Observe the Planet Venus as She Cross the Sun

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

James Cook FRS, Captain, 1728 – 1779

 

To begin at the end, with his body, much hacked
and mutilated by the islanders that took him.
As a god, the Hawaiians disembowel him, and cook
his flesh, such is their reverence, seeking his clean
immortal bones. Some they enshrine, that what
they loved they do not lose. Others they return –
his shipmates bury them at sea, where all mariners’ souls
inhabit. To take a king as hostage against a stolen boat
had been a final fatal error, or one beyond.

And he thought he knew the human heart,
was careful not to kill when Maoris took a life from his own crew.
He knew misunderstandings when he saw them,
as well he knew his oceans. And he knew the sea, knew,
when Endeavour struck the Great Barrier Reef,
then uncharted and unnamed, throw cannon
overboard and she’d float. And she did, leaking
prodigiously. This point he charts with care, then beaches
and careens the ship, and seals the hull. His map
in hand, divers find and bring a cannon home
in later times. Amongst the eco epics, it stands guard
in Wellington’s Te Papa, ignored by narratives and screens.

When he arrives the Maori have already cleared
the land of many names: moa, flightless birds
with thighs as big as cattle, adze-bills, and the rest –
No chance for them. Bones from their rubbish pits.
Cook brings only names for bays and coasts to flourish
in their stead. He also brings the light of maths,
the secret slavery of time. And traders follow
to unwrap the gift, with settlements to open up
its veins. The Maori having no sense of property
swap land for rifles, and introduce themselves to war.

Ideas march and fight, old things perish and succumb.
You could condemn. “Oh, that those lands might
have stayed, darkened and untouched.” You could
also stand with Cook. Feel the timbers creak and spring,
the slap of wind and water in your face. You could
cruise his waters, read his name in places and in signs.

 

 

 

 

 

In Poverty Bay the Maori took his vessel as a bird,
and came to worship. Believing this to be attack,
shots took lives, and Endeavour sailed away,
her food and water unrefreshed. And thus the name.
He’s now established here, life-sized, in bronze.
Next to the timber ships that take away
the latest harvest from a land unlocked.

What’s left? A modest Yorkshireman, [half Scot]
and loving solitude. A self-taught navigator,
A restless mind, a maker, mapsmith and a navy man,
brought up to ferry Whitby coal, who is with Wolfe
and plumbs the depths of war beneath Quebec.
His 3 voyages make safe uncharted corners
of The Earth. In less days than in a year, sound out
New Zealand’s coastal intimacies – her passages,
her deepest fathoms, plotted and still good for use.
It is a long journey of discovery, in only 50 years.
His god flourished on the metaphors of sacrifice,
but he condemned the sacramental eating of ones
enemies. And he fell, perhaps remembering.

There’s clamour to remove him from the scene –
downgrade him as another white who stole and robbed,
and cleanse the routes of history of his blood.
So read his life and story while you can.
He also sought the path of Venus as it crossed the sun –
this may be all that destiny allows his name.

SCHOOL PHOTOGRAPH

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A photo detaches from its rest and finds the floor –
blurred faces, young, grey, names mostly gone,
but there is my sheepish grin in the back row.
We are uncomfortable for the camera, made to lose
our childish selves by being still. And so the years.

This year. Top junior class of 59.
Some still I recognise, but others, all the girls,
who knows? Amongst us will be the early deaths,
from accident or cancer, or from cares.

But this is fifties London, our parents fought
and knew the Blitz. War has managed them,
and helped to bring us here. Next to our school
a bombsite’s opened privacies and crumbled lives –
between our playground and the dentist’s, another missing tooth.

Across the road, St Mary’s, it’s tower sides
a rocket ship held down by copper strips.
We pass in twos to eat our daily dinner in the hall.
Served from vats, the suets, stews and
watery mash presented, warm and flavourless,
the form and spirit of the age. We would not
starve, and red capsules with our daily milk
went down quick lest they should burst.

And in our classes, little remains: is what we are.
Our teachers, absent, reduced to names. Mr,
Mrs, Miss. They’re going too, their wrinkled frowns,
Their greying hair, a carbunkle or a wart or two.
What they taught lives on, but unremembered.

Our playground races, zooming dogfights
arms outstretched, the daily rituals of scissors,
paper, stone, are there, as are the journeys home,
and waiting for the bus. A 54 or 109.

And here we stand, summoned from arithmetic or crafts,
to show how smart, how cared for, are our shoes and smiles.

Darmstadt in the Greenwood

for David Selzer

1986
We’re in a forest. Cunningly contrived
from plastic pipe and card. Lighting makes the
moonlight dance. In the illusion of a glade
we hunker down, imagining the beasts
that nightly prowl, the fears and loves
that have at you in a sword’s breath.

It’s Germany, the land that rose to conquer
Rome, and darken Europe with its soul.
I’m talking, waiting for the speech that
everyone else could make from heart. The wood
entrances, sighs. Moving to the edge of shadow,
I too hear my words – All the world’s a stage,
and all the men and women merely players.

And so it nightly goes. Our teacher’s troupe
on a cultural exchange, performing As You
Like It on a stage designed for opera
and oompah, in language we have learnt,
to those who Shakespeare was a European
giant, big as Beethoven or Brahms.
Ein sohn und eine tochter aus Elysium.

And out beyond our flimsy world, that packs
so neatly on the coach that brought
us on our theatrical blitzkrieg, the planet
continues on its way. The Rhine heaves past,
removing silt and ash. The cities that we crushed
or burned rise in concrete triumph to the skies.

Cars stream from factories, technicians
study for their grades, and memory recycles
as all pass. Relieved to find we are but people
in the end, we find ourselves at home with
families who feed us pickled herring and
are happy we have come to stay. This Europe
is their home, and we are welcome in it too.

The war is past – the communities and monuments
rebuilt. The Catholics were next, they tell us.
We were on their lists. And that reassurance
is what we’ve come to hear. That even
reputation and survival can be forgiven.
Hope shines from children, parents, players.
Exits and entrances. And all the world’s a stage.

2020
But in no space at all, that candle on the set
is out. Bubbles dance and burst, and time goes
tiptoeing to bed. The hand is thrown away,
age, in its sevens, makes running cowards
of our state. Vergissmeinnicht. A soldier poet
shows a card. We are to leave, to no goodnight.

The Point of Vanishing Stability

In a yacht, the point of vanishing stability
is reached when the vessel decides
it has had enough of gales and tumult
and will overturn. In the boat we are on,
this is a measurable angle, defined
by calculation and testing. We are pleased
to learn it is 120°
Summoning up our mathematical imagination
we place the mast well below the surface
with our boat springing back to save us
as we tumble about our beam ends.

It is a phrase that seizes. Passing
straight from the workshop manual
to the page of possibility. As we charge
the waves, and crash through with
jovial insouciance, the world and
its endless chaos breaks upon the
decks to tumble past in salty streams.

And so we trust to all designers
that the keel will hold beneath, that
the mounting pressure on the sails
will spill from the tops like so much
laughter. And so with all the lubberly
uproar from our safety-conscious lands,
with bitter crowds converging
on the monuments they would disown,
with grave ministers of state who
battle with the tide of numbers
competing for our panic or our grief.

May the bow split water still,
may whosoever did the sums
and placed us in this sea have got it right.
Through edgy fears and sacrifice
we stand fast to the wheel, and
still keep on tacking home, past tipping
points that howl but never come.

The Mull of Kintyre
August 2020

For Billy

“Do Not Despair
for Johnny Head-in-Air.
He sleeps as sound
as Johnny Underground.”

John Pudney

Flight Lieutenant William Grayson Huddart 410128
1922-1945

 

Eroica

This year, he would be 98. Perhaps in line
for honours or a knighthood, an
obit in the Times – a hero age respects.
Survives his wife, new knee, new hip,
with grand kids dewy-eyed with love.

He doesn’t make the VE day of days,
with girls, and lamp-posts shinned, and fountains.
No nation waits on him. He’s 22 – and missing.
A letter has been penned, a telegram dispatched,
belongings gathered. Gone. And in a Melbourne street,
a widowed father, staring, in the shadow of the door.

Ouverture

A world away. Australia, Outback and Frontier.
A time of white dominions, links with home,
and endless promise. Of being British underneath
the Southern Cross. Between the two, great liners
sail the routes that bind, conveying brothers,
uncles, English, to warmth of sun or hearth,
to riches. Bill’s 2nd Gen – a native
Aussie Brit. Bob, his dad, the migrant salesman,
takes the passage, leaving family and footsteps
far behind. It’s 1913, and he arrives in time
to serve in war. At 33 he’s old enough to live,
is out at 39, and married the next year.
In 1922 his son is born.

And Bill succeeds at school. He shines. He’s soon
employed as Clerk in Collins Street, downtown:
“The Trustees Executors and Agency Company Ltd”
still shines gold above a bistro, though it collapsed
In fraud after a discreet and inlaid 90 years.
But wills and legacies don’t cast a spell
for long before the 2nd War and service calls.
For all its marbled front, the office job
does not command excitement like the air.
One Saturday, he takes the train to town
and signs away his life for pilot’s wings.

Suite in B flat 

In fact, the Air Force that he joins in ‘41
takes care – it will record his chest, his height, his weight.
and keep each step and badge, each course,
each Tiger Moth, each loss of days to leave.
A manilla file, with “Officer” emblazoned twice,
survives to save the continents he crossed to train;
and ranks he climbed; the squadrons that he served.
It keeps his photo as he joins, with open shirt,
a flick of hair, grey eyes, as if already gone to war.
Three years condensed to forms and pages,
Initials, dates and codes. It notes he was late
for a parade one time, and, then, that he was late, no more.

Allegro con Brio

It takes him the final winter of the war.
He’s flown above the Normandy Bocage
In Mustangs, invasion striped to keep away your friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then 168, his squadron, muster new Typhoons –
a 7-ton fighter with a bruiser’s chin, 4 cannon,
and a cockpit often filled with heat and fumes.
As well as war, their task to handle their craft’s great
power, its mighty wings, its often-fragile tail.
Moving through autumn and the leapfrog fields of France,
hope springs. They follow battle as the Wehrmacht shrinks,
the Luftwaffe leaves the skies, the end begins.

And so November comes, and Eindhoven.
The Phillips factory site, this giant base
is now a heave of squadrons and their planes –
muscling in to Germany, nibbling at its trains,
its roads, its futile rear-guards, its defeats.

No pretty airfield with flag and flowers
at the gate. Another number – B-78. A plain of
muddy grass, and winter pools, and jerrycans
of fuel in heaps. The boys are convent billeted,
fed on Marmite, marrow soup, and meat in tins.
The nuns sew on their buttons, grateful to be free,
and short of planes, they carry on. The daily start
of engines stiff with cold, they’re pushed into the air
as escorts, rising on their laughter and their drills.

Andante con moto

Then comes December and the shortest odds.
A Sunday concert on the 3rd – The Station Malcolm Club
looking to the welfare of the mind and heart,
brings on the Philips Orchestra to render Bach,
and Beethoven at his breezy best. They too are
newly freed. The boys see warmth. They go.

The Fifth scrapes up a victory in its chords
for airmen whose ears have thrummed
with war, whose cockpit rhythm has
known only a Sabre engine’s shaking bark and bile,
the RT hiss, the whine of orders in their ears.

Perhaps their heads now ring with purpose.
whistling da-da-da-daaaa into the night.
The evening encore is a strafing run
from a lone and desperate Focke Wulf
whose pilot too has only days to live,
as they go back to their dormitory’s cots,
and giggling share a round of final smokes.

Next day, the 4th, and a promotion – Flight Lieutenant
– Bill gets a 7 day leave, awarded often
to the combat tired. He’ll hitch a flight
to England – where else to take it –
and to Martha Bowe in Cockermouth, his aunt.
His father’s favourite sister, childless, she’s
married to a draper, in a neat colonial
bungalow straight out of town. With views of fells
and walks amongst the air of mountains,
and the winter clouds. With love-seasoned wartime rations
and family photos, and the front room fireside.
So with his aunt and uncle his final visit ends.
A slow and crowded train leaves Carlisle for the south,
and thoughtful men returning, avoiding Christmas calls,
with helmets, gas masks, kitbags, greatcoats. There passes
England – damp and grey with shortages and queues –
With taped and unwashed glass, beyond the stations.
Uniforms from everywhere in transit to junctions
somewhere else. It smells of Brylcreme, cigarettes
and carry on, of struggle not quite won. Australia
warm and safe, is well beyond the winter days.

A longer journey that has taken many turns,
and skills he’s shown and learnt. He’s stepped out
in space, and felt it hold his breath. And swooping through
has felt the world spin effortless to heel. He’s mastered it,
amongst the solemn rituals, the manuals of flight –
of starting up, of losing and staying in control;
of terror at the touch of fire or ditching in a cold
and gasping sea. Of holding on for rescue
never comes. Of making war, of dealing
in the to and fro of death, and never in the currency
of love or touch. No girl from village pub,
or WAAF who talks him down and in to land.
And likely none at home, to miss or mourn.
Only this. To get back to the smell of war, and oil.
The burnt cordite in the guns, the sweat and leather,
and the taste. The singing warmth of messroom beer,
the ever-changing roll of names of new boys
whose eager fear so quickly dies, as they do,
or become old hands and leaders, still there at 22.

Soon enough, the terminus. Bill stands upon the wet
and sodden grass of Holland, and the allied squadrons
queuing up to fly the Rhine. Within 3 days, the
Bulge offensive has begun, and bad weather
marshals on the Axis side. It lifts and 168
Is back on point. Bastogne is held
as winter opens up its throat and roars.

Scherzo: Allegro

He’s in the thick as 44 bows out.
The 29th an ambush on 6-8’s 9 planes. A staffel
Of Focke Wulfs shoots down two, but loses more,
leaves Bill a quarter [and his only] “kill” confirmed.
In the centrifuge of combat, the shifting, wordless pitch
and toss of fighting in the air, the chance to win
and save your life, would fire many unslept nights,
if you survived. He does, his fleeting foe spins in,
buries it’s long nose in earth, the last to fall
that year, on borrowed time, and waiting him.

So comes January and a last few days.
Back onto convoys, tanks and trains,
feeling for the pulse that weakens more and more,
and three weeks in, amongst the everyday,
his final moment comes. A Monday, past
mid-day. He leads a flight of 5, and
over Waltern-am-See they go to beat the air.
In 30 minutes from the field they’re overhead –
and open country, small towns and hamlets, homes,
woods, and lakes. Winter light is draining,
unseen kitchen fires are giving up their meagre warmth.
It’s after three and darkness is an hour upon them all.
Just in time, a railway line appears, a train
dares cross their path, and down they go
to burst upon its progress with their guns.
A wingman sees him shoot and pull away,
steam from the bursting loco marks his path.
He disappears. Just one more, gone to ground.

Back at the makeshift tent that gathers in
their news, there is no sign. His last Typhoon,
only a month from new, has taken him.
The form is ticked, and those who live presume
and shrug. In ten days time, their squadron too is gone –
the first to be withdrawn from war, to listen
to the wind – that twists through silenced props,
and ripples grass and inky airfield pools.

Allegro – Presto

Back home they wait two years for news.
He’s long gone from Air Force books. And that April,
as a German spring begins, his body’s found,
near where he crashed. A village burial has kept
the ruins of his end. Ack-ack had brought him down.
A low and lucky shot. The leader, they would not
have time to load, and shoot again – his death
a saviour to his men. A calling, calling in.

The war graves men, a concentration team,
gather in the seeds and tares, prepare the
forms and limestone headings for a final post.
They take the fragments death has left
and lay him in a woody cemetery at Kleve
with scores of others, from other moments
In the noise of war. More messages go out
to families whose hopes have long since gone,
who’ve seen it through, and, nodding, paid the price.
And slowly from the ash of millions, the tortured
cities that they fled, new paths are laid, as
orders change and empires fall and rise.

And what remains? The Air Force folder, now online.
apart from Rhineland grave, he lives in it. A warehouse
keeps the paperwork, as does the German cemetery
his young and tested, broken bones. And though he was
not ours to know, connected, in our hearts, he’s there
behind me, diving, diving, for that train, and unembraced.

Lowick, July 2020
BACKGROUND to WGH