Poems I like - I hope that you agree

            In the world the forces of good and evil are locked in mortal combat. There is no doubt that powerful and evil forces worldwide, in the service of Satan, are destroying and disfiguring so much that is good, and replacing it with so much that is evil. We know from Christ's own words, that good will ultimately prevail over evil, and that our strength, solace and hope is in knowing Him, loving Him, and serving Him in this world, so that we may be eternally happy with Him in the next. To enable us to attain this,  Christ founded His Church, appointed St Peter as its head, and  promised to be with His Church all  days even unto the end of the world.  
            Occasionally I feel the need to escape, metaphorically speaking, from  our confused, and often sad,  real world,  and I  immerse myself in a book of poetry. After an hour or so reading my favourite poems, I feel mentally and spiritually refreshed, in rather the same way that beautiful, classical music, uplifts the soul.
            I am not a fan of poetry 'per se', I think appreciation demands an empathy between the reader and the poet, based on subject matter, the 'ethos' or psychology of the poem, and the manner in which the poetry is written. Again the same principles apply to the appreciation of certain types of classical music, substituting musical form and pattern for the written word.
            I am posting a few short poems by a little known writer working in the late 1920s early 1930s, under the name of Betty L Robertson. I have endeavoured, so far unsuccessfully, to trace this lady, and if any reader can throw any light on her life, it would be much appreciated. These poems are taken from a slim paper-backed book entitled 'Poems' by Betty L Robertson, and published/printed by Whitby, Light & Lane Ltd, Bridgwater, probably in the 1930s.

A Prayer

The stars, dear Lord, are gleaming on the sea,
The moon is there, and Thou art watching me.
Yet as beneath the sky I kneel to pray,
No words will come, no prayers have I to say.

Cold is the darkness, and the night is still,
But there has come a wind across the hill
Fragrantly blowing to me, as though Thy breath
Whispered of life, dear Lord, and not of death.

Yet can I ask Thee for my happiness,
When Thou hast all this mighty world to bless?
Ah God, Thy love is great, Thy ways are just,
But I am smaller than one grain of dust,

More insignificant, yet Thou hast said
Each hair is numbered on Thy children’s head.
The stars, dear Lord, are gleaming on the sea,
The moon is there, and Thou art watching me.
                                         c.  Betty L Robertson (April 1930)


Children

What should they know of life, these little ones?
    Who weep, and then forget why they were sad,
Who crown their lives with golden dreams, ambitions,
    And never doubt that they will come to pass.
What should they know of life?  Its sordidness
    To children is a thing of nothingness.
The earth to them was made for work and play,
     With new found joys in every endless day.
What should they fear from life, these little ones?
   
What should they know of love, these little ones?
    Who worship from the depths of heart and soul
More faithfully than older ones can tell,
    A simple toy, battered or torn, or broken.
And from the angels comes the love for mother,
    Kept sacredly aloof from any other,
A love, deep rooted in the little heart,
    That nought, not even death, could wrench apart.
What should they fear from love, these little ones?
   
What should they know of death, these little ones?
    Death, fearful in its great uncertainty,
A promised peaceful sleep, yet how we tremble
    To leave this world of ours, and walk with God.
But children do not doubt, Heaven must lie
    Beyond the twinkling stars, the tranquil sky,
For mother said that dark was safe as light,
    And Jesus watches thro’ the longest night.
What should they fear from death, these little ones?
                                                       c. Betty L Robertson (1930)


The Little Things

Because I could not face the world today,
     But wept alone where there were none to see,
     The pleasant smell of new-mown clover hay,
 Caused me to pause a while, and calm to be.

Because I sobbed as tho’ my heart would break,
     And felt that only death could heal this pain,
     The stolid firmness of a stable rake
 Begged me to wait, to reason, to be sane.

Because in spite of bitter tears, and strife,
     The world goes on, and duties still are there,
     We find it is the little things of life
 Which keep us sane, in moments of despair.
                                                             c. Betty L Robertson


Ad Astra

We must not ask of life not to be sad,
     Never to know of grief, or suffer pain.
For as the sunshine followeth the rain,
     So thro’ our tears, do we learn to be glad.

We must not ask to reach ambition’s height
     Without the struggle of uncertainty,
Without the climb where would the beauty be
     Of groping thro’ the darkness, to the light?

We must not ask, when strength is at an end
     That earthly help will still be waiting there.
It is when left alone to fight despair,
    We turn to Him, Who is indeed our Friend.
                                                             c. Betty L Robertson.


 For more poems by Betty L Robinson, see:-  http://umblepie-northernterritory.blogspot.co.uk/2011/05/poems-by-betty-lrobertson-gentle.html  

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  " Little children are loved at once; to see them and to love them is the same thing.
For this reason the Eternal Word chose first to be seen among men as an infant, to conciliate to Himself the love of all mankind."
(Thoughts from St Alphonsus)
                                            
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        'God bless our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI'

                

Some favourite books - Historic day for the F.SS.R.

It has recently been announced by Messrs D.C.Thomson & Co. that publication of the Dandy comic in its existing format, is to end in December 2012. Happily it is to be re-incarnated, apparently in a format more in tune with  the minds of children of the 21st century.  Some may question whether this is necessarily a good thing, and some may suggest that children’s minds do not really change from one generation to the next. No doubt the reality is that whilst children’s minds do not change, the world certainly does. Let us hope that the new Dandy continues to provide innocent delight and pleasure to children everywhere.

One of the great pleasures in life is reading. When aged about ten years, my idea of heaven was reading a ‘William’ book by Richmal Crompton, with a selection of sweets to hand,  preferably fruit or acid drops which lasted a long time.
Other favourites authors included  Arthur Ransome - ‘Swallows and Amazons’, ‘We didn’t mean to go to Sea’, etc.;   Enid Blyton  - ‘Valley of Adventure’, ‘Secret Five’, etc.;  W.F.Johns - the 'Biggles' stories of heroism by fighter pilots of the Royal Air Force; Percy F Westerman - similar stories of heroism  at sea involving the Royal Navy. There were many other authors of course, but those mentioned were particular favourites of mine.

As a teenager, mystery and detective stories were my  favourites.  Edgar Wallace, Dorothy Sayers, Arthur Coynan Doyle, Peter Cheyney ,  Earle Stanley Gardner, Agatha Christie, were all authors whose books I looked for. I have to admit that my literary  taste was simple and  low-brow i.e.popular, rather than intellectual and high-brow,  and to be perfectly honest I think this is still the case.

As a young man, serious  reading took a back seat, in fact virtually disappeared into the boot!  There were so many other things to be done, leaving little time  to read  anything other than newspapers or  magazines.   Marriage, family, and my job, also sporting activities  and  involvement when possible in Church events, filled my life, and over time it became extremely difficult for me to discipline myself to read  a book of any real substance.   An Open University degree course, which  necessitated  reading  books on a variety of subjects, and  also my  job  which involved  reading  official documents and reports, certainly helped to exercise my brain, and it was enjoyable, but it could not be described as reading for pleasure.

It was only in later life that I found the time and inclination to read  those  books  that I had  postponed reading for so many years.  Much of the fun was actually searching the second-hand market place for the books I wanted. Finding those books at an affordable price often entailed  spending  many enjoyable hours  browsing  in bookshops specialising in second-hand books , of which there were many in Devon where we lived at the time.

Books I read now and which take pride of place on my bookshelf, include religious  biographies  of Saints and martyrs of the Catholic Church, lives of different Popes and eminent Catholic  hierarchal figures, particularly those of the 19th and 20th centuries, and lives of  outstanding English men and women eg. Winston Churchill,  Leonard Cheshire VC,  and his wife  Sue Ryder ; various war history books,  e.g.‘A Bridge Too Far’ by Cornelius Ryan; travel books, e.g. ‘In the Steps of the Master’ by HV Morton; short story collections by selected authors; and an eclectic assortment of books including novels by R.F.Delderfield, Norman Collins, and others;  poetry by John Betjeman  and others;   numerous historical biographies and books of religious interest e.g. 'Lives of the Desert Fathers', and others; also certain fine art reference books. 

If you  ever find yourself in Kirkwall, Orkney, with time on your hands, I recommend a visit to the only second-hand bookshop in town, situated next to the Library. I think the shop is called ‘McCarthy’s Bookshop’. At first sight the shop is not particularly prepossessing, but don’t judge it by external appearances.  Inside is a large selection of books to suit all tastes, and at extremely reasonable prices. There is a certain order within the shop, but not too much! The element of surprise and possible delight has not been eliminated by an over-scrupulously organised shop proprietor, thus when browsing, one retains  a  sense of hopeful anticipation! It is not a big shop, but it is full of books , on shelves and in boxes, high and low. The proprietor/ manager of the shop is a Scotsman with a pointed ‘Van Dyck’ beard, a droll but sharp  sense of humour, and a never-ending fund of  stories. He  appears  decidedly knowledgeable on most matters literary,  and  is genuinely helpful, always  remembering  his customer’s interests and needs even if he hasn’t seen the customer for several weeks.  I have bought several books from him, including one which according to  various  websites, was only available in Australia, the British Museum, and in south-west Scotland, at a shop which, coincidentally, shared the same owner as the Kirkwall shop. This was a book dealing with the sinking of the SS Athenia by a German submarine, on the first day of the 2nd World War, with an account of the incident by various survivors. I particularly needed this  book for a project here on Stronsay  in Orkney,  where we actually  have one of the  lifeboats  from the stricken ship ,  converted to an out-house and used as such for many decades , and which we still entertain faint hopes of restoring if sufficient funds can be raised.

        Lifeboat from SS Athenia on Stronsay foreshore.

My most recent purchase from this shop, is a trilogy of novels in one volume, translated from the French, entitled ‘Cecile among the Pasquiers’ written by Georges Duhamel, and published by Dent & Sons in 1940. The original retail price  was  9s.6d., a not inconsiderable amount of money at the time. I don’t read many novels, but  I was tempted by  some excellent reviews on the cover , and  have not been disappointed. I think it a beautifully  written book and one  which held my  attention from the beginning, which with  many books is not always the case, and  I find  it difficult to put down.  The author, a qualified doctor who served with the French army in the Great War, and thereafter strongly anti-war in his views, was a prolific writer and author of many books. I am  enjoying it to the extent that I have already purchased through Amazon, another book by the same author, entitled ‘The Pasquier Chronicles’, being  five further stories  in one volume, relating to the lives and fortunes of the same  family .

We  have an elderly lady friend on Stronsay, in her nineties, who is unable to read owing to poor eyesight. This causes her great frustration and distress as reading was her favourite pastime.  Her unfortunate situation has made me especially appreciative of the unique gift of sight,  reminding me that as the eyes are our 'windows to the world' ,  even more importantly they  are  the  ‘windows of our soul’.  

Which brings me to the final toast - 'To the Dandy. Long may it continue to flourish,  for the innocent pleasure and  delight of  children everywhere.’

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A unique and joyous occasion:-

Today, Wednesday, 22nd August 2012  is a very special day for the Religious Community, the 'Sons of the Most Holy Redeemer' (F.SS.R) also known as the 'Transalpine Redemptorists', based at Golgotha Monastery, Papa Stronsay, Orkney.

                                 

          R.C.Diocese of Aberdeen - Coat of Arms


'Invitation to the Public Profession of Vows of the Fathers and Brothers of the
Congregation of the Sons of the Most Holy Redeemer.

We have the joy of announcing to you that our communities in Papa Stronsay and Christchurch have been canonically recognised as a Clerical Institute of Diocesan Right and now form an officially recognised Religious Order. After consultation with the Holy See in Rome, the Decree of our Canonical Erection was issued on 15 August, 2012 by Dom Hugh Gilbert, O.S.B., the Bishop of Aberdeen. In consequence of this recognition, as a new Religious Order we invite you to our public profession of religious vows to be made before the Bishop of Aberdeen. The Profession Ceremony of the above will be held at 6.15 p.m. on Wednesday 22nd August, 2012, in Our Lady’s Chapel, Stronsay.'

Signed:   

Fr. Michael Mary, F.SS.R.        Fr. Anthony Mary, F.SS.R.

Br. Yousef Marie, F.SS.R.          Br. Jean Marie, F.SS.R.

Br. Magdala Maria, F.SS.R.       Br. Martin Mary, F.SS.R.

Br. Nicodemus Mary, F.SS.R.    Br. Gerardo Maria, F.SS.R.

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Ave Maria, gratia plena,

Dominus tecum,

Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

Et benedictus fructus ventris tui,

Jesus.

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,

Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,

Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae,

Amen.

'The Twelve Men' by G.K.Chesterton

 
 The following sketch was one of many written by G.K. Chesterton in the early 1900’s, and published  in the ‘Daily News’ national newspaper. They were subsequently printed in book form by Sheed and Ward, New York, in 1955, under the title ‘Tremendous Trifles’.  In today’s world, the suggestion that juries are inadequate and counter-productive for the efficient administration of justice, and should be done away with, is regularly put forward by those of a certain mind-set. It is interesting to read Chesterton’s view on this, remembering that he wrote this article more than 100 years ago. The world has changed since then, but not people.
                                               
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                  Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936)


         ‘The Twelve Men’   by  G.K.Chesterton

'The other day, while I was meditating on morality and Mr H.Pitt, I was, so to speak, snatched up and put into a jury box to try people.  The snatching took some weeks, but to me it seemed something sudden and arbitrary.  I was put into this box because I lived in Battersea, and my name began with a ‘C’.  Looking round me, I saw that there were also summoned and in attendance in the court whole crowds and processions of men, all of whom lived in Battersea, and all of whose names began with a ‘C’.
 
It seems that they always summon jurymen in this sweeping alphabetical way.  At one official blow, so to speak, Battersea is denuded of all its ‘C’s, and left to get on with it as best it can with the rest of the alphabet.  A Cumberpatch is missing from one street – a Chizzolpop from another- three Chucksterfields from Chucksterfield House; the children are crying out for an absent Cadgerboy;  the woman at the corner is weeping for her Coffintop, and will not be comforted. 

We settle down with a rollicking ease into our seats (for we are a bold, devil-may-care race, the 'C’s of Battersea), and an oath is administered to us in a totally inaudible manner by an individual resembling an army surgeon in his second childhood.  We understand, however, that we are to well and truly try the case between our sovereign lord the King and the prisoner at the bar, neither of whom has put in appearance as yet.
 
Just when I was wondering whether the King and the prisoner were, perhaps, coming to an amicable understanding in some adjoining public-house, the prisoner’s head appears above the barrier of the dock; he is accused of stealing bicycles, and he is the living image of a great friend of mine. We go into the matter of the stealing of the bicycles.  We do well and truly try the case between the King and the prisoner in the affair of the bicycles.  And we come to the conclusion, after a brief but reasonable discussion, that the King is not in any way implicated. 

Then we pass on to a woman who neglected her children, and who looks as if somebody or something had neglected her. And I am one of those who fancy that something had.
 
All the time that the eye took in these light appearances and the brain passed these light criticisms, there was in the heart a barbaric pity and fear which men have never been able to utter from the beginning, but which is the power behind half the poems of the world. The mood cannot even inadequately be suggested, except faintly by this statement that tragedy is the highest expression of the infinite value of human life.  Never had I stood so close to pain; and never so far away from pessimism.  Ordinarily, I should not have spoken of these dark emotions at all, for speech about them is too difficult,  but I mention them now for a specific and particular reason to the statement of which I will proceed at once.

I speak of these feelings because out of the furnace of them there came a curious realisation of a political or social truth.  I saw with a queer and indescribable kind of clearness what a jury really is, and why we must never let it go.
 
The trend of our epoch up to this time has been consistently towards socialism and professionalism.  We tend to have trained soldiers because they fight better, trained singers because they sing better, trained dancers because they dance better, specially instructed laughers because they laugh better, and so on and so on. The principle has been applied to law and politics by innumerable modern writers.  Many Fabians have insisted that a greater part of our political work should be performed by experts. Many legalists have declared that the untrained jury should be altogether supplanted by the trained Judge.

                'The Jury' (1861) by John Morgan


Now if this world of ours were really what is called reasonable, I do not know that there would be any fault to find with this. But the true result of all experience and the true foundation of all religion is this. That the four or five things that it is most practically essential that a man should know, are all of them what people call paradoxes.  That is to say, that though we all find them in life to be mere plain truths, yet we cannot easily state them in words without being guilty of seeming verbal contradictions.  One of them, for instance, is the un-impeachable platitude that the man who finds most pleasure for himself is often the man who least hunts for it. Another is a paradox of courage; the fact that the way to avoid death is not to have too much aversion to it.
 
Now, one of these four or five paradoxes which should be taught to every infant prattling at his mother’s knee, is the following:  ‘That the more a man looks at a thing, the less he can see it, and the more a man learns a thing, the less he knows it.' The Fabian argument of the expert, that the man who is trained should be the man who is trusted, would be absolutely unanswerable if it were really true that a man who studied a thing and practiced it every day went on seeing more and more of its significance.  But he does not.  He goes on seeing less and less of its significance. In the same way, alas, we all go on every day, unless we are continually goading ourselves into gratitude and humility, seeing less and less of the significance of the sky or the stones.
 
Now, it is a terrible business to mark a man out for the vengeance of men.  But it is a thing to which a man can grow accustomed, as he can to other  terrible things; he can even grow accustomed to the sun.  And the horrible thing about all legal officials, even the best,  about all judges, magistrates, barristers, detectives, and policemen,  is not that they are wicked (some of them are good), not that they are stupid (several of them are quite intelligent), it is simply that they have got used to it.
 
Strictly they do not see the prisoner in the dock; all they see is the usual man in the usual place. They do not see the awful court of judgement; they only see their own workshop.  Therefore, the instinct of Christian civilisation has most wisely declared that into their judgments there shall upon every occasion be infused fresh blood and fresh thoughts from the streets.  Men shall come in who can see the court and the crowd, and coarse faces of the policemen and the professional criminals, the wasted faces of the wastrels, the unreal faces of the gesticulating counsel, and see it all as one sees a new picture or a ballet hitherto unvisited.
 
Our civilisation has decided, and very justly decided, that determining the guilt or innocence of men is a thing too important to be trusted to trained men.  It wishes for light upon that awful matter, it asks men who know no more law than I know, but who can feel the things I felt in the jury box.  When it wants a library catalogued, or the solar system discovered, or any trifle of that kind, it uses up its specialists.  But when it wishes anything done which is really serious, it collects twelve of the ordinary men standing round. The same thing was done, if I remember right, by the Founder of Christianity.'
      
‘Tremendous Trifles' by GK Chesterton.

'Christ addressing the eleven remaining Apostles, after His Resurrection' by Duccio di Buoninsegna (1255-1318)

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'Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God' - Sermon on the Mount

'May Our Blessed Lady guide and protect our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI'