A Christmas Poem

Sandra Maggs

Twas the night before Christmas, when all over the world

Parents were trying to bribe boys and girls

The cattle were lowing in a manger somewhere

In hopes that Santa Claus soon would be there;

The children were standing at windows to peep

Saying over and over I can’t get to sleep

With Mum in the kitchen and Dad in the pub

I lay there thinking of Xmas day grub

When in to my room on the tiniest breeze

Came the slightest sound of a feverish sneeze

I went to the window and stared into the night

On the rooftop next door I noticed a light

I crept from my room and into the hall

Down the stairs and out through the front door

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver who looked very sick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

"Hey Santa, what’s wrong?" I called to the man

And he beckoned to me with a slight wave of hand

"I’m sorry my dear I have a bad cold

My head is so sore and I’m just feeling old

I know that on me the kids all rely

But tonight I’m afraid I don’t want to fly"

"I’ll help you," I said climbing into the sleigh

With Santa beside me I picked up the reigns

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

From the rooftop up high to the top of a wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

So off round the world with the reindeer we flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too

As he shivered we flew from village to town

To deliver the goods that for children, were bound

As we flew through the night I got such a thrill

Even though Santa was terribly ill

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all blotted with ashes and soot;

His eyes—how they watered, his dimples, once merry

His cheeks were all sallow, his nose like a cherry!

"It won’t be much longer Santa," I said

"Just a few more stops and then straight home to bed"

He snuggled right up in his fluffy fine wear

And I smiled to myself because I was there

No one would believe me when I told my saga

They’d say what a shame, Sandra’s gone gaga

When I woke the next morn, on new day so clean

I pondered the night, had it all been a dream?

But tucked in the pocket of my warmest coat

From the jolly old man was a thank you note

A secret for me and one that I’d shield

‘Til this Xmas eve when I decided to yield

That Once upon a time in a wonderful way

Father Christmas was sick and I saved the day

So where ever you are when you read of this plight

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

“Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.”

Angela Carter

 

Just south west of London in the suburb of Brixton, there’s an area not far from the High Street called Angela Carter Close.  It’s not very glamorous and kind of disappointing considering the writer it’s named after. I found the sign on the outside of brick building which houses some sort of electrical source. Right beside the small building, there was a pile of garbage bags and several bins. Not the kind of setting that I imagined for such a talented author.

Street sign on a building in Brixton

Angela Olive Stalker was born in 1940 in the town of Eastbourne. Due to the war Angela was evacuated to Yorkshire to live with her grandmother but she did attend High School in London, after which she worked as a journalist for the Croydon Advertiser. She studied English Literature at the University of Bristol.

In 1960, Angela married Paul Carter but they separated and in 1969 she used the proceeds of her Somerset Maugham award to leave him and relocate to Japan for two years. She continued to write about her experiences and did remarry. The second marriage produced a son.

Carter was a feminist who took a controversial leap by embracing the works of the Marquis de Sade. She recognised within the work, that women had a purpose other than giving birth.  I’m not sure if this is the kind of purpose that women would aspire to, but what the hell.  It was Carter’s recognition and who am I to argue.         

In the British Library there’s a section dedicated to literary legends of England.  Angela Carter is amongst them. Sadly, no photos are allowed in that part of the library.

The Magic Toyshop

 If you’ve never read anything by this amazing woman, then shame on you. Start now. Go and get yourself a copy of one of her books and read it.  I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. I’ve read The Magic Toyshop, which is an incestuous riches to rags story aimed at teenage girls – I think. Usually, when somebody writes something, they write it with an audience in mind and that usually starts with one’s self while imagining if you were a certain age and sex, would you read it? Then you kind of picture someone browsing the shelves of a book store and stumbling across your novel after which they spread the word on how wonderful the work is and you end up winning the Nobel Prize for literature and attend an awesome dinner in Stockholm and perhaps sneak out with a piece of the china place setting they use. This didn’t happen to Angela Carter and I don’t know if she ever had that thought, but I enjoyed the book and one day I’ll read more of her work.

 Carter passed away in 1992, she died of lung cancer and I don’t know where she’s buried.  I’ve tried so hard to find out where her grave is or some sort of memorial besides a street sign on a wall, but there isn’t much at all. At least I found something and I’m hoping that Once upon a time in the future, someone erects a more fitting monument to this amazing lady.

That I can read and be happy while I’m reading, is a great blessing!

Anthony Trollope

Right off the cuff, I am not a true Trollopian. For this I apologise.  Sadly I have only read one of his novels and it didn’t rock my world like some of the books I’ve read, but the author is interesting for more than just his literary works.

Plaque on the house in Montagu Square where
Anthony Trollope once lived

Born in 1815 in London, Anthony Trollope had a miserable childhood.  The schools that he attended were elite and Trollope had no money and no friends.  He was often bullied and even fantasized about suicide. If it wasn’t for his mother Frances becoming a successful writer herself, who knows what might have become of the Trollopes.

The family left London and lived in Belgium for a while and Anthony was offered a commission in an Austrian cavalry regiment, but before taking the post, he had to learn French and German within a year. The resourceful Trollope took a position as an usher in a school so he could learn the languages without any cost. How clever is that. This never came to fruition though because he received an offer of a clerkship in the General Post Office and returned to the UK to accept the position.

For some reason, this guy just couldn’t get his shit together.  He was constantly late for work and unruly. He owed money to a tailor and the debt grew to the extent that the debt collector would visit him at work demanding payments. He actually was very fearful that he would be dismissed.

An opportunity for him to relocate as a postal surveyor’s clerk arose in 1841. It meant a move to Ireland and an escape from the debt collector.  His supervisor jumped at the chance to get rid of him and Trollope was appointed the position.  He thrived in his new environment and became a valid member of staff.

So, to cut this very long story short, you know those red pillar boxes that dot the British urban horizon? Well, Anthony Trollope was responsible for those. They had been considered before, but his report confirmed the necessity and voila – the post box. Bow before its red glory.

Let’s not forget the one novel of his that I’ve read though.  The Warden is the first novel in the Chronicles of Barsetshire and I’m sure the others are just as wonderful. Although, I kind of struggled through it. He has plenty of work and plenty of fans so please, if you haven’t read anything by this amazing man, don’t let me discourage you. You might get right amongst it.

Trollope's grave in Kensal Green Cemetery

Anthony Trollope is buried in Kensal Green cemetery and I’ve been there.  A well-travelled author, he rests in the company of several other great writers that I will introduce you to in the future, but for now let me remind you that Once upon a time in the UK, a great mind delivered a report that made it possible for us to post letters at the end of the road instead of walking miles to the Post Office, and that’s why I love Anthony Trollope because I like to write letters.

In Fair Verona

Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene………….  I know it’s been done before.  In fact, I borrowed if from William Shakespeare.  If you’ve been following my blog, you’ll remember a trip that I took to Stratford-upon-Avon last year where I visited the buildings related to possibly the most famous playwright to ever grace the pages of a book.  This year, my sister and I ventured to Verona, the setting of the greatest love story ever written.  But did Romeo and Juliet really exist?

In fair Verona it seems there were two households at war with each other.  The Capuleti and the Montecchi families were involved in some sort of feud and Giulietta of the Capuleti clan was in love with Romeo Montecchi.  Tracking this pair of star-cross’d lovers down wasn’t very hard, although, if you ask my sister Pauline she’ll tell you the tale of “Romeo’s wall.”

That's me on Juliet's balcony.

Juliet’s house or Casa di Giulietta was one of the first attractions on our list and it was just as I imagined, crowded and cheesy, but nonetheless, intriguing.  By the way, if you’re thinking of writing a letter to Juliet and sticking it to the wall, you’re probably going to end up with a fine.  There are marked post boxes to put your letter in.  I guess not everything you see in the movies is true. So Casa di Giulietta is a real house and you can stand on Juliet’s balcony, look down into the courtyard and just imagine your very own Romeo lurking in the shadows. Kind of creepy, isn’t it?

The sign out the front of Juliet's tomb

A hop, skip and jump away on Via Del Pontiere you’ll find Tomba di Giulietta or Juliet’s tomb. Which I suppose means that she was real, or did they just call it that to cash in on tourism? There is a tomb and it has a big sign out the front of it with her name on, but I’m a little confused by the whole legend.

Juliet's tomb

After walking up and down a street that runs parallel to where Juliet’s house is but a few streets back, after looking at the map, going away and coming back again, I asked a local shop owner where we could find Romeo’s house. It was marked on the map, but it wasn’t until we came across a group of tourists that we realise that we had walked past it at least three times.  The private residence has a signpost outside of it, but other than that, it’s not quite as conspicuous as Juliet’s balcony.



This is Romeo's house and that's the sign post that we walked continuously missed

So, there was a pair of star-cross’d lovers in fair Verona,  but if this is the real ill-fated Romeo and Juliet, where did Shakespeare get his information from? The great William Shakespeare never left the shores of England. Does this mean that the play wasn’t his? Does it add to the Christopher Marlowe conspiracy theory? There are so many questions that I have and they can’t be answered with snippets from movies and second guesses from internet forums.  Can anyone help me?

Anyway, apart from all of the confusion, Verona is a beautiful place to visit and I wrote my letter to Juliet and posted in the box provided for simple tourists who think a dead legend has all the answers to all of the questions on life. It’s almost four weeks since and I still haven’t received a reply, but I’m going to be patient because after standing in Juliet’s courtyard and seeing the busloads of tourists that turned up and the booming Romeo and Juliet industry, I have no doubt that it’s going to take quite some time.

As for the star-cross’d lovers, evidence points to their reality, but I still wonder if Once upon a time in fair Verona a writer by the name of Christopher Marlowe stumbled across this amazing story and told his good friend William Shakespeare knowing that it would break hearts and become the greatest love story ever told, for never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Workers of all lands Unite!

Karl Marx

Earlier this year I took a trip to Romania and ventured into Transylvania stalking a myth created by Bram Stoker.  What I encountered on that not so perilous journey was an eye opening experience that made me think that perhaps I’m much better off than I ever thought I was. Growing up down under, I heard over and over again that Australia is the lucky country. Even coming from a poor background, at least we always had something and if anyone turned up at meal times, there was always room at the table. So as I was saying, in the town of Brasov in Transylvania, lives a humble man by the name of Peter.  He is a little older than me, and I didn’t ask his surname. I spent a few hours listening to him explain what it was like living in Romania and growing up in a Communist State. He told me how difficult it was having nothing and not having the freedom of choice that I had growing up. Their hopes were kept alive by the music of bands like the Beatles and Led Zeppelin and he read books that he could get a hold of and was a big fan of George Orwell. Of course, when it came down to brass tacks and where the blame of such an experience lies, we can kind of guess.

Karl Heinrich Marx was born in 1818 in Trier, Western Germany. Educated to university level he received a doctorate in philosophy in 1841.  In 1943 he travelled with his wife Jenny to Paris where Marx became a revolutionary communist and became friends with Friedrich Engels. After being forced from France, they spent two years in Belgium where they co-authored The Communist Manifesto which has since been recognised as one of the world’s most influential political publications.

Marx brought his family to London in 1849 and was largely supported financially by Engels. It was in London that Marx wrote Das Capital which was meant to reveal the laws of Capitalism. He turned against the Bourgeois and explained the structural contradictions of the social classes.

Dean Street Soho, where Marx lived with his family

When you think about the effects of Communism where everybody shares and the food is rationed fairly – supposedly, and industrial armies are formed for agricultural purposes, you could forgive governments for introducing the concept as such. But, it has more down sides than up and countries such as Romania and Poland have suffered the consequences, even more so after the end in the 80’s, because, at least when you have a ration book you receive some sort of morsel for your family.  It’s the aftermath of Communism - where all of a sudden you have money, which is a pittance and you have to nourish and provide for your family, which sees the people engaged in that constant uphill battle.

Our friend Peter in Brasov wasn’t starving, but he was struggling to make ends meet.  I on the other hand, thought that I was hard done by when I was growing up, but I had at least one pair of jeans and if I couldn’t afford them, I knew that if I saved my money, I could buy some eventually. It’s the choices that Communism took away from these people that hurt more than anything.  They had no rights and only the rich and famous could travel because the government didn’t want the masses to see what it was like over the border. God forbid that someone might start some sort of resistance movement.

Karl Marx had an idea.  He didn’t like capitalism and he thought that his idea might make the world a better place.  In theory, it might have looked good, but it didn’t work.  Where ever you have a government, there’s always capitalism, but not among the working class. They might call it a Communist State, but you can bet your last ration coupon that the guy at the top isn’t lining up for days to grab what he can off the shop shelf. If Marx had realised this, would he still have contributed he work to the world? Of course, he had a voice and he chose to use it.

The Marx tomb at Highgate

In Highgate Cemetery, there is a monument to this radical thinker. It’s not a humble monument, in fact, it sticks out like dogs balls and if you weren’t looking for his grave, you’d find it anyway. It was built in 1954, funded by the Communist Party of Great Britain. It’s a far cry from the not so noticeable marker that was put there in 1895 when just over a handful of mourners attended his funeral. Just like that enormous tomb, his ideas left a sizeable footprint on the world and in 1980 almost one third of the world lived in Communist States. I find it strange that so many could take the work of one man and use his ideas to govern a country. But all ideas have to come from somewhere and this one stemmed Once upon a time in the mind of a man did not want to just understand the world, but change it.

Unrespited, Unpitied, Unrepriev’d

John Milton

I’ve often wondered when I’ve been researching the past lives of the writers that I’m interested in whether or not they were referred to in the proper way.  As I write this, I’m wondering if anyone ever called John Milton, Milts.  Please don’t ask me why I ponder the strange; it just popped into my head.

The blue plaque in Bread St London

Born in 1608 in Bread Street London, John Milton was the son of John Milton and Sarah Jeffrey. Being the son of a successful composer, he was fortunate enough to have his own private tutor after which he studied Latin and Greek at St Paul’s School. Milton attended Christs College Cambridge, graduated in1929 and prepared to become an Anglican priest remaining at Cambridge to achieve his Masters of Arts degree. If you ever have the chance to visit the British Library, there is a commonplace book that charters his development on display.

He dabbled in writing, but as usual for those who were well to do in those times, he also set of on a journey through Europe. His views had already developed through extensive reading and his travel contributed. On religion, he had his own views and didn’t necessarily fit any religious group of the time. Maybe that’s why he gave up on the idea of becoming a priest.

Statue of Milton in St Giles without Gripplegate

Upon his return from the continent, Milton settled in London and began schooling his nephews and later children of the better families. He was also supported by his father’s investments, but still chose to develop the knowledge of others.

In 1642, he visited the Manor House at Forest Hill in Oxfordshire where he courted the daughter of the family. Milton returned to London with his wife Mary and they had four children together. Throughout his life, he was married three times, and although he supported the idea of divorce, his marriages ended in death.

 As the civil war began to brew, Milton started writing political and religious pamphlets. He had radical views on politics too, but these were silenced when he was arrested after the restoration of Charles II. Fined and released, he left the city and lived for the rest of his life in the country.

I haven’t read any of his political or religious pamphlets; I’m more interested in the epic Paradise lost, which was dictated to his daughter as the poet had lost his sight by then. Based on the fall of Adam and Eve, this biblical tale starts off with Satan being banished to hell and Satan being a rebel, decides that he will put his strength into evil. So off he goes to earth and finds Adam and Eve and you know the rest. They eat the forbidden fruit and they’re kicked out of the Garden of Eden – hence, their paradise is lost. They did however have their freedom as prison wasn’t invented then, so they kind of went unpunished for their sins, unless of course, you think about that monthly curse that we women all put up with for a large stretch of our lives. So yeah, if the story of Adam and Eve is true, then thanks God.

Bust and plaque memorial

After some examination of pictures and statues that I’ve had the good fortune to stumble across, I’ve decided that Milton was a miserable looking git. He kind of reminds me of one of those sad looking dogs with the droopy faces. But casting his looks aside, his writing puts him among the ranks of Shakespeare and other English poets that have been mentioned in past blogs. Blake even wrote a poem about Milton and I like it when poets write poems about other poets, makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Throughout his life, Milton stayed strong with his beliefs whatever the consequence, and although I’m not really a fan of religious poetry, I must say that Once up a time in London, a man wrote with the conviction and the courage never to submit or yield until of course, you’ve been fined.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Lewis Carroll

There’s nothing better than getting home from the day’s grind and relaxing with a little literary nonsense. The stuff that is so far-fetched and ridiculous that you know it could never happen, is just the thing after a day of intense thinking and seriousness. Not only does it make you laugh, it kind of helps you to forget the problems of the day.

When I was a lot younger, I loved the books that took me away from reality and into some sort of fantasy world where nothing seemed likely, but I believed it was real because I believed anything was possible.  Now I’m a lot more sensible, I still like to think that those fantasy worlds exist, but I don’t usually tell people.

The Alice Garden - Guildford castle

When Charles Lutwidge Dodson was born in 1832, I’ll bet my last penny that nobody could have foreseen the imaginary world that he would create. In that small Parsonage in Daresbury, his religious family would never have known that this baby was going to create literary nonsense that would delight for centuries.

Christ Church where Dodson attended and Brendan & I
escaped from the tour.

Dodson was schooled at Richmond, Rugby and finally Oxford. (I recently visited Oxford with my son Brendan and we went on the worst (free but you can pay at the end if you liked it) tour of the place possible.  It was so bad that we buggered off before the end so that we wouldn’t feel lousy for not paying.) But let’s get back to our subject. Dodson enjoyed photography and there are numerous references to pictures of children but this is about the books he wrote, not his pictures, and those particular books supposedly began with his meeting the Liddell family in Oxford. There is still some speculation about his heroin Alice and whether or not she was based on Alice Liddell, but either way, the books are amazing.



Down the rabbit hole in Guildford

It all starts when Alice sees a rabbit with a pocket watch hurrying past and follows it down a rabbit hole. What follows after that is an amazing adventure in which Alice grows, shrinks and plays a bizarre game of croquet with the Queen of hearts. She meets creatures such as The Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat and ends with Alice waking up from a dream. 

Alice's Shop Oxford - rumour has it she used to buy sweets
here with her sisters.

When Dodson wrote the book he wrote under the name of Lewis Carroll. The transition from one name to another goes as follows.  Charles Lutwidge translated to Latin is Carolus Ludovicus which in English is Carroll Lewis.  He then reversed the name to come up with the pseudonym Lewis Carroll.  This kind of leads me into the sequel to the first book which of course is, Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There. In the looking glass world it’s the opposite of what’s happening in the real world.  The time of year is winter where it’s snowing outside, but when Alice climbs through the looking glass, it’s a sunny day. This is where we’re introduced to Tweedledum and Tweedledee, The Walrus and The Carpenter and who could forget The Jabberwocky?



The Walrus & The Carpenter - London

Dodson was a genius.  He experimented with words as all writers do and came up with the most incredible names and characters which in my opinion, nobody could ever equal.  There is a lot more to this man than his writing, but that kind of makes him boring to me.  I prefer to imagine him as Lewis Carroll rowing a boat while he tells his story to the Liddell girls.

"The Chestnuts" where he passed away in Guildford

A few weeks before his 66^th birthday, Charles Dodson passed away at his sister’s home “The Chestnuts” in Guildford.  He is now buried at The Mount Cemetery also in Guildford and let me tell you right now, that when the say The Mount, they don’t mean the hill.  It’s quite a climb to the cemetery, but the reward was substantial and the hard work allows me to show you a photo of his grave. 

The grave of Charles Lutwidge Dodson - AKA Lewis Carroll
The Mount Cemetery Guildford

I said earlier that I like the kind of stories that take me into some kind of fantasy land, but I suppose that in some way shape or form, they all do.  None however will ever replace the Alice books as I’ve read them over and over again and I will continue to do so until my eyes fall bleeding from my head. This is the kind of story that I will read to my grandson and hopefully he will enjoy it as much as the Liddell girls did when Once upon a time supposedly in a row boat, Lewis Carroll emerged from the cocoon of Charles Dodson and helped us to believe as many as *six impossible things before breakfast.

*Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

http://www.chch.ox.ac.uk/
http://www.nicholsonspubs.co.uk/thewalrusandthecarpentermonumentlondon/
http://www.visitsurrey.com/things-to-do/guildford-castle-p44413
http://www.aliceinwonderlandshop.co.uk/