Fame

Last night I attended the local Open Mic evening. These evenings have a non-compulsory theme and last nights was; 'when I met someone famous'.

It struck me that, as an expatriate and an Army Officer, I had met a wide variety of 'famous' people, but I had also met many 'people of great value'. In my mind it is the latter group which is more worthy of acclaim. Whilst many famous people do a lot of good in the world it is ordinary people who are often best placed to add extraordinary value.

The following poem is dedicated to the millions of people of great value around the world.

Fame

Oh!
While we're all name dropping I'll have a go,
Queen Elizabeth, King Hussein,
Princes; Charles, Andrew and Pavlos of Greece.
Princesses; Aisha of Jordan, Diana and Anne
Politicians so many, I’ll name but a few;
Maggie, John Major, Ian Paisley - that’ll do.
From TV Kate Adie, John Simpson and Martin Bell
I interviewed Kenny Everett, Dame Jackson and Lord Weatherill.
Then there were sports folk, like Daley and Tessa
and dukes and duchesses, and one contessa
A slack hand full of generals, De La Billiere, Rose, Jackson
Church leaders I’ve met just two;
Robert Runcie and Desmond Tutu.
I’ve hosted bands like ‘The Sweet’,
and met Victor Meldrew.

I could go on but when all’s said and done
they're all just people like you and me.
Some fun to be with, others, just glum.

but the person I remember most,
wore mud streaks on a face like a ghost,
at six she'd lost her parents to a boy with a gun
and roamed dangerous streets alone.

We all have our heroes, the great and the wise
but A list or B list I’ve come to despise,
For when you’re out on your ear
and your folks have been shot
fame does not matter one single jot.

It’s how you treat others, that sets you apart,
true heroes fill the cracks in society
unsung, just getting on
and no one’s as important as;
a child’s dad or mum.

John Carré Buchanan
20 October 2014

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go.

There is a romantic image of troops setting off to war in which marching men pass through cheering crowds being bombarded with well-wishes and flowers.

In my experience departures on Ops were more likely to be a lonely, thought filled, walk in the middle of the night. If the Quartermaster had done his job correctly he would have indented for cold and wet weather to maximise the benefit!

The walk would be followed by brief periods of frenetic activity interspersed with a lot of hanging around, soldiers call this; 'Rush to Wait'.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go.

He silences the alarm before she digs him in the ribs,
dresses swiftly in the dark and creeps downstairs
taking care to avoid the squeaky stair.
Quietly he steps into the cool nocturnal gloom.
His breath hangs on the chill night air.
With practiced ease he swings the Bergen to his back.
Turns a key in the lock and pauses,
eyes glued to the unlit glass
mind focused on the sleeping heads inside.
He turns, shrugs and fades into the shadows;
absorbed by the night.
All that betrays his presence
is the measured sound of boots upon the road.
Other humpbacked figures appear and disappear
fading in and out of light cones
cast by lamps which illuminate
coils of razor wire on the fence top
as it runs on in to the mist.
At the barrier he shows his ID and joins the throng.
Rush to wait......
Time ticks past, an hour in her arms;
lost.
He knows not when, or if,
he will hold her again.
Name called, he boards the bus,
fills from the back, sits, eyes closed,
sleep envelopes
a warrior off to war.

John Carré Buchanan
12 September 2014

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.



This poem is linked to Poets United.

Just Another Morning

Image Source:

I was thinking about the periods of separation faced by military families and in particular how the minutia of routines might mirror each other despite living in different environments.

These thoughts sparked the following poem, I hope you like it.

Just Another Morning

She ties laces on scuffed school shoes,
he shakes bugs from his boots.
She packs a lunch into a pink rucksack
he stuffs batteries and ammo.
She climbs into a family run-around,
whilst he climbs into a Mastiff.
Dodge traffic on a school run
dodge pot-holes, donkeys and IEDs.
Their radios play the latest hits
but in his world; the hits, hurt.
Kids dropped, weekly shop,
patrol through a crowded market.
walk the dog, back home for coffee,
canine sits to indicate, *
time slows
and thoughts turn to each other.

John Carré Buchanan
29 June 2014

* Sniffer dogs are trained to sit to indicate that they have found an Improvised Explosive Device (IED).

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.



This poem is linked to Poets United.

Camera Shy

Image Source: Buchanan

Just before Christmas I bought a SLR Camera. I had promised myself that I would buy such a camera when the compensation case was completed. I saw it as a reward to myself for putting up with all the tough times I've had during the last four and a half years.

It was then that the lawyers told me it could be another two years before we reached some kind of settlement. This news came as quite a shock and I realised that waiting that long would just make me notice the time more. I also realised that if I bought the camera sooner It would add a new dimension to my life which could only be a good thing.

I used the camera a lot over the Christmas break, but during the recent spell of bad weather I had been avoiding going out and the camera had stayed in its case. Over the last weekend I could hear it calling to me and I decided to prise my son off his X-box and take him and the camera on a photo shoot.

The image above and the poem below, are both the results of an afternoon spent on a nearby beach. The best part of the experience was the very precious time I spent having fun with my son.

I hope you enjoy the poem.

Camera Shy

Carefully he lifted the camera from its case
and placed the broad strap around his neck.
He leant forward, retrieved the tripod
before he straightened and strode to a boulder
lying in the middle of the beach.
He then opened the tripod, secured the camera to it
ensuring that the lens faced the boulder.

Next he started collecting hand sized stones,
Each had two opposing flat surfaces
which allowed him to build a shy on the boulder.
Sitting in my wheelchair ten feet from the tower
I leant to one side and collected a handful of stones.
Meanwhile Marcus focused the camera on the shy
and selected the continuous shot sports mode.

We were ready and he began a countdown
Three – Two – One – Go,
simultaneously he pressed the shutter release
and I threw the stone at the shy – missing.
We tried again, and again, each attempt capturing
four almost identical images of the stone shy.
sometimes capturing a pebble as it passed the tower.

Then came the crack as the flying pebble
collided with the standing stones.
excitedly he pressed the view button to ensure
the image had been captured.
Tumbling from my chair I moved toward him
to inspect the results.

There on the display was an image of the collision,
The events of a fraction of a second
Suspended – there on the screen,
the rock had split into several pieces
and a cloud of stone dust hung
peppered with smaller gritty fragments

We smiled at each other and inspected the next image
which showed the shy as it disintegrated.
Quickly we moved toward the boulder
and began to build a new shy.
Both of us wore huge grins on our faces
as father and son shared a rare moment of fun together.

John Carré Buchanan
30 January 2013

Perfect Ten

I was thinking about my daughter who is currently on the 22nd World Scout Jamboree. This poem formed in my mind so I scribbled it down and dedicate it to her.

Perfect Ten

The proud father’s stands,
holding in his hands
a new-born child.
He tickles her feet
with manicured nail
forging a love that’ll never fail.

Fingers dwarf her little feet,
Perfectly formed and complete
Ten tiny toes
In two neat rows
Where they’ll carry her
No one knows.

He runs a finger from toe to heel,
she lets out a tiny squeal
and curls her toes.
In years to come she’ll not know
He holds the moment in his mind
when his love for her was first enshrined,

John Carré Buchanan
31 July 2011

For Elanor.

Hands

Between the ages of 7 and 18, I went to boarding school and access to family was pretty restricted. I spent most holidays with my parents who lived in a number of exotic locations overseas, but I used to spend my Sunday exeats with my Grandparents.

This afternoon I was thinking about all the Sundays we spent together back then. I remember Gran best as sadly Grandpa died when I was only 11. Gran always treated my brother and me as if we were her own sons and I guess during those magical Sundays we were!

I wrote this poem shortly after Gran died;

Hands

I sit beside her bed,
thinking of what’s ahead.

Her frail hand rests in mine,
and our fingers entwine.

Our hands wear their love,
as if it were a glove.

Her gnarled arthritic finger,
upon my palm does linger.

Could it remember the time,
it first met mine?

My tiny pink hand,
gripping her wedding band.

Perhaps it could recall,
holding me lest I fall?

Or swinging me by the arm,
As we walked around the farm.

And with a gentle squeeze,
my worries she’d appease.

But alas as I grew,
our embraces became few.

It wasn’t cool for a young man,
to be seen holding hands with Gran.

Yet in the autumn she took my arm,
and it had a certain charm.

Her hand would rest on mine,
as we walked beside the brine.

Well met these hands, o’er all the years,
They’ve shared both happiness and tears.

We sit in silence, no words needed,
as memories of our hands are heeded.

She draws my fingers to her lips,
And with a gentle kiss; she slips.

John Carré Buchanan
10 September 2010

Go-Carts

A couple of weeks ago week my son asked if I had any wheels or wood which I could donate to his Scouts troop for a Go Carting event they were holding. We scraped together a few items and took them up to the Scout hut last Friday in order that the Scouts could make a couple of carts. When I collected him later that evening the pile of parts had grown slightly and a project for the remainder of the week was born.

Each evening after school the two of us worked together to make a cart. I must admit that watching him use my circular saw, and other power tools was slightly nerve-racking but also very rewarding. I watched with pride as he marked, cut and drilled the wood, and I listened as he voiced ideas and worked out what was required.

Whilst we worked I remembered a cart I made in 1974 when I was lived in Ascension Island. I built it using scraps I had salvaged from the Georgetown dump, (that dump seemed to hold everything; I even scavenged a hacksaw blade to cut the axle free from the heap of twisted metal it was entangled in). I also remember using my father’s power tools.

For me the our project took on new meaning. Here was I reliving events from my childhood through the eyes of a father, and whilst my size and weight precluded me from ever driving the finished product, somehow I knew that I was with him as he sped down the hill for the first time.

The best bit though was spending time working on the project with my son, and enjoying his company. The 2 pictures were taken 37 years apart.

Go-Carts

The shed had been overturned,
a pile of debris sat challenging;
planks of wood, an old bike,
a length of rope a lawnmower wheel.

He remembered being ten
Sitting on the scrap heap
using scavenged tools
to create a similar pile.

Back then his mind saw the sleek lines,
could feel the wind in his hair;
the joy of being free
As he raced down the hill.

Now younger eyes looked up, pleading.
A smile cracked his face
the unspoken deal made
as father looked at son.

They toiled together
Small hands on large tools,
proud father watching on
lending power and advice.

Finally they stood together, smiling.
A cart had risen like a phoenix
from the pile of debris.
It stood awaiting its maiden run.

With foot on brake the young driver
looking eagerly down the hill.
His father proffered advice and then
They were off…..

Two hearts pound in unison
Speed picks up, corner smoothly taken.
Father remembering the childhood joy;
As they raced down the hill together.

John Carré Buchanan
25 June 2011

Le Guet

Le Guet

Grandpa often took us to Le Guet,
Those are days I won’t forget,
For hidden there amongst the trees
We lived many boyhood fantasies.

He used to walk once round the wood
whilst Mark and I played Robin Hood.
Then he’d stand a while and watch us swing,
As if we were the Jungle King.

And then he sat atop the watch tower,
whilst we took on a ‘super power’
and scaled the ladders deep within;
without a care for life or limb.

With sticks and needles we’d build our dens
and hide away from all our friends,
and all the while he’d sit up there
and at the rugged coastline stare.

And now in turn I sit and stare,
and breath the beautiful fresh sea air.
I watch the waves wash on the shore
And think of all those years before.

John Carré Buchanan
19 June 2010

'Image courtesy of VisitGuernsey'