Birds of Passage

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

1807-1882
Black shadows fall
From the lindens tall,
That lift aloft their massive wall
Against the southern sky;
And from the realms
Of the shadowy elms
A tidy-like darkness overwhelms
The fields that round us lie.
But the night is fair
And everywhere
A warm, soft vapour fills the air,
And different sounds seem near,
And above, in the light
Of the star-lit night,
Swift birds of passage wing their flight
Through the dewy atmosphere.
I hear the beat
Of their pinions fleet,
As from the land of snow and sleet
They seek a southern lea.
I hear the cry
Of their voices high
Falling dreamily through the sky,
But their forms I cannot see.
O, say not so!
Those sounds that flow
In murmurs of delight and woe
Come not from wings of birds.
They are the throngs
Of the poet's songs,
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains and wrongs,
The sound of winged words.
This is the cry
Of souls, that high
On toiling, beating pinions, fly,
Seeking a warmer clime,
From their distant flight
Through realms of light
It falls into our world of night,
With the murmuring of rhyme.

Tiny Feet

by Gabriela Mistral

1889-1957
A child's tiny feet,
Blue, blue with cold,
How can they see and not protect you?
Oh, my God!
Tiny wounded feet,
Bruised all over by pebbles,
Abused by snow and soil!

Man being blind, ignores
That where you step you leave
A blossom of bright light,
That where you have placed
Your bleeding little soles
A redolent tuberose grows.

Since, however, you walk
Through the streets so straight,
You are courageous, without fault.

Child's tiny feet,
Two suffering little gems,
How can the people pass, unseeing.

Ice and Fire

Edmund Spenser

1552-1599
My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congeal'd with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kind.

No more paddling in the shallows as I dive headlong into union politics

There are many forms of addiction – drink, drugs, gambling and more. They nearly all start small but many lead to disaster.

As one drink leads to another, as one pill ends with a needle in your arm, or a flutter on the Grand National reaches the point when you put all you have left on that last do or die bet, addiction is hard to break.

Some addictions are less tangible.

For me there were two addictions – journalism and politics.

Not many people talk about their work as an addiction, maybe journalists are a different breed – I think many members of the public see us in that light, always have and always will.

I came into journalism in the old-fashioned way. I was an apprenticed trainee; I went on specialist courses; I listened to what my seniors told me; I immersed myself in the world of journalism; and I followed the path of a story from my notebook to seeing the ponderous presses roll and that story being printed on thousands and thousands of pages.

There is a smell at the works end of the newspaper process. It is hot metal, ink, grease and the general sweat of the workers.

The greatest thrill of all is hearing those presses thunder and feeling that vibration throughout the building.

I lost out on much of that when I went to work down South because my office was in the town centre and the works, which I never had reason to visit except for my own pleasure.

Then came the union lockout and a new excitement of people working together for the benefit of all and not just for the benefit of individuals.

Once that extreme excitement of the lockout ended and the joint print chapel disbanded there was a downturn again and the need to seek a further high which came with attending National Union of Journalists branch meetings.

It is strange how many workers join their union for protection and then let others get on with dealing with the nitty gritty of union toil. One the other hand this did mean that those I met at monthly branch meetings were committed to the NUJ – not just a socialist commitment, members were from the left, right and centre when it came to political views.

Even those monthly meetings were not always enough which is why just months after the united chapel victory I found myself on my way to Wexford, in Ireland, as part of the Southend NUJ branch delegation to the union’s annual delegates’ meeting.

This event, now held once every two years, is the equivalent of a political party annual conference except that in the title – Annual Delegates’ Meeting – it is made clear that it is those attending the conference that it is all about, not the people who run the union day to day.

At the time of the ADM the latest round of “the troubles” in Northern Ireland had been under way for more than four years (as it happens my father and I were in Enniskillen on the August weekend when it all flared – but that’s another story). This tended to give a bad name to the whole island of Ireland.

In response to the bad publicity, the Republic of Ireland (which is, after all, the vast majority of the island) wanted all the good publicity it could get, and what better way than playing host to journalists from all over Britain.

Since this time I have been to other ADMs and to party conferences and I have to say I never saw such lavish treatment as the Irish Tourist Board laid on for the NUJ delegates that April in 1974.

Our delegation had arrived the evening before conference began and had been taken to a very elegant hotel where we freshened up, left our bags and were then taken to the premises were the conference was being held.

Although it was basically meant to be a meet and greet so that we knew who to contact if there were any problems, and to meet other delegates before business began the next day, it was actually hosted by the Irish Tourist Board (or a similar organisation as almost 50 years later some details were hazy).

Having collected our document cases with delegate credentials, full details of all sessions and fringe activities, and all the other information we needed for the conference we were directed to a lavish buffet, with wine. There were also black plastic containers of JPS cigarettes, 50 in each, as JPS had also sponsored this event. I think myself and two others in our delegation of six were the smokers and we ended up with two drums each. Enouigh to keep any journo going for a couple of days.

There were also bottles of wine set on the tables.

Rather than hang around drinking my fellow branch delegates and I slipped some bottles of wine in our bags and headed back to our hotel. We did sit up for a good part of the night and we were drinking – but not to excess. We intended to keep our minds clear for the morning session and spent time figuring out which motions to keep an eye on and which ones we would try to speak at – for or against.

The next morning we were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and, after a good breakfast, ready to head for conference.

It was something special, being at my first conference as a delegate, and we intended to make the most of our time there.

A lot of the first morning was involved with admin-based information about which sessions would involve votes; which would be dealt with by a show of hands and which were likely to go to card vote. There were also short debates on clarification regarding putting motions together to save time in debate and voting.

In fact not much got done in actual debate and business before we adjourned for lunch in a big room in the same building.

Once again it was sponsored by the ITB and other local businesses.

The buffet tables groaned with food and each table, which seated six and was handy for our delegation, had two bottles of red and two of white wine.

Once more we stashed a couple of bottles, one red and one white, for later use and were surprised when an eagle-eyed waiter saw only two bottles on our table and immediately fetched two more.

Although the bottles had been uncorked the branch secretary, an experienced delegate, had brought along some bottle stoppers so that they wouldn’t spill inside a briefcase.

We only consumed three bottles between the six of us which meant when we headed back to the conference hall we were still very compus mentis which is more than could be said of some of our fellow delegates as the occasional snore echoed around the room.

It was certain that more business got done in the afternoon than had happened in the morning, at least from those awake enough to be involved. It did give more opportunity for newcomers to get their chance to speak for the first time on a motion.

As it happened there was nothing much to interest us on the order paper that afternoon and we kept our powder dry.

At the end of the session we had a couple of hours before an evening of entertainment which was planned for us. Because the following day there would be three or four motions that our branch had solid views on we used this “rest period” to draw up our battle plans, while imbibing most of our lunchtime wine supplies.

The evening was another sponsored session, I seem to remember music and some Irish dancing, with JPS providing more of their tubs of cigarettes and another buffet spread of Irish specialities.

The second day gave me the opportunity to speak at a packed conference hall for the first time in my life. I do believe that it was my theatrical training which got me through without deviation, hesitation or interruption. I don’t remember the motion we were supporting but I do know that it was approved by conference.

Another of our delegates was called to speak on further motion we had promised to support (that one went through as well) and we were quite pleased about our actions by the time we went for lunch.

This was a repetition of the previous day except we only had two bottles of wine between six, leaving us four for a late night strategy meeting as we knew on the next day, which was to include an address by a government minister, there were some major motions we wanted to speak on.

In the morning when we arrived at the conference centre we did notice there seemed to be more people than we had noticed previously. A large number of them appeared to be quite burly besuited men, some wearing belted trench coats, and others with suspicious bulges under their arms.

Just before conference was due to start a further group swept in through the front doors and headed for the doorway which led to the backstage area. I just had time to notice that buried in the middle of this group was a smaller man, almost invisible to the casual observer.

It seems they take more care of their government ministers in Ireland than we did in the UK.

As we sat down to begin conference we were asked to welcome the Irish government minister and there was the little man I had seen being escorted in to the centre flanked by burly intelligence officer with guns.

As the conference continued, once the Irish minister had welcomed us and asked us to take back good memories of the fine welcome we had enjoyed, some of the more serious motions came under scrutiny and I got a second chance to speak in favour, as did another member of our delgation.

All in all our delegation had a worthwhile trip to Wexford and I was pleased to have survived my baptism by fire.

The point is, once you have walked across the hot coals without burning your feet you find yourself seeking further and greater challenges.

Somewhere there is a simple life

Anna Akhmatova

translator: Judith Hemschemeyer
Somewhere there is a simple life and a world,
Transparent, warm and joyful . . .
There at evening a neighbour talks with a girl
Across the fence, and only the bees can hear
This most tender murmuring of all.

But we live ceremoniously and with difficulty
And we observe the rites of our bitter meetings,
When suddenly the reckless wind
Breaks off a sentence just begun -

But not for anything would we exchange this splendid
Granite city of fame and calamity,
The wide rivers of glistening ice,
The sunless, gloomy gardens,
And, barely audible, the Muse's voice.

In Petrovsky Park

by Vladislav Khodasevich

1886-1939
He hung without swaying
Thin belt on branch's bend.
His hat - a black remainder
Marred freshly combed sand.
Left palm pierced by the nails,
Of still yet stiffened hand.

The sun ascended slowly
For noon its horses set,
He faced the morning Helios
In somber tet-a-tet.
The man with frozen eyelids -
A risen silhouette.

And focused, focused, focused
His gaze was on the east.
Below, a crowd gathered
The voices hushed and triste.
Slim belt almost obscured
By early morning mist.

Against Love

by Katherine Philips

1632-1664
Hence Cupid! with your cheating toys,
Your real griefs, and painted joys,
Your pleasure which itself destroys.
Lovers like men in fevers burn and rave,
And only what will injure them do crave.
Men's weakness makes love so severe,
They give him power by their fear,
And make the shackles which they wear.
Who to another does his heart submit,
Makes his own idol, and then worships it.
Him whose heart is all his own,
Peace and liberty does crown,
He apprehends no killing frown.
He feels no raptures which are joys diseased,
And is not much transported, but still pleased.

The Prisoner

by Emil Brontë

Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd to wear
Year after year in gloom and desolate despair;
A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,
And offers for short life, eternal liberty.

He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars,
Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,
And visions rise and change, that kill me with desire.

Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,
When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears:
When, if my spirit's sky  was full of flashes warm,
I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.

But first a hush of peace - a soundless calm descends;
The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends.
Mute music soothes my breast - unutter'd harmony
That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.

Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;
My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels;
Its wings are almost free - its home, its harbour found,
Measuring the gulf it stoops, and dares the final bound.

O dreadful is the check - intense the agony -
When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
When the pulse begins to throb - the brain to think again -
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

Yet I would feel no sting, would wish no torture less;
The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;
And fired in robes of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,
If but herald Death, the vision is divine.

He came, he saw, he conquered -how far did Julius Caesar really get

We have had kings and queens in England (Britain, UK or whatever you want to call it) for almost 2,000 years and during that time they have been raised up from nothing; brought down even lower; died peacefully in their beds; died less peacefully on battlefields or in castle dungeons; and even had their heads chopped off.

Strangely many people in this country still believe Britain (which some believe is the same as England, or the United Kingdom) was discovered by the Romans, invaded, colonised and then disappeared from human ken for a few hundred years when the Romans went off to try and save the rest of their empire.

From the time we (reluctantly some say) said goodbye to the Romans Britain fell into the Dark Ages to appear a few hundred years later as an Anglo Saxon kingdom before it was invaded again, this time by Normans.

This confused bit of history came about because there were periods which, until more modern times, appeared to have left very little mark on anywhere outside this island nation (or group of nations).

Strangely, although England (and then later with the addition of Wales, Ireland and Scotland) was really forged by Norman monarchs, after William (affectionately known as the Conqueror) barged in, many English consider themselves Anglo Saxons rather than Normans (or, heaven preserve us, French) and believe those hardy Saxon serfs proved to be a thorn in the side of their conquerors for the next couple of centuries.

In fact the thorn in the side of King William and his royal descendants was not Saxon peasants but those who fell in between peasants and the royal family – the barons and other noble knights who today would equate to our middle class.

Over the centuries this has remained the same as even that middle class split into further groups.

The peasants did not revolt, it was their bosses, the landowners, the minor aristocracy and their ilk, who turned on their royal masters as they wanted more power for themselves.

A POTTED HISTORY OF BRITAIN (55 BC to 1066 AD)

Julius Caesar is met by the loc7als when he popped over to Britain.+

There is a story that Britain was “discovered” by the Romans in the time of Julius Caesar, who first invaded in 55BC. In fact he came ashore, fought a couple of battles against the indigenous people, called it a victory and then popped back to the “real world”.

He did have a second trip to Britain but didn’t get far inland before he felt the need to head back to Rome where he had plans for the Ides of March.

Over the next 100 years a couple more cursory invasions of Britain followed before in 43 AD Emperor Claudius (think of Derek Jacobi as the stuttering and reluctant Caesar of that name) sent four legions to conquer Britain.

They did get further than JC and over the next couple of decades seemed to be getting on well with the locals, tribes of Celts who had settled there a few hundred years beforehand.

They did make one big mistake in that when one local king died, instead of making his wife a client ruler the governor seized his land and property on behalf of Rome. As if that wasn’t bad enough they flogged his wife and raped her daughters.

This got Boudicca somewhat annoyed and in 60 AD she started a revolt.

Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni (modern-day Norfolk, was really the first of the native Britons to revolt.

Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni , who lived in what is now East Anglia, took advantage of the fact that Rome’s top military man in Britain had headed up to North Wales with most of the troops to sort out the Druids in Anglesey.

She drew tens of thousands of Britons to her banner and rampaged through the South East killing Roman settlers and pro-Roman Britons alike.

Unfortunately for her the general and his troops hotfooted it back South and, although outnumbered, drew her forces into a trap and slaughtered them. Boudicca fled and was never seen again.

Thus ended the first rebellion in Britain. A rebellion led by a member of a royal family and not by the workers.

For the next 400 years there was an uneasy truce between the Britons and the Romans and many Britons became Romanised. Also many soldiers who had completed their service time and been paid off decided to stay.

By the 5th century the Roman Empire was falling apart. Eventually the troops were pulled back and Britain was left to fend for itself.

The next 500 years or so were cloaked in darkness and it is only from the late 19th century and into the 20th century that historians uncovered the archaeological clues, and written ones as well, which shows there was far more going on during those centuries than anyone had realised.

NEXT TIME: drawing back the veil to throw some light on the Dark Ages.

The Chariot Race

by Sophocles

497-406 BC
They took their stand where the appointed judges
Had cast their lots and ranged the rival cars.
Rang out the brazen trump!
Away they bound,
Cheer the hot steeds and shake the slackened reins;
As with a body the large space is filled
With the huge clangor of the rattling cars.
High whirl aloft the dust-clouds; blent together,
Each presses each and the lash rings; and loud
Snort the wild steeds, and from their fiery breath,
Along their manes and down the circling wheels
Scatter the flaking foam, Orestes still -
Ays, as he swept around  the perilous pillar
Last in the course, wheeled in the rushing axle;
The left rein curbed, that on the dexter hand
Flew loose.- So on erect the chariots rolled!
Suddenly the Ænian's fierce and headlong steeds
Broke from the bit - and, as the seventh time now
The course was circled, on the Libyan car
Dashed their wild fronts: then order changed to ruin:
Car crashed on car; the wide Crissæan plain
Was sea-like strewed with wrecks; the Athenian saw,
Slackened his speed, and wheeling round the marge,
Unscathed and skillfull, in the midmostspace,
Left the wild tumult of that tossing storm.
Behind, Orestes, hitherto the last,
Had yet kept back his coursers for the close;
Now one sole rival left - on, on he flew,
And the sharp sound of the compelling scourge
Rang in the keen ears of the flying steeds.
He nears, he reaches - they are side by side -
Now one - the other - by a length the victor.
The courses all are past - the wheels erect - 
All safe - when, as the hurrying courses round
The fatal pillar dashed, the wretched boy
Slackened the left rein: on the column's edge
Crashed the frail axle: headlong from the car
Caught and all meshed within the reins, he fell;
And masterless the mad steeds raged along!
Loud from that mighty multitude arose
A shriek - a shout! But yesterday such deeds,
To-day such doom! Now whirled upon the earth,
Now his limbs dashed aloft, they dragged him - those
Wild horses - till all gory from the wheels
Released; - and no man, not his nearest friends,
Could in that mangled corpse have traced Orestes.
They laid the body on the funeral-pyre;
And while we speak, the Phocian strangers bear,
In a small, brazen, melancholy urn,
That handful of cold ashes to which all
The grandeur of the Beautiful hath shrunk.