Floridian Ode

For all good Floridians, east and west, their honesty, forthright and generous manners, their steadfastness throughout the trials and tribulations in history and political change, fortitude and perseverance amidst inclement and inconstant seasons, but mostly for bearing with great dignity that essential repose and attitude of fair outlook which shines as an example of true character and nobility.

A hue of tropic harmony whispers sweet ‘cross an azure sky,

Dawn’s fair flame of time sweeps the shores in gilded sigh,

Perfumed paschal flower first caught and blessed in Spanish eye.

In search of youthful fountains, virgin sands claimed by foreign ships…

The Martyr Charles to French Louisiana, Paris’ peace settled the lands,

Pure Pensacola’s Indian crown, with King George and Britain stands,

Flowing rivers roar from East to West, maps redrawn by distant hands.

Opulent groves of orange fruits, revolution rises in crisis and rips…

Walls rebuilt by independent folk, a bright star rises to guide the strong,

Seventy days of sweet liberty, then General Jackson’s battle song

Good souls sued for victory, fertile fields bought in treaty; right or wrong?

Seasons change, thunder then sun in turn, tempests of birth, life to death slips…

The lightening strike of civil war; and enrolled into the Confederate cause,

A peaceful land in savage shots, Lincoln’s cause for slaves deals blows,

Yet bearing the truth, considerate, in the end a rose from thorns she grows.

Never a land forgotten, constant beauty forever fragrant on men’s lips.

All Rights Reserved: David John Drew/Versificator Regis/DBWF 2008

Image: General James Grant of Ballindalloch (1720-1806) an interesting and colorful figure. He enjoyed a distinguished career in the British Army – serving much of his time in American. He was a young major in the French and Indian War (1758), led an expedition against the Cherokees in North Carolina (1761), served as Governor of East Florida (1763-1771) and was promoted to Major General during the American War of Independence. General Grant was a noted bon vivant and always traveled with his own personal chef and a generous cache of fine wines and brandy. After retiring from the army with the rank of General, he served as a Member of Parliament. King George III presented General Grant with life-sized portraits of the King, and Queen Charlotte, by the famous painter Allan Ramsay. Those paintings still adorn the walls of the dining hall at Ballindalloch Castle.

Chaucer and the Reevers

A ballad exploring the subtle or hidden dimensions of ‘The Reeves Tale’ by Geoffrey Chaucer. 

This tale has always fascinated me because of the unknown or unrealized connections with Northumberland: the two scholars speaking in the dialect of that region. For me the central key to understanding the text is in the interplay of words; reve, reeve and reever, whilst a Reeve was the administrative political representative of a King in a particular area, in Northumberland a Reever was a poet/bandit of the borders, and ‘to reve’ is to steal. Here I see a microcosmic satire on the political organization of Chaucer’s day, a commentary on ethics and morality gone wild, the corruption of religion symbolized by the miller who assumes complete (and often illegal) control of an essential process in bread-making. A pun on the name of St. Cuthbert, making him ‘cutberd’ or deceiver enhances this attack on religion, combined with the dubious origin of Symkins wife; the daughter of a ‘Parson’ or parish priest.  Brute force, philosophy, deception, vengeance, lust and savage violence are the key elements of this tale, and I cannot but envisage (for some reason) the two scholars as the mythic Castor and Pollux on a mission from Cambridge to investigate the theft of grain and correct the wrongdoing.

What grieves a Reever in a Miller dear?

A Sheffield blade to prick the conscious thought

The Poet mocks in language o’ so clear

True words, the dialect cannot be bought.

Pride glows, dark heritage, found false and caught;

The trumpet blasts across a bridge of moans,

Perhaps the key lies in ancestral bones.

Bitter sweet broth, the Reever’s choicest cheer,

Tyne-sons Castor and Pollux, of scholars taught

They, knowing blind wife, loose daughter, no fear…

To Cornish king the horseman and the boxer sought

Within a Godless throne, false peacock’s fort;

The joke goes up and down in swyving rhyme

See night and day, and read between the line.

Drunken louts snore well on strong brewed beer,

The well of thought dries up in dreamy drought

Lusty-lad avenges with a stiffened spear

Pissed-wife mistakes her husband’s ugly snout

Heaven’s blessed leaven lost in sighing bouts

All is lost in a corrupt crown of greed

Natural law is but the thieves’ right creed.

But when the tale told true to common speech

Tis pearls to swine the poet’s most often preach

Delight in words behind the curtains closed

To see beneath the meal of bones the Poet posed.

All Rights Reserved: David John Drew/Versificator 2008

The Emperor Jones

Review: The Emperor Jones, a modern political tragedy… May 30, 2008 

The Emperor Jones is a play that incorporates controversial themes, psychological symbolism and serious social, religious and political issues that can be difficult to grasp and even more troublesome to consider. It is set immediately prior to the U.S. invasion and occupation of Haiti in 1915. In that year on July 28th, President Woodrow Wilson sent 330 Marines to Port au Prince in response to the revolutionary overthrow of the Haitian dictator Jean Vilbrun Guillaume Sam. The intention was to protect U.S. and foreign ‘interests’ on the island through the subjugation of the ‘rebels’ and the installation of an American controlled administration there. USMC commanders were subsequently placed as governors of the island and their primary method of administration was dictatorial, repressive, racist and violent. The continued occupation culminated in a rebellion in 1918 by at least 40,000 rebel Haitians, of which the US Marines killed 2000. The American government withdrew in 1934 but invaded again in 1994 and 2004.

The play was written by Eugene O’Neill in 1920 as a response to this invasion and occupation, and when it first opened it received critical acclaim as a contemporary political and social commentary. It is also important to understand Haiti in the context of colonial history. First occupied by the Spanish who decimated the Native American Taino population and started to import African slaves, it later changed hands to the French. A rebellion in 1793 led the French Commissioners to abolish slavery. Although Haiti achieved independence from France in 1825 there was a continued tradition of revolts, coups, assassinations and political divisions, combined with social inequality and extreme and repressive governance leading up to the corrupt autocracy of Papa Doc and the Duvaliers (1964-1971) who maintained order through the use of death squads or Tonton Macoute. Another key aspect of the play is the incorporation of elements of native West African tribal religion or Vodou, which remains as an essential heritage of slaves imported to the island. Despite the majority of Haitians being Roman Catholic by persuasion these traditional beliefs and practices are still in vogue.

I wish that I had been forearmed with this knowledge on the political and historical background of Haiti before watching the play. To its credit Aurora Fox and the director (Donnie Betts) have inserted an initial monologue by an ‘old woman’ (played by Norma Johnson) which attempts in a highly evocative and artistic manner to demonstrate the context of the situation, but I thought it ambiguous and was left bewildered. My only impression was of Haiti being dominated by various colonial powers. The play then proceeds to chart the last remaining day and night of the self-proclaimed emperor Brutus Jones (Keith Hatten), who, aided and abetted and later compromised by a rather synthetic British colonial character called Henry Smithers (Greg Price) is eventually caught by rebels and shot. Before his eventual demise Emperor Jones must come to terms with his role as an African-American who rose to political power and who persecuted and abused his fellow people, of his own heritage and descent. And so, as a fugitive on the run through a dense dark jungle, he is forced to reflect on himself and his actions through various visionary experiences. Metaphorically this jungle represents the ‘collective unconscious’ of the psychologist Carl Jung, and which was one of O’Neill’s sources of inspiration. The collective unconscious is the deepest aspect of the human mind, accessible only methods of deep meditation, ritual immersion or extreme physical or mental experience… and is that area in which the human archetypes, myths and sources of heritage dwell. Jones then is confronted by these shadows of himself and his ancestry; a chain gang, a murdered victim, a slave auction, and going deeper back to Africa… a Vodou priest dancing across the ultimate source of existence; the river of life and origins.

Emperor Jones has a revolver with six rounds, one of which is made of silver. This silver round is the last, to be used to commit suicide. Jones uses all the bullets in an attempt to exterminate his visions which arise in a sequential process to make him face the reality of existence, and perhaps to evoke a sense of contemplative regret for his actions. Symbolically the silver bullet is that thought which destroys the dual nature of existence, in myth the antidote which destroys the ‘werewolf’ nature, which is cruel, despotic and savage. In the final river vision Jones is unable to make the leap across the stream of primal existence and thus gives away his salvation personified by the silver token. Hereafter he is completely doomed, psychologically disturbed, paranoid and unable to leave the jungle except as a corpse.

This is a highly complex play with many interwoven narratives from differing sources. It can therefore be bewildering and confusing, leaving an audience with more questions than answers. Out of sheer frustration many might write the performance off as a political commentary, but it is important to consider the deeper implications of human psychology, cultural heritage and behavior; just as we can repress others through various actions we can also suppress ourselves. The multi-faceted aspects of denial are then the central topic of the play as portrayed by the Emperor Jones, and in this sense the play has the tendency to reflect the thoughts and concerns of the viewer. Each of us can see something of ourselves in Brutus Jones, and our own inner struggle to find a compatible harbor of harmony in the world. The ever-present sound of the drum through the play (Fred ‘BaBa Ilu Ile’ Jordan) calls us to that self examination, and dares us to peer into our own ‘heart of darkness.’

The Emperor Jones by Eugene O’Neill. April 11 to May 11 2008.

Directed by Donnie Betts. With Chelley Canales, April Charmaine, Keith Hatten, Fred Jordan, Norma Johnson, Mimi Jorling, Greg Price, Kent Randell, Daymeon Rembert, Robin Wallace, and DeAndre Carroll.

The Aurora Fox Center Theatre is located at 9900 E. Colfax Ave. Aurora, CO, 80010.

Tel 303 361 2910.

All Rights Reserved: David John Drew 2008

The Talented Mr. Mingella

Obituary: The Talented Mr. Minghella

In the late summer of 1999 I received a telephone call from Mr. Joseph Flattery, the Banqueting Manager of Claridges Hotel on Brook Street in London. He invited me to provide administrative support for an upcoming celebration for several important guests in the field of cinematography, who were holding a party to languish in the laurels of their most recent and successful production. Being then the errant culinarian in search of fresh fields of adventure I readily accepted, not quite knowing what to expect.

 

To my complete surprise I found myself catering delicacies to the cast, friends, esteemed colleagues and noble thespians of ‘The Talented Mr. Ripley.’ Of course, the great British director Anthony Minghella was present, resplendent in glory and a thoroughly amiable chap I found him to be. Present also was Jude Law, Gwyneth Paltrow, Philip Seymour Hoffman, John Hurt, Cate Blanchett, Philip Baker Hall, Helena Bonham Carter, Kate Winslett and of course the delectable dame of London society, the delightful Madonna. That was a tremendous night, life often or sometimes throws us a chance glimpse into a starlit world, and thus I was there bedazzled with great wonder… happy to have been.

 

Then I recently learned that the Great Man, full of creative energy, distinguished reserve and of fine artistic craft passed away… shortly after a shoot in Botswana, Africa. Anthony Minghella was truly a fine director who captured the admiration and applause with such brilliant films as ‘Truly Madly Deeply’, ‘Mr Wonderful’, ‘The English Patient’, and ‘Cold Mountain.’ Anthony Minghella was born on the Isle of Wight in England 1954, and died in Charing Cross Hospital in London on the 18th March 2008. He is survived by his dear wife Carolyn Chao.

 

I thank Mr. Minghella for that one brief but memorable night for the glimpse into such immense talent, being allowed that time to walk amongst beautiful talented artists and receive some small part of inspiration. Thus I compose this elegy in his honour, that he might be remembered with fond recollections:

 

The magician’s illusion of life in captured dreams

Theatrical, on stage, delight in action, reeling frames.

A scythe swings in moment, matter, mind and time,

Caught in exposure, in flight, scene and light sublime.

This director cut short, swift edit, the shutter snap,

The end, the curtain, no sequel in an invisible trap.

We all then act out our passions, in script, line and verse,

Too true, a short season with no chance to rehearse.

The wake evokes man’s spirit; immortal words of sweet cheers,

Illumined shadows near and past reflected in sad tears.

 

All rights reserved: David John Drew Versificator Regis DBWF 2008

St. Patrick's Day: The Irish Guards and an Old Tradition

One unusual tradition in the British Army concerns the Irish Guards: originally formed in 1901 by Queen Victoria after the formidable efforts of native Irishmen in the Boer war in South Africa, the regiment has informally adopted St. Patrick's day as their official day of regimental celebration. The Royal Family has responded to this and offers each and every serving soldier and officer a small bunch of fresh shamrocks (or clover) which they attach to their caps. This Royal duty is an assignment of the Princess Royal, Princess Anne. Her Highness is also the Colonel in Chief of the 'Blues and Royals' which is Prince Harry's own regiment. HRH Princess Anne is shown above making the presentation last year.

 

Notice the blue plume in the bearskin, not green as may be expected, the blue represents the colour of the sash in the Order of St. Patrick and the regiment has also adopted the motto of the Order Quis Separabit or 'We Will Never be Separated.' Tomorrow (March 17th 2008) Maj. Gen. Sir Sebastian Roberts, KCVO, OBE. Will assume command of the Irish Guards, taking over the position from HG James Hamilton, 5th Duke of Abercorn, KG. who has held the post since November the 1st 2001.

 

To commemorate the Irish Guards, St. Patrick's Day and to wish Major General Sir Sebastian Roberts good luck I have composed this poem:

 

Blooming cap-full of fresh shamrocks,

Mascot Fergal, sleek silver hound,

The Princess Royal on St. Patrick's

Regimental day, green pride found.

 

Quis Separabit, never divided,

Fine recruits for the Queen's shilling,

Erin's best, honour ever defended

Ulster warriors, always willing.

 

Good Micks have never retreated,

Bravery awards six V.C's

Calm in battle, never defeated,

Belfast boys march in the breeze.

 

A cathedral's bell still rings aloud

In Dublin on a cold March morn,

Saints, heroes, dead and proud

Spirits that rise with the dawn.

 

So, the Irish have laurels of clover,

From pastures blessed by the sun

They remember the land as a lover,

Their ancestors keep watch on the dun.

 

 

All Rights Reserved: David John Drew/DBWF 2008

Pearly Prince: The Song of Crow

Pearly Prince: The Song of Crow, a poem by Lord Carville

Ever since I came across the spirit of a dead crow in one of my rambles in the countryside of my youth, the crow has been my totem animal and spiritual guide.

Who nicked the ruby gem of an Irish king?

Lone-Crow, who views the value not the price,

And pinched with snatch, hid beneath the darkened wing...

Who perched upon a dragons' nest yet thrice?

Subtle stealth of 'Crook-Claw': thefts his thing.

'Pick-a-Lock' of quick tricks, a well turned vice,

Virtue veiled, Master Villain of chance and gain.

Who guards the jewels and crown in Royal guise?

Good and bad to Mr. Crow are all the same,

Then shadow flies the crooked night with prize...

Hallowed booty bird of the Death Harvest Dame.

But...

Who loves Sir Jack, criminal with coal-hard eyes?

That petty-pecks at chaos, as if a silly game;

Pearly Lord, swift-trickster of diverse skies

He shuns good innocence and seeks Satan's flame

With a 'burial-caw' that duets the funerary cry!

And...

Where the hidden, twisted hoard of stolen gold...

Of ill-gotten wealth?

Perhaps,

Beneath the dream bed of Crow the Bold,

And...

With that I bid you good health.

All Rights Reserved & Copyright January 2008 David John Drew

 

Soul, soul, an apple or two

Soul, soul, an apple or two

 

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 2007

 

As a boy growing up in Northumberland this season and time of the year held several significant and symbolic rituals, very different from the custom of the ‘trick or treat’ here in the United States. Perhaps the most basic was the veneration of the humble apple, whose crop surfaced toward the late fall, my favorite was the ‘Cox Orange Pippin’ a small but incredibly sweet and wild taste. On this dark night by a crackling coal-fire we played a simple game of ‘apple-dooky’ which involved attempting to take an apple out of a bowl of water only using our teeth. This of course is purely Celtic in origin; the water representing the passage-way to the otherworld, and the apple being the ‘isle of apples’ of whom Manannan Mac Lyr was the resident chief deity. The Gaelic heaven is perhaps better known in Arthurian legend as ‘Avalon.’ My mother would also bake huge 1lb apples stuffed with brown sugar, nuts and raisins, cinnamon and brandy. And there was also the candied apples covered in hard caramel which we licked until our tongues were sore. It is said that the apple was the customary payment to ensure the safety of a soul in ‘spiritual transition’ to the otherworld. Thus in ages past groups of children would go around the village, knocking on each neighbor’s door and sing a soul-plaint in return for an apple;

 

“Soul, soul, an apple or two

If you haven’t an apple a pear will do,

One for the Crow-Queen, two for the lost-soul,

And three for the Ferry-man

Who carries us all…”

 

The Great-Queen ‘Morrigan’ in the shape of a Crow is the one who consumes our strips our decaying body of its flesh, and the Ferry-man guides our spirit across the vast dark ocean of death. Then at school we would weave small crosses out of white milk-straws, originally these were constructed from the left-over sheaves of wheat after the harvest and called ‘parshells’ in the Irish tradition. Very similar to the St. Brigit’s cross created at Beltaine. Hung up over the lintel of the front door they were said to protect the home from the unwanted attentions of mischievous spirits.

 

Pumpkins were unknown in Britain, we used turnips which were hollowed out and used as lanterns with a candle inside, and left by the window to illuminate the cold bitter darkness outside. The leftover orange-flesh was boiled, mashed and served with some ham for the evening meal.

 

Discarding the incorrect assumption that Samhain was a old and dangerous God of the harvest we are left only with its ancient conception as the ‘new-year.’ A potent transitionary period from the light half of the year into the darkness of winter;

 

"Dhe, beanaich dhomh an la ur,

 

Nach do thuradh dhomh roimhe riamh:

 

Is ann gu beannachadh do ghnuis,

 

Thug thu'n uine seo dhomh, a Dhia..."

 

("God, bless me to this new day, never vouchsaved to me before: it is to bless thine own presence, thou hast given me this time, O God..." - Carmina Gadelica).

 

Like the wild Adder we shed our skin for the last time before being enveloped in the Crow’s wing of hibernation. This season invites renewal through introspection, reflection and repose, quiet solitude in a shrouded mist of dreams. The Black winds of the North invite us to harbor a small ember of hope through to Beltaine in the Spring. It is through the medium of darkness, the ‘dark night of the soul’ that we can realize our hidden potential; the brilliant sub-conscious light that lies beyond the boundaries of our physical existence, one warmed not by the sun but by a deeper sense of joy, life, love, creativity and wisdom. Like the oldest creation myths our seed is nursed under a primordial blanket in preparation for the fullest sense of blossoming.

 

Another key festival we celebrated at this time of year was ‘Guy-Fawkes Day’ on November the fifth. In the post-Elizabethan age this was the commemoration of the arrest and execution in 1605 of a group of individuals who attempted to destroy the British crown and Parliament:

 

Please to remember the Fifth of November,

Gunpowder Treason and Plot.

We know no reason why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.

Holla boys! holla boys! huzza-a-a!

A stick and a stake, for King George’s sake,

A stick and a stump, for Guy Fawkes’s rump!

Holla boys! holla boys! huzza-a-a!

 

This ritual involved building a pyramid shaped structure out of collected pieces of old wood scraps, and on the night setting fire to it. But, before this a figure of a man would be constructed out of an old suit and stuffed with newspaper, with a face and hat. A week before the ‘burning’ we would take the old ‘Guy’ out with us on a small cart and ask for ‘pennies in his name’ and all of this was concluded on the fifth, when we threw his mortal frame into the burning fire. We set off fireworks, roast potatoes in the fire and sing and dance around the flames in a festival which seems strangely like the Hindi ‘Festival of lights.’

 

This is a highly charged event that has absolutely shocked many foreign observers, but its origins are clearly in the Celtic-Pagan past; both Caesar and Strabo recall the Celtic tribal tradition of creating a ‘wicker-man’ out of old branches, straw and wood, and then setting fire to it in a specific ritual as an offering to the Gods. The only deity I can identify within this context is ‘Cromm Cruach’ (or ‘Crooked-Head’) in the Irish tradition; a god of the harvest whose feast day is on July 28th. He is personified as the ‘sheaf of wheat’ the agricultural spirit of the land, and after the harvest of Lughnasadh he must be symbolically burned like stubble to return to the earth, as a source of nourishment and enrichment. As a patron of the harvest he is sometimes accompanied by a writhing snake and a sharp scythe like the mysterious ‘Grim Reaper.’

 

“It is I who nourish the shoot, the root,

Who feeds all that grows from the earth,

I suffer no decay,

I am the heavy ear of corn and the ripe branch,

I am the trembling of the earth,

Deeply lodged in the clay…”

 

At this time of year we are thoughtful of both life and death, our ancestors and ancient relations, in recollection of their sacrifices and the work they committed themselves too in order for our lives to blossom now in the present. We also join in the delight of our children swirling, dancing and singing around our lives, with a deep desire that they will grow and mature and soon become themselves the wardens of this beautiful earth... let the advice to the youth be an illuminating one; respect, honor, creativity, passion, and absolute faith. This is a perfect time to address our limitations, investigate shortcomings, explore self-imposed restrictions and dive deeper into our pool of existence to retrieve those skills we need to be even more than we could be before.

 

As we settle tonight in this season for sleep let us spend a moment of reflection in silence; with each breath allow the sacred Earth spirit infuse our souls with calm waves of harmony, dispelling the knots of anger, frustration or turbulence... and allow us to navigate the dream-world with gilded delight, to awake refreshed and ready for a new day and a new year of challenges. This is a beautiful time to make ourselves holy and sacred with a traditional Scottish ‘sain’ or rite of purification with smoldering sage or the more traditional juniper:

 

I purify my being with the three whispers

 

Of

 

The birth of Originality

The Life of Inspiration,

The Sleep of Imagination…

 

Great Path

 

Creator Within and Without, All-Encompassing

 

Heart, Soul and Mind

 

At one

 

In the Shrine of my life

 

Preserved from the eye of Dawn till Twilight;

And through the darkest night of forgetting.

 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED DAVID JOHN DREW 2007