expectant looks towards a next door room
in order to avoid that ever awkward introduction.

“And she’s the one that used to be the catwalk model,”
which might explain the invisible barrier
across which no-one dares to tread despite her friendly smile
and charming kids and mundane talk of physios and other normal things.

I’m John as well! That’ll make things easy. Actually
they call me Bonkers John and I’ll tell you all about myself
for the next half hour provided that you stand and smile and prompt
and feel relieved as folks will think you’re quite the socialite –
Look! Someone wants to talk to you...
except that Bonkers John will talk to anyone.

And from this island sanctuary I leap to Bill
who looks kind and friendly and not too taxing
and finds it spooky that I’ve just read Hardy too
which means I’ll probably also like to hear of post cards
and canals and laying hedges. What are the chances
of us two meeting here of all places?

The night draws on and sounds of voices mingle
with the dim but friendly lights and when I’m happy
that my host and those I’ve met are so absorbed in feeble etiquette
they wouldn’t miss my paltry contribution, I slip the latch
and hope no-one will catch me in the silent act of cowardice.

John H Davies
16th June 2011

Elegy on the rear end of a male sheep

‘We only eat when seated at table,’

he explained, refusing my offer

of an ice-cream in down town Minden.

And some days later
he disappeared, and some said
his girlfriend had bumped her head
on the dining room table

and died.
Just like that.

John H Davies

15th June 2011 

Bard of the Black Country

I salute you

John Sparry:

historian, raconteur,

skilled exponent

of the vibraphone,

wearer of strange

headgear,

residing above

your second hand

bookshop next to 

the chippy

in Wall Heath.

Long may you

make us smile.

John H Davies

14^th June 2011 

Birth

She had the child at home

with only the midwife in attendance

and was relieved

that it cried this time.

Although the noise

faded with the years,

until neither she

nor the boy

were conscious of the silence

that had developed.

And it was only

when she began

to lose her hearing,

that she thought about

the little voice again.

John H Davies

13th June 2011 

Postponement

As the anaesthetic began to take effect

her last thought was how this would be

a good way to go

and later confided a feeling of disappointment

when she woke up and found herself

in the recovery room.

John H Davies

12th June 2011 

Automobile

Sitting in a metal box

breathing in intoxicating air

hurtling from here to there

at breakneck speed -

mostly getting nowhere.

We haven’t come

particularly far

since man’s ascent

from sea to land

from land to tree,

and finally to stand.

Even though

he’s mastered air,

and even dared

to broach the planet’s

mantle fair

in search of new horizons.

Evolved till precious life itself

can be prolonged.

Unlimited ambition

which unfettered, strives

for goals that until recently

would seem like heresy

to lesser souls.

As patiently

they contemplate

the meek acceptance

of their fate

that’s hardly fitting

hardly fair, breathing in

intoxicating air

whilst humbly

sitting in a metal box.

11^th June 2011

Giving

You said it is easier to give,

if you have something to give,

when in truth most people

find it harder

to part with what they have

when they have it.

Which is why you are not

like most people.

John H Davies

10th June 2011 

They come in threes

I distinctly saw them

in my peripheral view

but dared not take my eye

off the rolling sea

or my hand from the wheel,

and harnessed to the safety line

I held our course on a beam reach,

and thought what a site

our little ship must have made

to our three mute spectators

looking on from the rocky cliffs

in the teeth of the gale,

and somehow their presence

assured me, though I confess

a feeing of exhilarated relief

as we ran to starboard

and surfed through Puffin Sound,

rounding the island

as the evening sun

set our wet clothes steaming,

and in the calmer water

I asked my old crewman

if he’d seen the figures

regarding us, and after a pause

he explained that no-one

had inhabited the barren rock since

the monastery was abandoned

in the twelfth century,

and as we passed close by

the lighthouse on the mainland

its bell sounded a lonely knell

that broke the awkward pause.

Years later, on land now

I came down

from a snow covered hill

and lunched among the ruins

of an old farmstead,

and in my reverie

sensed something familiar

about me, and recognised

the brooding presence

of three stone pillars;

perhaps they were arranged

in a similar attitude,

but a pervading assurance

returned to me as I resumed

the homeward journey,

and after only a few paces

my phone rang

and you told me there’d been

an accident, and no-one knew

if she was dead or alive,

and all I could see

in my mind’s eye

as I raced back over the mountain

were the lone sentinels,

their sinister scrutiny

charging each pace

delivering me to her

side, hurt but safe.

Unholy trinity,

I hesitate to think

what augers

the next appearance

of the three,

and whether I’ll be ready,

or whether my sun

will be settling

towards the horizon,

and wise men

and shepherds will be

following some other star.

Or is it simply a bit like

waiting for a bus?

You wait all day…

John H Davies

9th June 2011 

Honeysuckle

Sweetening the

thickly air,

making its play

for the hedgerow stakes;

unnoticed all the year

until this moment,

when it takes a bow

and how!

John H Davies

8th June 2011 

Tourist Trophy

Goodbye Derek Brien,

farewell Bill Currie and Kevin Morgan,

true gladiators to those of us

who can only guess

how it must feel

to charge down Bray Hill

for the first time;

bounce over Ballaugh Bridge;

fly through Quarry Bends on a drying road;

scream along Sulby Straight at full chat;

glide past Gooseneck;

power up the mountain;

down past the Creg,

and back to Douglas

for a flying lap.

And though you’ve rounded

Governor’s Bridge for the last time,

we’ll still be holding up a sign board

as you dice with Guthrie and Dunlop,

Hailwood and McIntyre,

stopping only to collect a replica

from the Deemster, each time

you pass the Grandstand.

John H Davies

7th June 2011 

Pitching it up

I always think of him

on this day;

a young subaltern

fresh from school,

with a lively off-break

soon to lose its shape

by a hedge near Caen.

Blown up

by an unseen shell,

though he’s quick

to point out

that he was

facing the enemy

at the time.

John H Davies

6th June 2011 

Half Way

Somehow, reaching the

half way marker

wasn’t quite enough,

and he continued

a few more paces

before allowing himself

to think he was

on the homeward stretch.

John H Davies

5th June 2011 

Traces

Evolve me,

and I will turn from the sun

and claim the void.

One thought to vent

the sulphurous residue

of late flowering

maturity.

Retreat me,

and see the shadow

creep across unequal surfaces

and stall to time.

John H Davies

4th June 2011 

Mortality

The keyhole surgery

was a success and his

fears that they might

find something sinister

besides his gall bladder

were unfounded, but

despite this and his

obvious post operative

fatigue he couldn’t sleep

because each time he

closed his eyes he felt

like he was going to die.

John H Davies

3rd June 2011