otobeingland

“I could see clearly that this England was pre-eminently the home of decent happiness and a quiet pleasure in being oneself.

I found here the same sort of manliness which I had learned to love in America, yet softer, … which when refined a little creates the gentleman, since its instinct is to hide its strength for an adequate occasion and for the service of others …the low pressures at which their minds seemed to work showed how little they were alarmed about anything: things would all be managed somehow.”

“Where else would a man inform you, with a sort of proud challenge, that he lived on nuts, or was in correspondence through a medium with Sir Joshua Reynolds, or he had been disgustedly housed when last in Prison?”

“What governs the Englishman is his inner atmosphere, the weather in his soul.”

George Santayana

together

placing my fingertips so

my pulse runs

from each finger to its twin

the pope must do this

in aircraft

as i am

praying for the souls

he flies over

and through (purgatory)

I can hold my hands together

and pray

but we are in different planes

he travels further

i am with sir freddy laker’s airline.

soon will be otobe ing/land

but we are of one pulse

our hands held gently

together for an instant

when flightpaths cross

and we both reach out

betwixt continents

over the at/lantic.

our baggage at this moment

jets to warsaw to see the pope

3 days later arrives at east/bourne

rail way station via redstar parcels.

in ox/ford we will meet the bish op

of st. alban’s fut/ure arch/bishop of canter/bury

in the university lib/rary oldest ing/land

but otobe does not know yet.

the time i told hit/ler to shut up

it meant put ting my hand over his

circular microphone striped with lightning flashes

darkness

l

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h

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g

f

l

a

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dark h

l e

i s

g

h

t

n

i

n

g

f

l

a

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da h

l e

i s

g

h

t

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i

n

g

f

l

a

s

h

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l s

i

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standing on h

his toes surprisingly easy to t

find in shiny black jackboots \ n /

only a matter of looking into his blue \ / eyes.

counting the bristles on his moustached muzzle ,… ! … ; ….

bullets in a skin wall . .: ‘ . ; : .

(that morning stalin shot himself inside the lion’s head) i was .

biting on poisonous teeth even

as the silver skulled guards pulled out my arms

i shouted SHUT UP in ing/lish oh it was

worth it should have seen

his face

i was stalin’s agent

times was hard

no-one wanted a new act from Russia

at the tail end of vaudeville

as stalin’s agent I did my best

he threatened me with the revolver

that bulged day and night

beneath his peasant shirt.

we would drink

and i would pretend to laugh

at his mirthless jokes

but chuckle instead at

the flat delivery

the one liners spat out

as if orders for a purge.

on the brooklyn bridge

he told me his stage name

would be stalin-man of steel

a weightlifting schtich he said it made the audiences groan

beneath its heaviness

i told him but

he wanted to lock the theatre doors

in

medicine hat

while he mimicked a machine gun

and asked for volunteers from the audience

and confessions of those who read the bible in between

burlesque acts.

i told him to stick to travelling saleman

routines but he would just

light his pipe and sit behind

an oriental screen

when the town council closed down the act

i begged him not to think of revenge

but off he went with his revolver

and a crowd.

now can I go back to my cell?

i wanna finish a book I found

under the mattress

by some fella, venerable bede

bless you whoever put it there

i still have a liking for history

just like in school

but i guess we sinned.

no class, no taste

in them tawdry burlesque days.

looking inwards

if I turned my head inside out

would my thoughts fall down

upon my shoulders

like long hair, rain,

a sparkler held by a child?

written in the air within a hurtling metal tube

graffito

jeremy Thorpe is innocent gat wick air port

don’t touch it. report it. if you see anything

suspicious do something about it. phone crawley

26732 extension 3427.

please have yore pass ports ready

thank you sir

thank you it’s good to be back

telephone

bbbbbbbrrrrr bbbbbrrrrrrrr

bbbbbbbrrrrr bbbbbrrrrrrrr musthavebeen myimagination

bbbbbbbrrrrr bbbbbrrrrrrrr nothere itis again

bbbbbbbrrrrr bbbbbrrrrrrrr coming

chichakt

hello

law of dimin ishingaction

things move ar ound

less and less

time elap ses

from initial momentum

my mind is sssllloooo wiiinnnnngg do w n

he r e I n thhhheeeeeeecottttsssssswwwolllddddssss

52 london bus

he likes b oiled egges and vegetables

i chhoooooop em up

i love my pood le

he eatsitallup

sir rob ert scott

mittens dangle fr om his

frozennn green hands

he israised up halfway

a building

pigeons nibble e cru mbs between

hi sfeet

poodle cries

nott inghill gate

no anim als all owed mad am

didyou hear that?

didyou know?

tate gall ery

dega’s little dan cer

needs a new tout tout

holes in her rib bon

poise

and her dress is full of holes

phoenix the atre

up to London to seetheshow

five minutes to curtain

let’s eatwatchapplaudgo home

to our land of electric lights

the richsoft red velvetcurtain

rings down foldsof swishingpeals

tubs of icecream inlaps

disappear.

new jerusalem

amid green fields the creatures play

goats butt head against head

sheep blow balls of wool

from contest to contest

i am heart at peace

my blood is the richer

for what is hidden

from science

this is the land of my birth

to walk on this rippled green carpet

touched by anglo-saxon ploughs

ten times one hundred years ago

now by my

canadian desert boots

is to walk in ing/lish heaven

evening the cuckoo calls

the wood dove cracks

her white barred wings

an orange peel

in the sunset

nature is a row

of furry bells

peeling out soft songs of life.

here gently amazing things are destined

ruth speaks the language

the island accepts her.

morning

horses thrust their noses

into the grass

and crop the hair of the earth.

soft buff oxford bricks

ingeniously put together

without a crack

make a cow

who walks into the sheep flock

the head butting ceases

the cow shishes her tail

mist from her nostrils

is incense

g uptopress

n

afternoon standing I my

d body

i

l

i feel the ground s

from forehead to toes

i am embracing this planet

here in this corner of an ing/lish field

made sky vaulted cathedral

i am walking pillar

awaiting architect’s instructions

to assemble new Jerusalem

with the others who disperse

and remember.

ancient prior’s house rest au rant crawley

omelette chips and peas (2)

1 sweet trolley

1 peach melba

no coffee (tea making goblin made in leatherhead in hotel room)

5.40 lbs

built in the rain of King Stephen 1150 a.d.

enlarged 1440 a.d.

restored 1927 a.d.

dinner for robert and ruth 7 p.m. 1979 a.d.

the night before climbing aboard

the metal tube 707

back to toronto

back to canada

back home from home.

The author is a librarian with the Hamilton Public Library and has had poems published in Acta Victoriana, Quarry, Origins, Germination and others, as well as two books; The Primitive Gentleman and Angels at 11 O’Clock. His short stories centering upon Hamilton’s late Victorian sleuth David Owlton have appeared in Hamilton Magazine.

Robert Oldham is a member of the Hamilton and Region Arts Council, Hamilton Artists Inc. and an associate member of the League of Canadian Poets.

[Distillate © HA&L + Robert Oldham | {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]

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