Land of my Ancestors
Land of my Ancestors
Copyright 2013 Judith Lesley Marshall
These poems are available in print from Mudfog Press under the title of 'Lifelines.'
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Appreciation by Bob Beagrie
"Judith Marshall seeks out the voices of her ancestors that lie in the landscape, found documents, phrases and scraps of memory, and with a deft hand that weaves together the loose threads of family history with her own experience, lets them speak of their loves, their losses, their pains, their hopes, their links to the land and their travels, in an array of authentic tongues."
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Dedication
There is an old Greek saying quoted in Captain Corelli's Mandolin that:
"Men in their generations are like the leaves of a tree. The wind blows and one year's leaves are scattered to the ground; but the trees burst into bud and put on freshness when the springtime comes."
These poems are dedicated to my ancestors.
They are intended to be read in one sitting as a re-creation of my journey into family history.
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Contents
Invisible Threads
Homecoming
When I was young ...
Green
Bonny Bits
T'Owld Man
View from Cross Fell
Land of my Ancestors
No Going Back
Soul Collecting
Silhouettes
Salt of the Earth
About the Author
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Invisible Threads
Cobwebs beaded with dew
hang from the line
like snowflakes seen
through a microscope lens.
I trace my forefinger
along each thread,
dream of weaving
a mandala
to magnify patterns
in my family's life.
***~~~***
Homecoming
While Dad was in hospital
after a stroke
I was the one to sort his things
so he could come home, we hoped,
to get well again.
The bedside cabinet held
a muddle of nails and wire,
hammers and spanners,
old notebooks, pencil stubs,
rolls of scrap paper.
Unravelling one of the scrolls
I came face to face
with three death certificates:
his father, grandfather,
and great grandfather.
I stared at the crinkled pages,
leads to the story of a past
that now no one could narrate:
Dad had been robbed of speech.
I swallowed back my tears. And then
a yellowing postcard fluttered out.
On the front embossed 'Birthday Greetings.'
On the back the smudged message:
"To my dear son, from his dad
who wishes him a happy future."
***~~~***
When I was young...
... on Sunday mornings
we visited Lynesack church,
placed Sweet Williams
on Granda's grave.
Forty years later I sought out his plot
where the stream wells up
from underground.
I tip-toed down the spongy path
between old grave-mounds,
remembered my fear of sinking
into a mine tunnel.
At his headstone
I found fresh flowers;
today's kids playing Robin Hood
for the dead.
... on Sunday afternoons
we went to Evenwood
for family teas.
Gran baked the best cakes,
chocolate, ginger, rice and marble,
but we had to eat our sandwiches first,
egg, beetroot, or cheese.
We walked over the back fields
to pick buttercups, daisies and clover,
which we pressed in scrapbooks
that smelt of dried grass.
One day the coke ovens let out.
We crouched with held breath;
thick grey clouds engulfed us
in the stench of rotten eggs.
We returned with sore eyes,
bad heads, hacking coughs,
our wild flowers wilted
like overcooked greens.
***~~~***
Green
I did not inherit Granda's skill
for showing Cleopatras,
the prize leeks he soaked in pails of milk
to turn their skins lily-white
or his knack for raising chrysanths,
loud multi-coloured pompoms
that would make any cheer leader proud.
He had a string of winner's rosettes
longer than Gran's washing line.
At our brand new house,
a green-fingered friend helped me design
a Feng Shui garden,
taught me how to dig a trench,
sow, prick out and plant.
Oriental poppies grew like triffids
and green gladioli came up pink.
Now I let Nature take her course.
The kitchen window frames
snowdrops, crocus, bluebells,
daffodils, tulips, forget-me-nots,
a host of golden dandelions
and purple ones with no name
I think I've seen the like of
in a border down the hill.
***~~~***
Bonny Bits
Today I browsed a gift shop,
bought zebra rock from Brazil,
added it to my collection of crystal coals,
stood back to watch them sparkle
in the flickering electric fire,
realised I'd made a spar box,
just like t'Owld Men who dowsed for lead,
filled their pockets with 'bonny bits,'
shaped them by candle light
until coal became the new black gold.
***~~~***
T'Owld Man
Life was hard
up on t'moors,
summers was short,
winters lang,
it rained for half
of iv'ry year
but one day
ye might strike it lucky.
When t'prices crashed
we was forced
te leave t'dale
te work in t'colpitts.
We learnt te crawl
not stand te hew
int'dark 'n' damp
wi' picks 'n' hammers
brought fro' home,
fro' side te side,
not up 'n' down
in dank tunnels.
Watter iv'rywhere,
on t'floor, on t'walls,
drippin' down t'props,
ont' rooves.
We got te know
t'cracks 'n' groans
o' pine as well as
t'candle flickers.
I missed t'hills
but t'money was better,
t'lads settled
wi' bairns a piece.
Our lass was dead,
family out o' touch.
There was nothin'
te go back for.
I took te t'pipe
te kill t'cough,
walked by t'banks
o' t'Gaunless,
watched steam trains
haulin' coal along
t'Hagger Leazes
line ...
Waited for t'days
te pan out,
listened for
you
te call me home.
When t'time came
I was a while
lettin' go
o' t'dark.
***~~~***
View from Cross Fell
Sheep tracks meshed
with man-made welts
morph into Nazca lines
in valleys carved by ice.
The land below is riddled
with rises, levels and shafts,
a scaffold of tunnels
that echo no sound.
Spoil heaps hide hollow holes
where many have fallen
into the Boggart's trap,
left their bones to rot.
***~~~***
Land of my Ancestors
My mother's dale is windswept,
waterlogged, barren land,
that reminded her folk
of their native homes,
where Icelandic currents
swept across the tundra,
just like those that skim
the snowy summits of Cross Fell.
I brace myself against the elements,
scan the limestone crags
dissected by burns and sikes
hidden in the heather.
Peat suckers my feet,
I sink into my roots
until a slap on the cheek
from an icy gust spurs me on.
I shrug my black woollen hat over my ears,
trudge through blanket bog,
think of those who endured
this daily slog to work,
do not stop to admire the marsh marigolds,
the saxifrage or alpine forget-me-nots,
do not register the calls of black grouse,
curlew, lapwing and plover.
On the outskirts of Garrigill,
trees baized in reindeer moss
take me over the purple tops
to my father's dale
where pine needles coated in white dust,
as if from falls of volcanic ash,
carpet the old miners' paths.
My forefathers carved wheals
into the surrounding hills,
scarred by glacial erosion,
transformed the backbone of England
into the vertebrae of a dragon
whose spine glints where mineral veins
were exposed by the hushing
of fluorite, galena and quartz.
***~~~***
No Going Back
The Great Hall of the Winds
hides in the hills
where ravens go to roost.
You showed me the path
through the veil of spume
from the waterfall.
I followed into the cave
to see the bone chamber
where lions once lived.
You helped me down the slope
of scree which skitter-scattered
to the cavern floor.
I stumbled over mud and rubble,
grazed my shin
on a stalagmite.
The Great Hall lit up
when you swept your torch
across the roof,
startling a thousand diamonds
like a glitter of fairy lights,
from their limestone bed.
I froze at the first echoes
of tapping sounds,
the dwarves looking for lead
Then ran like Aeolus himself,
did not look back
to see if you would follow.
You were a long time
coming up from underground,
your face a blank.
The waterfall hissed,
ravens took flight,
something shifted between us.
***~~~***
Soul Collecting
"If you want to talk to old relatives,
go to Staindrop churchyard," Mam said,
"There's a nation of them buried there."
I never went for fear of collecting the wrong souls.
How would I know which Arthur, Tom or Mary
was our Arthur, Tom and Mary?
Alice sought me out,
when I wasn't looking for her.
Alice, Alles and Allaes
kept popping up in every search,
the long lost wife
of great, great, great uncle John,
and another surprise,
her maiden name belonged
to the other side of the family.
***~~~***
Silhouettes
Records say there are twins
on both sides of the tree;
faces not found
in the photo box.
Born alive or dead,
boys fail to survive;
their stories lost
from our family.
You should have been James,
your sister's blonde-haired,
blue-eyed double -
our first born son.
***~~~***
Salt of the Earth
They worked hard,
they played hard,
both in the dark
and in the light,
shared secrets
'bout showin' leeks,
readin' teacups,
makin' ends meet,
but of all the games
my family played,
snakes and ladders
best describes
their quest to mine
a golden seam.
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About the Author
Judith was born and brought up in Bishop Auckland, Co. Durham. She had a varied career as a modern languages lecturer, complementary therapist and senior library officer before setting up as a freelance creative writing coach in 2010.
Her work is inspired by travel and mythology as well as local and family history. If you enjoyed this collection you might like to download 'Twisting in the Land of Light' which is written as a fantasy poetry story set in modern Greece.
Fiction titles include:
'At the Gates' - a short story about a young man who enters an English monastery in search of a better life and ends up trapped in time.
'Zipangu, Year of the Dog 1274: The Second Wave' - a novella set in ancient Japan at the time of the first Mongol invasion. This is the story of Chen who is washed up on the beach and evades capture until the second invasion some six years later.