Zephaniah

A lot of good people seem to have died in the last few weeks. Today, I was saddened to learn of the death of Benjamin Zephaniah at the tender age of sixty five. It was a brain tumour that got him.

I guess that most bloggers from other countries will not have heard of him but here in Great Britain, over decades, he had become something of a national treasure. Born into an immigrant West Indian family in the city of Birmingham, he left school without qualifications having being diagnosed as "dyslexic".

Later, it was a meeting with a typewriter mixed with his growing fascination with the lyrics of reggae songs that woke up his poetic voice.

He found a way to make his poetry sing to ordinary people and schoolkids. His topics often involved injustice and the multicultural experience but he could be funny and sweet too, enjoying wordplay, looking at nature and the quirkiness of human existence.

He appeared in "Peaky Blinders" and was a lifelong vegan. He became fluent in Mandarin Chinese and since 2008 had spent much of his time living in the Lincolnshire village of Moulton Chapel near Spalding. Perhaps he found it easier to write there.

In the example poem I have chosen, Zephaniah likens Britain to a kind of cultural melting pot and the poem is written rather like a recipe. Between the lines, you sense he is poking fun at the Britain of country houses and white people hunting on horseback or attending operas - the Britain of Jane Austen or "Downton Abbey".  Especially if you live in our big cities, the Britain of today may appear very different and rather more multi-faceted.

⦿

The British

Take some Picts, Celts and Silures
And let them settle,
Then overrun them with Roman conquerors.

Remove the Romans after approximately 400 years
Add lots of Norman French to some
Angles, Saxons, Jutes and Vikings, then stir vigorously.

Mix some hot Chileans, cool Jamaicans, Dominicans,
Trinidadians and Bajans with some Ethiopians, Chinese,
Vietnamese and Sudanese.

Then take a blend of Somalians, Sri Lankans, Nigerians
And Pakistanis,
Combine with some Guyanese
And turn up the heat.

Sprinkle some fresh Indians, Malaysians, Bosnians,
Iraqis and Bangladeshis together with some
Afghans, Spanish, Turkish, Kurdish, Japanese
And Palestinians
Then add to the melting pot.

Leave the ingredients to simmer.

As they mix and blend allow their languages to flourish
Binding them together with English.

Allow time to be cool.

Add some unity, understanding, and respect for the future,
Serve with justice
And enjoy.

Note: All the ingredients are equally important. Treating one ingredient better than another will leave a bitter unpleasant taste.

Warning: An unequal spread of justice will damage the people and cause pain. Give justice and equality to all.

by Benjamin Zephaniah
(1958 -2023)


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You and me

 Peace 

Come 

And make

Yourself present 

In my heart 

Set me free

From the bondage 

Of my pain 

And discomfort 



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Burbage

On Carl Wark looking towards Higger Tor

Another bright winter's day before different weather arrives - wet and warmer. With Clint I headed out to the top of The Burbage Valley ready for an almost three hour walk. Many of the paths were treacherous - coated with ice. One careless step and you can be down. It's easy to break ribs or a hip.

The rocky southern edge of Higger Tor

I was down in the bottom of the valley by Burbage Brook and then I schlepped through a pine plantation before making my way up the valley side, heading for the rocky plateau that is Higger Tor - a name as familiar to me as a friend's name.

Frozen puddles on Higger Tor looking like a monster's eyes

From Higger Tor I walked south to Carl Wark which was once turned into a hill fort - perhaps older than defences built in connection with the Roman invasion of Britain between 43 & 47AD. At the western end of the one acre plateau, our forebears built a wall to deter attack.

Ancient boundary wall on Carl Wark - once a hill fort

At the eastern end of the plateau I eased down the precipitous edge, making sure than I did not fall. No need to rush. Just make every bootstep secure. Lowering my body down between the stones. Then over Burbage Brook via a little packhorse bridge.

Frozen puddle in Burbage Valley

Freezing temperatures can work artistic wonders upon water, including random puddles. See above.

Clint on the far right - parked near Upper Burbage Bridge

Here I am cheating the picture sequence in this blogpost because I took the photo of Clint near the moorland bridge soon after setting off. By 3.45pm - when the walk was over - the light was much gloomier than that as another long December night was already elbowing the day away.

Upper Burbage Bridge is a ten minute drive  from our house.


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Pitcairn

Let's go somewhere. Somewhere far from here. Somewhere I would have loved to visit in person but now expect that that will never happen. It is Pitcairn Island in the far South Pacific Ocean - a tiny blob on a map, a speck, a particle, a smidgen.   You will find it at 25° 4′ 0″ S, 130° 6′ 0″ W.

Most of us know the story of the mutiny aboard the British naval vessel "The Bounty" back in 1790. Afterwards, nine mutineers along with several Tahitians headed for uninhabited Pitcairn led by Fletcher Christian. They were looking for a new home, a bolthole where they might never be found by the British authorities. Upon arrival, they soon set fire to "The Bounty" which sank in Bounty Bay.

Above - Incredibly, Google Streetview has photo-mapped much of Pitcairn

Even today, descendants of those first settlers reside on the remote island speaking a strange language that is a mixture of eighteenth century English and Tahitian known as Pitkern. The population size reached its peak in 1936 with two hundred and fifty inhabitants but now it's down to forty seven. Some think that the island will reach an unsustainable tipping point but limited tourism is currently helping remaining islanders to stay afloat.

Sadly, Pitcairn has a dark secret that has seemingly been a constant feature of island life in the past and that is the sexual abuse of children. In former times, girls would invariably give birth to their first babies between the ages of twelve and fifteen. It appears that the almost endemic paedophilia is much reduced today and several adult male islanders have spent time in jail for their crimes. We may have travelled to somewhere far from here but I am afraid we couldn't get away from the bad stuff.

I found this fascinating video of a trip that  two young American men made to Pitcairn in recent times. It's twenty minutes long so you might not wish to watch all of it. I felt quite envious and their experience increased my desire to go there. It's a longing that I accept I should probably suppress.



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Joy

 Dancing

To my own beat

Reveling 

In my

Own joy

Because

It feels good

To do

Just that

Today



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