I would have obsession blinker us to the wider world no longer

'Ripper Street' a new detective series from BBC America may present the perfect antidote to a seemingly sterile cinematic modernity. We are transported back to Whitechapel, London 1889, barely six months after the gruesome slashings of the notorious Jack the Ripper. Plunged amidst the squalor of the Victorian metropolis we follow the investigations of Detective Edmund Reid and Sergeant Bennett Drake through the intricate and seedy maze of the 'underworld.' The first series broadly covers their attempts to secure the identity of the 'Ripper' murders, whilst each episode introduces individual cases. Most notable is the rich and variegated depth of the scenes and streets, lush cockney'd banter of real and believable characters and of course the exquisite costumes. It may be apt to remark that the fabric of such dramatizations invariably leaks into the current and commonplace, and we should not be altogether surprised to encounter reproductions of costume and slang on our street-corners. Already, as I write there are those who are busying themselves with lists of the exotic Victorian verbage with which to startle and amaze otherwise innocent aunts over tea and scones, whilst there are many phrases we still currently use such as lush, flashy and fly, the others seem doomed to re-enter the vernacular: 

Cracksman (a burglar, safe-cracker), Crusher (a policeman), Lurk (a place of concealment), Molly House (a homosexual, specifically transvestite, a brothel), Nipper (a young child), Pig (a copper or bobby - a policeman), Rookery (a slum or ghetto), Scratch (a line drawn in the ground where boxers stand at the beginning of a round), Snide (counterfeit money), Thomas (a prostitute's client), Toff (a well dressed or upper class person), Toffer (a high class prostitute), bacca-pipes (a tightly curled moustache or whiskers), crab-shells (shoes), fawny dropping (a deceptive crime involving the sale of a cheap ring), lavender (to be hidden from the police, to be pawned, put away or simply dead), luggers (ear-rings), to take the 'Huntley' (to take the cake or biscuit - to take full advantage of a situation), a Maltooler (a pickpocket operating on an omnibus), Muck Snipe (a down and out, a bum), Out of Twig (in disguise), Puckering (speaking in an incomprehensible manner).

All in all we are presented with a unique insight into an age of liberal repression, sexual deviancy, prostitution, drugs and substance abuse, notorious criminal activities, anarchy... in fact, a long and evocative glimpse into the reverse side of the glorious British Empire. It is such an aspect of society that we would wholeheartedly attempt to turn away from, to blindly deny exists even today in our own modern world. We want hygiene and sanitation and prayers before a peaceful night's sleep... but eventually the horror of the bad-side seeps through and corruption surges to submerge our idealism in foul stench of a cracked and decaying sewer pipe that we have attempted to ignore and fail to repair.

All Rights Reserved / Copyright David John Drew 2013

The Art of Blasphemy

Today I was assaulted with a visibly horrendous piece of artwork posing as political and religious criticism. Usually, under such dire circumstances one is apt to sprint recklessly for one's life in the opposite direction of the immediate threat, or alternatively deliver a well aimed blow to the rascals forehead (such as one has learnt in studies of the oriental martial arts, and E. W. Barton Wright is an incredibly good resource for such attacks). But I digress overtly with apologies. The rascal had the audacity to elicit some sort of opinion from me on the aforementioned conception. Only with some miraculous acuity was I able to discern the deeper flow of my thoughts and utter a response. The artist was attempting rather crudely, to make some point in the way of blasphemy and the trial of Oscar Wilde came to the fore of my mind, and also perhaps that quintessential aesthetic appraisal in the 'Picture of Dorian Grey' - to the effect; "Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope..."

And so, getting straight to the point of the matter, what I found most objectionable about this quasi-artist and his 'assemblage' was the plain fact that it (and others too) were ugly. They lacked the necessary depth of thought, analysis and sever cutting edge that characterizes 'excellent' criticism. Yes, the work itself bore more than a faint resemblance to the crude abortion of an ill-conceived and flatulent thought, that might have been better served putting at once to the naked flame. At this point I began to rise to the challenge of this mediocre dabbler, and I prepared to thrust the blade into his barely palpitating heart, though he was visibly staggering at my previous comment. The irresponsible juxtaposition of hackneyed signage and iconography (for this thing was a 'collage') clouded any attempt to convey a clear and direct communication... a bold disregard for composition and color... well, I believe this chap was dumbstruck and had in the end to admit that his work, despite pleas for brotherly love in the face of religious dictatorial authority, that his work was in fact a pile of rubbish.

All Rights Reserved / Copyright: David John Drew 2013.

Remembrance Day for Warriors Past

Remembrance Day for Warriors Past

Captain Lionel E. Queripel VC, Royal Sussex Regiment. 10^th Battalion Parachute Regiment. Killed in action 19^th Sept 1944, aged 24. Son of Leslie Herbert and Sybil Queripel, of Tunbridge Wells, Kent, England.

 

VC Citation:

 

"In Holland on the 19th September, 1944, Captain Queripel was acting as Company Commander of a composite Company composed of three Parachute Battalions. At 14.00 hours on that day, his Company was advancing along a main road which ran on an embankment towards Arnhem. The advance was conducted under continuous medium machine-gun fire which, at one period, became so heavy that the Company became split up on either side of the road and suffered considerable losses. Captain Queripel at once proceeded to reorganize his force, crossing and recrossing the road whilst doing so, under extremely heavy and accurate fire. During this period he carried a wounded Sergeant to the Regimental Aid Post under fire and was himself wounded in the face. Having reorganized his force, Captain Queripel personally led a party of men against the strong point holding up the advance. This strong point consisted of a captured British anti-tank gun and two machine-guns. Despite the extremely heavy fire directed at him, Captain Queripel succeeded in killing the crews of the machineguns and recapturing the anti-tank gun. As a result of this, the advance was able to continue. Later in the same day, Captain Queripel found himself cut off with a small party of men and took up a position in a ditch. By this time he had received further wounds in both arms. Regardless of his wounds and of the very heavy mortar and spandau fire, he continued to inspire his men to resist with hand grenades, pistols and the few remaining rifles. As, however, the enemy pressure increased, Captain Queripel decided that it was impossible to hold the position any longer and ordered his men to withdraw. Despite their protests, he insisted on remaining behind to cover their withdrawal with his automatic pistol and a few remaining hand grenades. This is the last occasion on which he was seen. During the whole of a period of nine hours of confused and bitter fighting Captain Queripel displayed the highest standard of gallantry under most difficult and trying circumstances. His courage, leadership and devotion to duty were magnificent, and an inspiration to all. This officer is officially reported to be wounded and missing."

 

Battle of Arnhem, 17–26 September 1944

 

In flux of pain unceasing in the goal

Forward on a path of raging fire

Defending and advancing with a warrior soul

Silver’d wings in flight that never tire.

 

Their voices drown’d in sounds of screaming shells

Sinews stretched in fight, the last battle met

Silent now, their sacrifice recalled by bells

The quiet village church repays the debt.

Hedgerows and banks whisper the mortal fame

Thorns the memory of blasted flesh and blood

The sky to unrelenting thoughts now dream;

Tears of the darkest fury, cloud and flood.

 

 

All Rights Reserved 2018 & Copyright David John Drew ‘Lord Carville’

The Head Cheese and The Totally Absurd Theory of Revolution.

 

The Head Cheese and The Totally Absurd Theory of Revolution. 

Once upon a time and in a land that time forgot there were four little pigs. This is not the beginning of their story but a rough account of their end. All the little porkers had enjoyed a long period of blissful prosperity, but we enter their world in a dim and shady era of economic decline… so this is a sad and sorrowful tale.

 

The dusky, smog-ridden veil of late autumn hung like a shroud over the tiny town of Twirlestun. We walked across cobbled lanes, brushed past the rusty-soot black walls of decaying homes, and in the distance saw the spindled creepy branches of dying forest. Our eyes were stung by icy shards of rain; an incoming storm. Yet still, the old sow-town bustled with activity… more out of necessity than joyful purpose.

 

An emaciated swine thrust her trotter up into the sky… “you see that, you see that, do you know what that there is?” I looked up in the direction of the old pig’s pointing and saw a black spot just above a grey cloud. “No” I replied, “What is that then?” The pig became agitated and blurted out; “Bad omen… bad, bad omen.” In a depressed tone she continued; “That thing is chaos brooding, brooding on the verge of anarchy, waiting to consume us all, we’re all waiting on the verge of disorder… it’s a nasty black hole getting bigger and bigger every day… you know it is going to blot out the sky and then swallow up everything we regard as civilization.” Her hysterical tone gave me ample reason for doubt and I suggested she take herself to the town psychiatrist for help. At that point she gave a rather manic laugh, a noticeable ‘huff and puff’ and ran off toward the yellowish river. I heard a splash and plop but continued on my way to discover the lives and fate of the four little pigs.

 

The first little pig had the pallor of a ghost. Gone were the rosy cheeks and rumpy disposition of a fairy tale farm animal. Little pig #1 had gotten a cancerous brain tumor but lacked the necessary medical insurance to be treated and cured. He swayed like a drunken fool and slurred his speech to a nonsensical level. Still he took some time to groom his appearance to an acceptable standard, slowly shaved the hairs on his chinny, chin, chin, and carefully pinned on his combat veterans honor medal. Then he set out for the High Street; everyday he was to be seen begging on the street corner, trying to get enough money together to buy a grave plot.  Nine times out of ten he had to deal with slanderous squeals of ‘fake’ or ‘phony,’ but he put on a brave face. Through sheer luck or fortune he found himself a little better off toward the day’s end. Yet here’s the rub: for as much as he gained, he lost on the way home in the evening… for he had a sizeable hole in his trouser pocket. At least his wife was waiting for him on the doorstep… with a heavy slap for stupidity and a second slap for forgetting to sew up his pockets.

 

The second little pig lived a bit further up near the river. 

Unfinished - the end.

 

All Rights Reserved David John Drew 2011

Achilles Heel

 I thought I saw...

 

A dead pair of boots,

 

Tarred black leather,

 

Discarded and limp;

 

Road strewn...

 

On the path,

 

Worn, rejected

 

Ruined.

 

 

 

But,

 

I looked again, and...

 

It was

 

A drunken man,

 

Kissing a brown

 

Bottle.

 

Walking barefoot;

 

Broken glass

 

For a face...

 

Singing

 

Mourning

 

A sad lament

 

For a soul lost…

 

On a street in Saigon.

All Rights Reserved / Copyright David John Drew 2011

Vive Voce

Hundreds of grasshoppers along the railway embankment, hidden in tall wayward grass under a burning sun. Nettles bit the ankles and burdock was nearby to soothe the pain. He had caught some of the grayish green warblers by assuming the nervous and instant reflexes of his prey; a mantis slowly and steadily creeping along through the scrub like a head louse. Limbs poised in martial prayer, and then a swift skimming to enclose the object of passion in a cupped clap of hands. The dry 'chirrup chirrup' became an invisible chant held with dark reverence. Thus all he caught traveled with him to school, in a dusty pocket to meet with ancient oak and beech desks, to practice arithmetic, recite grammatical legends, flirt with girls and evade rose-hip itching powder. He had captured enough for an army and they obeyed his commands with a silent calm, moving this way and that, forming straight lines, attacking and then retreating against the incessant onslaught of Napoleonic infantrymen. Pavement cracks and granite curbs served as battlements until a Dam-Buster flew overhead and destroyed their last remaining refuge. Then, a pessimistic father peered down from the blue sky, from out of the clouds after his overtime work on Friday and pronounced their demise. "But no..." the boy cried, "they are not dead... still alive..." Even at this tender age he could not accept the finality of a posthumous verdict. And he sprinkled them with water in an attempt to bring them back to life. 

 

All Rights Reserved/Copyright David John Drew 2010.

Szczepanski 1895

I was casually listening to the radio one afternoon and listening to a fascinating story told by an old homesteader called Philip Antonelli of Silverton, Colorado in the depression era. His tale recounted an episode when a severe tornado hit the town and nearly swept most of everything away. Life was certainly hard for 19th century settlers, and nature wasn't always in concord with the intentions and plans of folks who settled there, whatever their business. Anyways, this tale inspired a short 'visionary' poem in me, brief but rhythmical and of a somewhat mystical account of a small western township hit by a natural disaster. In my poem the tornado sucks the life out of the entire population and leaves only dry bones buried in sand. Many years later these remains are rediscovered by an archeologist  who 'paints them red' or brings them back to life... pieces their story back together as a symbolic form of resurrection. The title of this piece evokes something distant and faintly historical but unrecognizable (it is actually a Polish name, a foreign name, perhaps an immigrant). The date is merely a random point in past history.

Szczepanski 1895

 

 

Painted bones

 

Singing the sky

 

Clouds of dust

 

Spinning.. spinning

 

Burning earth

 

Driving wilder

 

Drying waters

 

Invoking screams

 

Houses slashed

 

In rain of stones

 

Desert God...

 

Hard hammering

 

Thunder spit

 

Blinding fury

 

Ate the men

 

And strangled boys

 

Gnawed the flesh

 

Mute women die

 

Fallen girls

 

Sank the town

 

Walls and all

 

Parched white soil

 

Sucked love and

 

Life and left

 

The white bones

 

Still, sleeping still

 

Bones like bread

 

Brittle crusts

 

Deep, deep down

 

Swallowed shards

 

Of thin skulls.

 

 

 

Digging up

 

And painting red

 

Voices past

 

Whisper gently

 

Hear us now?

 

We were few;

 

Farming, mining

 

Loving, kind

 

Too soon

 

Consumed.

 

Our parched bones

 

Recite the light.

 

 

All Rights Reserved/Copyright David John Drew 2010.