This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

 

Mum and Dad, 1959

 
   My christening, October 1964.

  

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

Charles and Fanny King, my mum's parents, late 1920s/early 1930s.

Ruth Dennis, Charles' mother (1850-1884).

She died when my grandad was only 3 years old.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

1907, gathering with field guns on a piece of land amusingly named Monk's Knob.

My dad is one of the kids, aged 7.

Middle sis cuddling me on my parents' bed, 1964.

 Me, 1965.

Familes, eh?

They're all pretty odd, in their own ways.

I don't suppose I am any more fucked up than anyone else, and I certainly don't blame my parents for whatever fucked-uppery I do exhibit. They did their best, as most parents do, with the resources (emotional, intellectual, economic, cultural) available to them.

In case you are wondering, my dad was 25 years older than my mum, he was technically a Victorian, born in 1900, and 64 when I was born. He died in 1980.

I didn't follow that old curmudgeon Larkin's advice about not having any kids myself, though it did take me a while to decide to do so.

Doubtless I am busily fucking them up, despite the best of intentions, but I'm hoping they will look back with affectionate compassion at their parents' foibles and follies. As I do.

 Sisters, 1965

Siblings, 2013.

My mum is quite the dark horse, she has taken part in an oral history project about her experiences as a Land Girl - you can listen to her here.

  

I don't think I am a shadow of my ancestors. Not in a Who Do You Think You Are? way. You know, when some actress finds out great-great-grandad liked to sing in the pub, and exclaims "That must be where my performing skills come from!"

 But I am the product of my upbringing. My parents, the times I lived in, my relationships, and my experiences, they all had an influence. However, I can make some choices, I'm not a passive recipient of the past.

 Oliver James' book, They F*** You Up, is a robust apologia of nuture and environment as the key shaper of personality. It's an interesting read.

 As a slight aside, I had a discussion about This Be The Verse with Seldom Seen last term.

He had been given a homework assignment to write a poem. The teacher had said the poem needn't rhyme, but that the subject should be something "nice", described in beautiful language.

SSK had his head in his hands. He didn't know what to write about, and was worried he wouldn't use the right words.

This annoyed me. Not him; the whole idea that poetry should be all flowery language, describing something beautiful.  So I showed him This Be The Verse. (We aren't worried about swear words in our house; just as long as they know not to say them at school. Or in front of Grandma.)

 I love This Be The Verse - it's provocative, funny, honest, angry, compassionate, daft, insightful. It references tradition and structure, but plays with them for comic and psychological effect. Simple. Clever. Effective.

(Edited to add; SSK eventually wrote a poem in which he imagined he was a boy gladiator, going into the ring, terrified, ready to fight for his life. His opponent? The seven times tables. I thought it was quite good! He obviously gets it from me....)

Look at Fanny's fabulous frock!

My recollections of my Grandma are of a quiet old lady. But by all accounts, she was quite the performer, a good singer and a great dancer. 

If I could meet her now, I think I would like her.

I hope she would like me.

xxxxxxx