The Toolmaker

Image Source:

The concept of flint knapping has always appealed to me. I have tried a number of times to make simple flint tools, but every time I have done so it has ended in some kind of minor disaster. A few days ago, I was watching a video on how an expert goes about making these tools and was struck by the effort involved and the sheer beauty of the finished tools.

Toward the end of the video the filmmaker demonstrated the effectiveness of an arrow tipped with a stone micro arrowhead and the cutting power of a flint knife on the carcass of a deer that had been shot. The results were staggering; clearly demonstrating that Stone Age man was equipped with tools that whilst being simple in appearance, were more than adequate for the task they had been designed for.

This made me wonder what it might have been like to have been present at the very beginning of the Stone Age, when someone made a tool out of a piece of Flint or Obsidian and forever changed the way mankind interacted with his environment. Perhaps it happened like this;

The Toolmaker

CRACK, the sound came out of nowhere
shattering the silence of the wood.
There was a brief pause, then another CRACK
followed by a series of lighter tapping noises
and the occasional scraping sound.

She stole quietly through the undergrowth
taking great care to place her feet
where they would not make a sound.
When she reached the outer limits of his camp
she stopped and began a vigil.

Sitting on a fallen tree trunk ahead of her
a man gazed intently at a stone in his hand.
After a moment of contemplation,
he hit the stone with another,
sending small shards and sparks to the ground.

He paused to examine the stone
before tapping it lightly several times.
Each series of blows shaped the stone further.
eventually he picked up a piece of reindeer horn
and started to prise off small flakes.

She watched him work intensely,
as the sun sank a hand’s width in the sky.
Periodically he would lean forward
pick up a shard of stone,
and place it in a small leather bag.

Finally, looking very pleased with himself,
he hefted the stone he had just shaped
and looked at it carefully in the dappled green light.
From her vantage point, a few metres away,
she could see that the stone glistened.

He reached down and pick up a dead rabbit
which, until that point, she had not noticed.
Then he took the stone to its soft underbelly
and began to butcher the carcass.
She gasped in amazement, he looked up.

Their eyes met across the woodland glade
he beckoned her to join him, which nervously she did.
She pointed at the knife he had just made
and with great pride he showed her
the gleaming surface and the razor sharp edge.

She had never seen anything like it.
Her mind raced with the possibilities
this new tool presented.
But more importantly she knew that
here was a man worth knowing.

She stayed with him as the seasons changed,
she gathered food, made clothing
and bore him a child, and in return
he used his mastery of stone to make tools,
to hunt and most impressive of all - to make fire.

John Carré Buchanan
10 April 2013

The Third Bench

Image Source: John Buchanan

Yesterday we had beautiful weather here in Guernsey and I took the opportunity to take a stroll out along the cliffs at Icart. In recent years there have been times when I wished the cliffs were steeper here, but yesterday I was determined to take a walk.

The Image above shows both the third bench and the view from it. This view has travelled all over the world in my mind. It has been used as a benchmark against which to compare all other views. In my opinion, it has seldom been surpassed.

According to Google Earth, the third bench is one hundred and eighty meters from where I parked the car, which means that my round trip was three hundred and sixty meters, it took me about two and a half hours.

On my return home I wrote the following poem, I hope you like it.

The Third Bench

I went for a walk today,
out on the cliff paths.
As I hobbled along
the familiar foot worn path
I could hear the gulls mock me.
I'd plant my sticks carefully
then advance my left foot
just a few inches and then
I'd move the right, just a touch
trying to stop my trousers
brushing against my skin.
Then, braced for what was to come,
I took all my courage in hand,
and placed my right foot.
Instantly pain seared up the leg
like a bolt of lightning,
it surged through the knee
and scorched my soul.
My body screamed at my mind to stop
It refused, forbade a pause,
not before the bench,
the third bench.
Plant the stick, breath, left and then
bite hard on the scream.
Sometimes a moan or gasp escapes.
Tears of frustration wet my cheeks.
I used to run here,
NO,
‘used to’ is no good.
I will make the bench,
the third bench.
I was less than ten meters out
when a dog walker crested the hill in front of me
one hundred meters away.
He walked slowly with two Malamutes.
Left foot, place my sticks, right foot
another searing blast of pain
one step closer to the third bench.
I move the sticks again,
the walker passed me,
passed the man with tears rolling down his face
and I took another step
toward the third bench.

John Carré Buchanan
06 April 2013

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

Image Source: John Buchanan

Socks is the oldest of our three cat’s and is by far my favourite. We have had him ever since he was a kitten.

Unfortunately when he was a couple of years old I found him lying in a hedge with his elbow shattered and this resulted in him losing his front right leg. His recovery was incredible and I am often amazed when I watch him nimbly hop along the top of a fence. I must admit that I take quite a bit of strength from him, as he never seems to complain or get grumpy about his leg he simply gets on with life.

He is the only one of the cats which will come to me. Indeed he quite often comes into my bedroom at night and curls up on the bed next to me, particularly when I am really suffering with pain. It is almost as if he appreciates what I am going through and comes in to give me support.

This poem is about the way he reminds me that he is a cat and not a life coach ;-)

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

Socks dozes peacefully on the king-size bed.
His small frame dominates the huge bed spread.
With chin tucked to chest and both eyes closed
he gives the impression of deep repose.
Yet, should you approach him,
an alarm bell will chime,
somewhere deep within his mind.

His outward demeanour remains the same
yet inside his sleek fur covered frame
a highly tuned nervous system prepares
and he opens an eye and at you he stares.
In that instant an assessment is made,
which end of the cat will prevail?
the roll of the head or a flick of his tail.

The head roll is not an invitation to run amok,
It’s merely permission to push your luck.
Place a finger behind his ear, or gently rub his chin
enjoy his fur, the soft warm comfort within.
if lucky, you might feel him purr.
But when he tires, or his tummy tempts too much
His tail will flick, perhaps just a touch.

The tail flick is best not ignored
If you don’t take heed your hand might be scoured.
as four razor sharp claws flash through the air
the tail flick was telling you; ‘don’t you dare!’
But he also uses it when he’s having fun,
so take care when Socks flicks his tail
or I’ll have written this poem to no avail.

John Carré Buchanan
03rd April 2013

The Day Jimmy Cheered on Celtic

Image Source: John Buchanan

Jimmy the West Highland Terrier was my SSgt's dog in the early 90’s, his diminutive frame was packed full of character. The poem below records a true story which is also captured in the image above. For the protection of the guilty I will not mention the culprits name, suffice to say it was not me and the perpetrator meant it to be a friendly prank.

Having spent the morning supporting Celtic FC, Jimmy returned from a bath with an eerie green tinge which so annoyed Joe that the next time we saw the poor little thing his hair had been clipped back significantly.

For those that do not know Rangers FC and Celtic FC are Scottish soccer teams both based in Glasgow. The two teams, collectively known as the Old Firm, are arch rivals. Rangers are traditionally a protestant and dress in Blue whilst Celtic are predominantly Roman Catholic and dress in Green Stripes. The two clubs share a history rooted in sectarianism and there is considerable ill feeling between them. In fact their games have been described as having an "atmosphere of hatred, religious tension and intimidation which continues to lead to violence in communities across Scotland."

In this instance the whole affair was a friendly prank, which resulted in no real harm, except for an element of lost pride. I hope you enjoy the poem;

The Day Jimmy Cheered on Celtic

Jimmy was a Westie
and a Rangers fan was he
and Joe, his loving owner
was from a protestant family.
So imagine the offence
When Joe spent a day away
And Jimmy's fur was painted
with green! To his dismay.
When Joe returned
The air turned blue
and Jimmy had a bath
but poster paints stain white fur
so Jimmy stayed, well half
That is until a set of sheers
was bought into the fray
and Jimmy's tainted coat
was quickly cut away.

John Carré Buchanan
22nd March 2013

The Day Bill Got Turfed Out

Image Source:  John Buchanan

When people retire from the Army or left a regiment it is fairly common for some form of event to be initiated to mark the occasion. Bill was the Second in Command of 1 Armoured Division Transport Regiment in 1988 and was very popular with the regimental subalterns.

The poem is an account of how we turned his office into a golf green on his final day serving with the regiment. I will always remember how we underestimated the task of turfing the office, and of course the clean up which came after the big reveal. That said the smile on his face and his thanks made the effort worth it.

The Day Bill Got Turfed Out

Bill was always at the golf course
or talking about the game.
The Regimental Golfing Officer
his nick name fast became.
When in the mess or in the field
you would see him take a swing,
then pause to look out thoughtfully
as the imaginary ball took wing.
When his final tour was over
and it was his time to go
the subalterns decided to
say a fond adieu.
They came up with a cunning plan
To bid their boss farewell
and laid a green in his office,
with a hole and flag as well.
The turf came from the garden
and was laid on a plastic sheet.
The task took the lads all night
for they had to be discrete.
Next morning, when Bill arrived at work
he found a group of subalterns
chatting with the clerk.
They were there to see his face
when he walked through the door
and saw his landscaped office
with grass upon the floor.
His face was a picture,
as it registered his delight
at being turfed out of the Army
by friends who'd worked all night.

John Carré Buchanan
22nd March 2013

A Soldier’s Dawn (Sparrow’s Fart )

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Soldiers in the British Army know the dawn as ‘Sparrow’s’ short for ‘Sparrow’s Fart’. I guess the concept of the birds waking up scratching their bums and making their first utterance really appealed to the soldier’s sense of humour.

One thing is for certain, at that time in the morning the only things that seemed to be awake were the birds, soldiers and the occasional deer.

The poem below refers to a shell scrape which is a shallow trench designed to give its occupant a degree of protection from shrapnel and bullets should the location come under fire. In this instance the scrape is covered with a basha which is a very low shelter made out of a poncho stretched between two trees. The fact that the soldier is in a shell scrape indicates that it is in a temporary location. I hope you enjoy the poem.

A Soldier’s Dawn (Sparrow’s Fart )

The occasional sharp rattle
as droplets fall on the poncho
from the invisible branch above
prevent him from sleeping.

Lying in a shallow shell-scrape,
beneath a low slung basha
cold, tired and awake,
his mind fills the pitch black space.

Low cloud obscures moon and star light
and creates a pure darkness,
which, having no horizon,
becomes infinite.

Time passes slowly,
there’s an imperceptible change,
the darkness has a different quality
an air of expectation.

Gradually a slither of grey
creeps skyward in the East,
faint shapes loom from the dark
and life begins to stir.

A lone bird chirps to welcome the new day
and then, from every tree top
the dawn chorus erupts
as if it were nature’s call to prayer.

John Carré Buchanan
21 March 2013

Percpectives of Ceticide*

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I thought I would write this poem to demonstrate one of the key factors in all environmental issues; that of the differing perspectives of all the stakeholders, and the tendency for activists to get involved.

I greatly admire organisations such as Sea Shepherd, these people risk their lives to save the oceans. I know that they do things that many people consider a step to far, possibly even illegal, but while governments do take a passing interest in the environment, their priorities usually remains with the short term affect on voters. This all too often results in agreements being made but not enforced.

Where governments fail in their duty to enforce the laws that they sign up to, they leave the way open to activists to step in. Unfortunately these people tend not to be as well-resourced as governments and as such they take a less subtle approach to enforcement.

My view is that if a government signs up to something it should be prepared to provide the resources needed to enforce it and accept the consequences of that agreement. Where governments fail to enforce agreements they should not be surprised if people step in and honour the agreement made on their behalf. Most importantly they should not complain if activists don’t play the game using the conventional rule book. Perhaps a better way of putting this is; “they should put up or shut up”. I hope you like the poem.

Percpectives of Ceticide*

The Whale

Our music used to fill the oceans
but that was when I was very young.
Back when the oceans were quieter and clean.
Now the water reverberates to mechanical roars,
explosions and the screams of my kind;
and our song grows ever quieter.

The Conservationist

The oceans are too crowded, too noisy
Too polluted, and over fished.
We need to do something - now,
We need a moratorium on whaling and sanctuaries.
We must study whales and determine their needs
Or we will lose them.

The Politician

I’m down ten points in the polls,
this bloody scandal is killing me,
I wish I’d never have got involved with her.
I need something to divert the public’s attention.
The green vote is popular, something international
might broaden my appeal, Whaling – blame the foreigner!

The Whaler

My father and his were both whalers, it’s in my blood.
There are plenty of whales in the ocean,
Whales deplete our fish stocks and damage the industry.
I operate within a quota and aid important research
and I use most humane method to catch them.
Anyway it is my right to hunt, I have a family to feed.

The Public

Interesting program on the telly last night.
I didn’t know the harpoon exploded inside the whale
Or that they pump air into the body to keep it afloat.
That said, I think the kids are right, it does look barbaric
I can’t see myself eating whale.
Next time I see a collection tin I will put some money in it.

Governments

The public want everything and they want it all done green.
Every ministry needs more cash but the treasury’s been wiped clean.
This bloody whale debacle demands we do something
But we can’t upset our trade partners; we need the cash they bring,
So we won’t mention whale meat, stockpiles or poaching.
Let’s let some other nation start that fight. Now about the Euro zone…

The Activist

They’ll hunt whales to extinction, having agreed to save them.
The other governments will just bite their tongues
and refuse point blank to condemn them.
If these nations, who swore to protect whales
won’t honour their commitments - then I will
and to hell with those that don’t like how I do it.

The Courts

These activists are out of order
Just who do they think they are?
This nation may be in breach of the law
But none of the others condemn them.
We can’t let private citizens enforce international law.
They’re vigilantes and pirates of that I am quite sure.

Earth

My oceans are turning murky and silent
Mankind is at it again
They’re aware of the damage they’re doing
But their too self-centred to refrain.
They talk a good talk, but won’t do the walk
and it’s me that ends up paying.

*Ceticide: The killing of whales and other cetaceans.

John Carré Buchanan
05 March 2013

Saviours

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I make no secret about the fact that I support Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. They describe themselves as; ‘an international non-profit, marine wildlife conservation organization. [Whose] mission is to end the destruction of habitat and slaughter of wildlife in the world's oceans in order to conserve and protect ecosystems and species.’ In order to achieve this they use; ‘innovative direct-action tactics to investigate, document, and take action when necessary to expose and confront illegal activities on the high seas.’ The words ‘direct action’ mean that they are prepared to put their lives on the line. For More information please visit their website here; http://www.seashepherd.org/.

During the last couple of months they have been protecting the whales in the Southern Ocean from the Japanese whaling fleet who have been illegally hunting in a sanctuary. The Japanese were aiming to kill 950 whales, but thanks to the efforts of Sea Shepherd they have taken less than 70.

Sea Shepherd has achieved this by cutting the Japanese fleet off from it’s fuel tanker which has been attempting to refuel the fleet within the sanctuary, (an action which in itself is illegal given the fact that it is within the sanctuary). They have also made it extremely difficult for the harpoon ships to transfer the dead and dying whales to the factory ship by sitting directly behind the vessels ramp, and of course they have used their RHIBs and helicopter to prevent the harpoon operators from getting a clear shot.

I wrote the following poem as mark of my respect for the brave men and women of Sea Shepherd, and I thank them for what they do to protect the wildlife in the world's oceans.

Saviours

The fluke rises and falls effortlessly
as it propels her through the friged polar water.
The graceful motion conserves the energy
She has stored as fat during her time
in the krill rich Southern Ocean.

The cooling water has signalled
it is time to move North towards Australia.
Here, in the warmer tropical waters
the changes she feels within her streamlined frame
will come to fruition, and her calf will be born.

A brass propeller roils the water
leaving a broad streak of foaming bubbles
in the churning wake of the ugly predator.
High on the elevated bow a harpoon gun gazes down,
primed to deliver its grotesque load.

The hunter does not work alone,
other vessels ply this stretch of ocean
with the same murderous intent.
They work together to harpoon and butcher
graceful cetaceans for a fast buck.

A cloud of vapour rises ten feet
from the surface, as she takes a mighty breath.
Off in the distance excited figures point
And the harpoon ship turns menacingly towards her
its crew preparing for the slaughter.

As the ship closes, the whale,
aware of its presence, picks up her pace.
Mile after mile the chase continues.
Gradually the whale tires and her dives shorten.
The hunt is drawing to a close.

A frustrated operator is ready to fire.
The harpoon, tipped with an exploding head
which will rip into the whale and embed a hawser
with which to recover the wounded beast, is ready to fire.
But he has not got a shot.

For there protecting the tiring, frightened whale,
Is a Sea Shepherd RHIB manned by four brave souls.
Hour upon hour they position themselves between the
predator and its prey. This time, with their help,
the whale manages to slip away.

John Carré Buchanan
26 February 2013

Buying Coca-Cola Can't Help Polar Bears

Image Source: www.mrwallpaper.com & Buchanan

In recent months Coca Cola have been running an advertising campaign which states that they are helping the WWF to save the Polar Ice Caps, home of the Polar Bears. The implied message being, buy Coke and help save the Polar Bears. This is an outrageous claim which I find most offensive.

Coca Cola (and its many subsidiaries) are probably the world’s biggest user of aluminium cans. Aluminium is a metal which requires massive amounts of energy to produce. In fact the aluminium beverage can industry’s annual electricity consumption is almost 300 billion kilowatt-hours, or about 3% of the world’s total electricity consumption.

The energy required to produce just three aluminium cans is roughly equivalent to that of filling one of those cans with petrol and burning it. Imagine then the waste when in the United States of America one hundred million (100,000,000) aluminium beverage cans are sent to landfill, littered or incinerated every day.

When recycled each aluminium can has the potential to save enough energy to run a television for three hours. On a worldwide scale, the number of cans which are not recycled represents about 23 billion kilowatt-hours squandered each year. That is just under quarter of one per cent of the world’s total electricity consumption wasted.

(Sources; thegoodhuman.com, allgreenthings.com and reuters.com).

In addition to the pollution caused by energy production, every tonne of newly extracted aluminium results in four tonnes of toxic / caustic waste being dumped somewhere in the world.

Nice stats I hear you say, but what does this have to do with Polar Bears?

Given that manufacturing cans uses so much power it is clear that any industry using those cans has a significant role to play in global warming and as a result melting the ice caps. Without these huge tracts of ice it is impossible for the Polar Bear to hunt and consequently the Polar Bear population is shrinking. It is a sad fact that at the current rates of decline, Arctic ice may disappear by mid-century. If it does, the polar bear will follow soon after.

So far I have only touched on the cans in this introduction to my poem. a normal can of coke contains about 39g of sugar, a substance recognised as being a leading contributor towards obesity and diabetes. It is estimated that the US taxpayer pays around $190 billion annually on health issues relating to these two diseases. This figure equates to a fifth of the USA’s total health care budget.

What is clear to me is that buying more cans of any fizzy pop, will not only contribute to global warming and kill off the Polar bears, but will also increase the incidence of obesity and diabetes in the human race and end up costing taxpayers in the same way that tobacco has. With this in mind I find it galling that any fizzy drink manufacturer can claim that buying their product will help the plight of the polar bears, or indeed do anything good for our planet.

The following poem is a ludic poem, I hope you like it.

Buying Coca-Cola Can't Help Polar Bears

Coca is an ingredient in both chocolate and cocaine
and cola drinks rot peoples teeth and cause significant weight gain.
These products help drive the cost of healthcare through the roof
as people in the developed world satisfy their sweet tooth.
Governments, as cool as ice ignore the harm these drinks cause,
support for a government would melt if pop was rationed, to save jaws.
The multi-national companies who make and sell this poison
are aware that sugar products harm and kill, but profit is their reason.
Making millions of aluminium cans helps melt the Polar ice cap.
Their advert claims that buying Coke will help save bears, What Crap.
Put these facts together and one thing simply glares,
Coca-Cola help the ice melt and kill Polar bears.

John Carré Buchanan
20 February 2013

The Hood

Image Source:

A friend of mine recently had to make the very hard decision to have her cat put down. This was clearly a terrible decision for her to make and she was very distressed by it. She asked me if I would write a poem for her. This was the first time that I had done anything like this and I was not sure how things would go, but I agreed to do it if she gave me some notes.

I was not sure what format to take or how sensitive I would need to be. In the end I decided to write a poem which at first might seem hard hitting but would have a gentle closure offering a degree of hope and comfort.

I asked a few people to read the poem before I gave it to my friend in order to ensure that it was appropriate and they all gave it thumbs up. I then gave it to my friend and it was several days before she was able to give me her feedback, which was fortunately positive. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Hood

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I glance at the armchair as I enter the room
expecting to see two topaz eyes watching me
from under his pure white fur,
but the back of the chair is empty.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I scan the top of the cupboards as I make the bed,
hoping to glimpse the tip of a tail waving at me
or perhaps hear a disgruntled purr,
but Robin, ‘The Hood’, he’s not there.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I check the flowerpots as I tend the Garden,
will I see four huge paw prints in the soil?
His claws will need cutting soon.
Then I remember - he has gone.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I sit and knit in front of the TV,
he does not make me stop.
I can no longer run my fingers
gently through his soft fur.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I slept in this morning,
The alarm clock ran past snooze.
There was no soft paw upon my face
To wake me should I doze.

Yet - as I straighten cushions in the lounge
a patch of white fur appears before me.
Should I drop a stitch as I watch the TV
I feel his celebratory purr on my knee.
Yes - You will always be a friend to me
I just have to close my eyes to see.

John Carré Buchanan
01 February 2013