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 VII 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
4th VII 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 VII 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 VII 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