GLIMPSING GODS

That evening in the Poseidon Lounge of our

5 star clifftop hotel, spa & resort –

with the tideless Mediterranean

lapping soundlessly, timelessly out of sight –

there was something about the in-house

entertainment team’s announcing

the week’s festivities, some gaucheness perhaps,

an enforced glee, which reminded me

of school camp on the Lleyn Peninsula

the August I was nine, and we ate

Wagon Wheels round the fire, and told jokes

about Hitler, the war being recent.

 

The first day I woke anxious at dawn, and peed

in my sleeping bag. I told no one, and slept

in damp bedding for however many days

and nights we were there in the ex-army

ridge tent, vast, dark, noisome. Even in sun I

shivered and drifted as my fever rose –

and nobody knew. On Porth Neigwl beach,

or Hell’s Mouth, where Atlantic rollers roar

I dreamt –  beyond my insouciant fellows’

paleness in the shimmering and pulsing waves –

I saw a glistening, slate grey dolphin

rise and fall, effortlessly, endlessly.

 

 

 

 

MISTAKEN IDENTITIES

‘The middle classes, in England as elsewhere, under democracy are morally dependent upon the aristocracy, and the aristocracy are morally in fear of the middle class which is gradually absorbing and destroying them. The lower classes still exist; but perhaps they will not exist for long. In the music-hall comedians they find the artistic expression and dignity of their own lives…With the dwindling of the music-hall…the lower classes will tend to drop into the same state of amorphous protoplasm as the bourgeoisie. T.S. Eliot, MARIE LLOYD, 1923

 

When I was a teenager in the ’50s

BBCTV, as if to prove

vaudeville were dead, would feature, at peak hours

music-hall acts in ‘variety shows’.

One such was G.H. Elliot, the self-styled

‘Chocolate Coloured Coon’. That a white, light tenor

and tap dancer should put on black-face, or rather,

brown-face, hence the ‘chocolate’, seemed no more strange

to my adolescence than Nuclear Tests,

Suez, Hungary, and the slowly emerging

truths about the Holocaust. In school,

about this time, we read The Journey

of the Magi – which prompted, sotto voce

at the back of the class, the cod carol,

‘We three kings of Warrington are, two

in a bottle, one in a jar’ –  and I thought,

possibly with youth’s wishful thinking,

the poet and the song-and-dance man were one.

I marvelled how the same person found time

to be both a ‘variety star’

and a ‘serious poet’, never mind

acquire the necessary know-how.

 

The poet has a plaque in Poets’ Corner,

Westminster Abbey. His ashes are buried

in East Coker, Somerset, from where

his ancestors moved to pillage and rape

the New World – and his anti-Semitism

has been duly contextualised.

The artiste’s headstone has been removed

from his grave in the parish churchyard

in Rottingdean – on England’s south coast

near Brighton, once popular with show-biz types –

pro tem, because of its ‘offensive language’,

which a stone mason will eradicate.

White, Christian entitlement, with its

patrician, imperial longings,

refreshing its lipstick…

 

 

 

 

JAZZ IN ROOM M

i.m. Anthony (Tony) Barrell

 

‘Jazz, unlike a bucket of nails, is full of paradoxes’.

Norman Granz, sleeve note to ELLA AND LOUIS

 

During term time he had an understanding

with the prefect in charge of the tuck shop,

which was on the ground floor of the decaying

annex. His record player was kept

under the counter until each Tuesday

after school, when it would be brought up a floor

to Room M. How he had persuaded

whoever he had had to persuade

to allow his fellow scholars to listen

to jazz at all never mind unsupervised

he never said, and we never asked.

He was Le Grand Meaulnes in that grammar school

of scholarship boys – founded, as part

of the reformation, by Henry VIII,

or, rather, the strategic Thomas Cromwell,

seeing the need for serried offices of clerks.

The annex was a neglected Georgian house

clamped to the substantial sandstone gateway

of the abbey Thomas and Henry dissolved.

 

The LPs he played were his – mostly big band,

Benny Goodman to Stan Kenton but sometimes

the quintet of the Hot Club of France. He was

the pedagogue par excellence – charming,

intense, generous, a good listener

in every way. We went there to learn.

He was very much our guru,

our rabbi – with a sharp sense of humour –

and at the start of a creative lifetime,

making important things happen for others,

in print, on the radio and TV.

The Head Master, a reverend, would have

considered him ‘anti’ – which translates as

‘willing and able to enable

others to see behind the curtain’.

 

One Tuesday he played us the album

‘Drum Battle’: Ella Fitzgerald vocals,

Oscar Petersen piano, percussion

Gene Krupa versus Buddy Rich – bandleaders,

erstwhile sidemen with Goodman and Dorsey –

a Jewish American and a Polish American,

on snare, bass, tom-tom, hi-hat, cymbals,

four beats to the bar in Carnegie Hall.

 

In that shabby room, its long sash windows

filled with views unchanged for centuries

of an English provincial city,

we were jazzmen chatting between solos –

about Lionel Hampton’s purple LP,

the Duke boycotting venues in the Deep South,

Django Reinhart evading the Nazis.

 

Note: Tony Barrell – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tony_Barrell_(broadcaster)

 

 

THE CYBER DEAD

‘Knock-knock-knockin’ on Heaven’s door,’ a busker

began to sing near to the ice cream kiosk,

just after I had left the public toilet,

its adamantine urinals made

in Burnley. I walked beneath the lime trees,

along the embankment. The brown river

swirled in spate, high with rains from the remnants

of Atlantic storms breaking on shorn

and distant mountains. I thought of those dead friends –

their social media accounts intestate –

forever alive, and orbiting

eternally in cyber space, so close

yet still and always forlornly ‘Knock-knock-

knockin’ on Heaven’s door’.

 

 

AS IF

On the end wall of the erstwhile refectory

of the Convent of Santa Maria

delle Grazie, Milan – which is merely

a stone’s row from where a mob of women

mutilated Benito Mussolini

and hung his corpse from a lamp post – hangs

Leonardo Da Vinci’s THE LAST SUPPER.

 

A tourist once asked a guide three questions:

‘These are Jewish men?’ ‘This is the Passover?’

‘So where are the matzos?’

 

 

 

OTHER PEOPLE’S FLOWERS: ‘THE THREAD THAT BINDS’ – SARAH DOLAN

 

 

lemoninkproductions.home.blog

 

December 2025

Dear David

Thank you for the invitation.

Really enjoyed the journey – from the Raj, to the cleaning of clothes in a river; from Lord Wavell, the penultimate viceroy of India, to an anthology of poetry he produced called Other Men’s Flowers. Earlier in his life he could recite just about all of the poems in the anthology from memory. Wavell went on his own journey – from military maestro to frustrated diplomat. The last poem in the book, which he modestly describes as a wayside dandelion not fit to be in the garden with the other poems, is his own creation.

Here’s to “all beautiful things that help us forget the dreariness of war”.

With thanks and best regards

Sarah L Dolan

 

PS I do have a small confession to make. At school I got a ‘U’ at history ‘O’ level. Since then, I have learned that history should not be confined to the classroom or the past as it is a living force which touches all of our lives.

 

‘THE THREAD THAT BINDS’:

 

Note: Sarah Dolan’s work has been previously featured on the site in BETWEEN RIVERS: SUMMER 2022.