The Oak Tree

During recent weeks I have read a number of blogs which tackle the subject of bullying, most recently one by on Sammie's blog Sammie Writes . This has inspired me to post a poem I wrote a while back on the same subject.

My view is that bullying, whether emotional or physical, personal or national, should always be condemned.

The Oak Tree

I lay awake and waited,
I knew that they would come,
I lay awake and waited.

They came at me,
Like an Oak I stood,
They came at me.

Their torrents raged,
With stick and boot,
Their torrents raged.

I took their beatings silently,
They could not make me cry,
I took their beatings silently.

I dared not cry,
I knew that’s what they wanted,
I did not cry.

It weren’t much fun,
For me – or them,
It weren’t much fun.

They moved right on,
Coz it weren’t much fun,
They moved right on.

Years later on I met their type,
On battlefield with gun,
Years later on I met their type.

This time I stood before the young,
My body as a shield,
This time I stood before the young,

And it weren’t much fun.

John Carré Buchanan
14th June 2010

Home

I have been very fortunate to have travelled the world extensively as both child and adult. I was born in Trinidad and sailed back to the Channel Islands via the UK at the age of about 6 weeks. Shortly after that we sailed out to Kenya via the Suez Canal. I remained in East Africa for Three years before returning to Britain via the Cape of Good Hope. By the time I was four I had crossed the Atlantic and circumnavigated Africa on board 3 liners.

My parents knew that if I continued to live with them I would be constantly changing school and in order that I had a stable education they sent me to boarding school whilst they continued to Globe Trot. By this time Airliners had become the normal means of travel and so my school Holidays were full of trips to exotic countries such as; Ascension Island, Mauritius, Hong Kong, Grand Cayman and Gibraltar, to name a few.

This nomadic lifestyle continued when I joined the Army on leaving school. I moved regularly sometimes for a few weeks and other times for months or years. By the time I left the Army the longest I had lived in one place was three years.

I have now lived in Guernsey for eight years and I am still enjoying the stability that has come with remaining in one place. I was thinking about this about a year ago and thought that it might be fun to pen some verse on the different forms of accommodation I have lived in over the years. I hope you enjoy the results of this endeavour;

Home

I boarded at school
along with my brother,
spending our holls.
with Father and Mother.

I’ve lived in the tropics,
the Far East and near,
a while in the US,
I even lived here.

I spent years in barracks
surrounded by wire,
with guards on the gate
ready to fire.

I’ve lived in a trench,
in all kinds of weather,
wrapped in a poncho
surrounded by heather.

I lived in a port
in a bombed out warehouse.
In Hong Kong I lived in
a parquet floored penthouse.

I spent six months
In a far off region,
sharing a camp
with the Foreign Legion.

Now refugee camps
are not “state of the art”;
they have to be uncomfortable
so people depart.

While a shipping container’s
a ready made shelter
it’s freezing in winter,
and in summer you swelter.

The heat of a jungle
the cold of the snow
these are the things
I’ve come to know

I’ve lived in buildings
as tall as the sky
and down in the cuds
but these I decry;

For all of these places
have become part of me,
but none were a home
without my family.

John Carré Buchanan
25 September 2010

Image: NASA/Via the Daily Mail

Flare Up

For forty years I had a real problem with religion. I travelled extensively as a child and I had seen the unfairness of poverty and a number of travesties religion was blamed for. Boarding School seemed to force religion down my throat with an endless cycle of services, prayers and hypocritical teachers and clergy doing the “do as I say”, rather than the “do as I do” routine. I then joined the Army and witnessed scenes which participants claimed to be doing in the name of their God (The God in question often being the same one). I even had a British military padre try to bayonet me on one occasion.

It seemed to me that religion was behind every conflict I was involved in. I was one of the people who said “I don’t mind people having faith and I will never criticise them but it is not for me.”

About four years ago I attended an Alpha course trying to better understand what my wife believed in; I was not convinced by the efficacy of the proof that was being presented as the reason to follow Christ. The one thing I did learn was that Faith means Faith, and it is not something to be proved, I also knew I did not have it.

Towards the end of last year I decided to examine my core belief structure, particularly paying attention to the reasons for certain beliefs. I did this in an attempt to help understand why certain characteristics such as determination and duty had had such strong effects on my life.

I began to talk to the priest at Lucy’s Church and also to the other people who attended. Initially I saw normal people enjoying their journey with Christ, but as I continued to attend I realised that these were not normal people, they seemed to have something about them which gave them an edge. They seemed to be happier, even in the face of adversity, and they seemed to really care about others. Not the normal sort of care where one carries an old ladies bag, but a care which runs much deeper than that. As I listened to the sermons, read passages from the bible and spoke to my new friends I realised that my 40 year view of religion was fundamentally flawed. It was the failings of people who caused strife in the world not religion. It was not long before I realised that I had found faith and had become a Christian.

The last month or so has been different for me. A cycle of no sleep for days on end, followed by a crash where I could not stay awake and then elevated pain for two days seems to have started up. Life seems to be 3-5 days awake 1-2 asleep and then 2 in pain over and over again. During this period depression was hunting me, but thanks to friends and the mental survival tools I have been given I have managed pretty well. What has made the difference is the fact that this time around I have my faith to help me get through the rough patches (known as Flare Ups) and I know that I am not alone and I am being prayed for.

The poem below describes what it is like to experience a flare up. The fact I could write the poem is evidence that my Faith in Christ and the support of the Church I have joined is helping me to survive.

Flare Up

The tormenting ache is obscured
replaced by searing agony.
I feel the flesh melt,
Imagine the blisters as they bubble,
blacken and crisp over.
The edges split and retract
to reveal red tissue below.
It blackens and the cycle starts again.

My mind tells me it’s not true,
burnt nerves can’t feel.
but this is no ordinary fire
no water can quench these flames.
Born deep within neural pathways
they burn as intense as
the a charcoal maker’s kiln
consuming all reason and sanity.

Bed covers lie thrown back
the soft linen had burnt;
as its folds crept like molten lava,
and scorched everything in their path.
The mind fights for control
looking to stem the flow
as if closing the sluice on a stream
but the gate valve is stuck

Thoughts are marshalled,
challenged and found wanting.
Well-rehearsed counter points are delivered.
Slowly control is regained.
Unhelpful thoughts rally for a final push
but once again the mind delivers a ‘coup de grace’,
another battle is won
and the leg will bare weight today.

John Carré Buchanan
19th August 2011

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