from this ground
By Michael Luntley, Sep 23 2019 11:35AM
Full text of from this ground concert...
from this ground
Michael Luntley
approx 45 mins set
ensemble: male vocal 1 with guitar/banjo/mandola, female vocal, violin; poet
narration: the sense of place, the idea of knowing your place (not as
position in the social order, but knowing the place that gives root,
shape and purpose) this sense of place has long been both
powerful and awkward
1 song: ‘from this ground’ – ensemble
from this ground I have come
it’s where I’ll return
when time is no longer my friend
and all things come back, their beginnings, their ends
to take rest and peace from this ground
from this ground some are broke
cut loose with no hope
for two shilling more they gather the county all round
as the union gives shout, the owners lock out
the hungry and wretched who come from this ground
from this ground some have left
precariously adrift
across the sea and the deep ocean’s sound
to sweat and to toil on other folks’ soil
to raise coffee and beef from this ground
from this ground we’ll not be barred
by hedge or force hard
it is ours to nurture and ours to mend
for the pain and the spillage, the gouging and tillage
the scars we’ll erase from this ground
from this ground we strike out
with a march and a shout
the future’s a palace, ours to be found
we’ll take it and name it, dress it and frame it
and claim it for those from this ground
from this ground we draw song
and we’ll dance all night long
in the company of kin, stranger and friend
all who’ve not forgotten we stand here in common
bondage and root to this ground
from this ground I have come
it’s where I’ll return
when time is no longer my friend
and all things come back, their beginnings, their ends
to take rest and peace from this ground
© sheepdipmusic 2018
2
2 poetry: Home
narration: dislocation of place and belonging had begun with enclosures, it
was one of the key conflicts that powered John Clare’s poetry.
This next song, ‘tresspass’ starts with some of Clare’s words
3 song: ‘trespass’ male vocal
he dreaded walking where there was no path
and cautious pressed the meadow swath
always turned to look with wary eye
feared the owner coming by…
teacher fears to act outwith the script
the measured task and box to tick
medic prods, prescribes, no time to care
too many to see, move from here to there
our commons of learning and of health
enclosed and farmed to harvest wealth
care and imagination elbowed out
by profit’s trough and banker’s snout
with clever hedge you built your funds
and left us bound in want where we had run
once freely no distinction marked
on common land in common heart
tresspass not this land, these precious lots
with statute hard and greedy plots
what once was common we will roam again
with rhythm, rhyme and pulse reclaim
and might you in turn now fear to tresspass
where we meet to sing and with heart rehearse
how to know our place in common and to be
by such common bondage then set free
with hope we walk where there is no path
imagination cuts our merry swath
we’ll level your hedge, trespass erased
and reclaim once more to know well our place.
© sheepdipmusic 2017
narration: grain imports, falling prices and rising mechanisation…in the
1870s agricultural labourers were near destitute. Following local
rallies across Warwickshire and the rest of the middle England
shires, the agricultural labourers’ union began at a mass meeting
in Wellesbourne, February 1872.
4 poem
A labourer listens to Joseph Arch outside the Stag’s Head pub, 7th February 1872
When he was a boy he had listened
to the Gospel, the feeding of the five
thousand. Instead of praying, had tried
to imagine such a river of people, bodies
close together, wide as seething water, deep
as sea. Tonight, despite the spindling wet
he thinks he might have found another
Bethesda, standing in this stream now, he
waits for a different miracle. He can’t see
or hear Joseph Arch from where he stands –
it doesn’t matter. The man under the tree
is an unlikely messiah, dressed in black,
a crow-scarer. His words will ripple like
fish to feed him, through mouths of other
men. Joseph doesn’t walk on water but brings
promise of something better. He has toiled
miles to hear this man, had set off when
morning was a tight dark fist, the ache
in his bones a far off-distance he knew
he would meet later on. Night is anvil-black
but the lantern-lit crowd looms, having
spilled from farms and common land, swaying
and swelling to this mighty ocean. The speech
beats the air and the bare branches bend back
translating small drops to weighted iron.
He feels change coming, as if the world
could belong to men like him, like they belong
to early mornings and hard soil and the scythe.
Men do not need to be carrion, stripped of their
land. The meek will inherit the earth.
© Olga Dermott Bond 2019
5 song: ‘it doesn’t add up’ ensemble
It doesn’t add up (polka 2/2)
chorus
It doesn’t add up, it doesn’t add up
A slice of bread is never enough
For a day in the field, with a scythe to wield
Oh no, it doesn’t add up
(man)
twelve bob a week is all I get
six on rent and candles, fuel and clothes
six left to feed the seven of us
ten pence a day – it doesn’t add up
chorus
(woman)
it’s 3/6 for a stone of flour & baking
we each get 14oz of bread a day
that’s 3½ ozs at each meal
when your belly’s not full - it doesn’t add up
chorus
(man)
and farmer says he’s not making any money
he started with two hundred now he’s strapped for cash
but it’s 1200 guineas when he sells an heifer
and he rides a fine hunter – it doesn’t add up
chorus
(man)
I ‘eard Arch in whitnash, says it’s bad out west
in Hereford they’re only on 7 bob a week
2 months with no meat, just bread dipped in cider
it addles your brain – when it doesn’t add up
chorus
unions sprang up all around the county
100 joined in Cubbington, Stretton too
same in Harbury, Kenilworth and Whitnash
then 2,000 in Wellesbourne, that’s how it adds up
chorus
that’s how it adds up, that’s how it adds up
when a slice of bread isn’t enough
for a day in the field with a scythe to wield
oh no, it doesn’t add up
(woman)
Sometimes I have a little dream….
Of how I think my life would be
If I could get the things we need
Just the basics, nothing fancy for me
(woman, spoken, music stops)
flour and baking for a week 3/6
meat for five on three days 2/8
coarse meat for the rest a shilling would do
the three what go to school is thrupence well spent
2 hundred weight of coal 1/6
tea, coffee and sugar, the same again
soap, starch, soda and blue is just a tanner
a tanner more would cover the candle flame
2/6 for clothes - five at 6 pence each
and if I dare I’d put 4d in the sick club
and then there’s the rent – at least one more bob
that’s fifteen shillings and thrupence
the very bare
me man’s only asked for sixteen, at present he’s on 12
wouldn’t it be great, but it doesn’t add up
chorus
(man) twelve bob a week is all I get
in Hereford they're only on 7 bob a week
(woman) sometimes I have a little dream
wouldn’t it be great
(all) but it doesn’t add up
chorus
© sheepdipmusic 2019
6 poem
The Leave Campaign, 1872, 2016
“Such, Sir, after a careful examination is the history of this unfortunate proceeding which has
brought misery and death on so many of her Majesty’s subjects”
Concluding comment from Mr Phipps to Mr Mathew, “Respecting the conditions of British
Emigrants in Brazil.” Rio de Janeiro, February 17th, 1873
Presented to Parliament in 1874
No. This is not the first time. Such
glittering lies to tell. 1872: “Sir,
listen to me: after
you have sold everything a
better life awaits, we have taken careful
measures and a full examination
of your new life in Brazil has been taken and is
found to be sufficient. Men leave. 2016. The
story is acted out again, another history
retold by a man in front of an empty red bus, stories of
350 million pounds that will come pouring in - if this
sceptred isle severs its own life blood. Unfortunate
believers still hungry in fields, in streets, proceeding
to leave, looking for something better which
of course was – and is - a hall of cracked mirrors which has
brought
misery
to those who travelled from Liverpool and
to those who wait here for some lost glory, impaled on the death
of an imagined Empire, whilst Mr Alsopp and Mr Johnson bring on
propaganda like a dancing girl, knowing that to do so
is to create a stage strewn with broken glass. How many
promises will bleed out on barren land, will speak of
a different tomorrow when already Thomas Fell’s wife is long dead, her
son buried with small pox, her Majesty’s
government has no answers now to their lost subjects?
© Olga Dermott Bond 2019
6
narration: for many agricultural labourers the only escape from poverty was
migration and that could mean far far away….. In 1872 each issue
of the Leamington Chronicle carried an advert from the Brazilian
Consulate in Liverpool offering free passage to work on coffee
and beef farms. As ever, the desperate plight that leads folk to
undertake long dangerous migrations often starts with hope, but
ends in tragedy.
7 song: ‘carry us away’
chorus:
Tom Alsop calls from atop his cart
will you come or will you stay
there’s a ship in Liverpool ready to depart
ready for to carry us away
with yankee grain so cheap it was hard to keep
to old ways upon this land
but the Brazilians offered free passage and a plot
so their agent had us understand
Stanton & Sheasby they were mates of his
Tom Alsop was his name
he lead them off from Napton-on-the-hill
for the ship that would carry them away
chorus
they landed in Rio stopped a week or two
then to the hills of Cananea far away
soil was so poor nothing much would grow
but it was here they were meant to stay
in Rio smallpox got a hold on some
lack of food soon took its toll
many now sleep in foreign soil
hope & hunger carried them away
Will Stanton petitioned for all to return
sought out the emperor, but with no joy
at his wife’s behest he jumped a ship to home
left her with their little boy
she wrote to her parents to defend her Will
bid them listen to what he had to say
so that others would not share her little boy’s fate
the smallpox had carried him away
chorus
A meeting was called in Napton at the Crown
Friday night they gathered tight, like in a pen
to hear returning Stanton give the case
against Alsop the Brazilians’ man
but Stanton failed to show his face
some said he was threatened, told to stay away
Alsop was left to harangue the local press
and the crowd got carried away
but the very next day a letter was received
from Tom Sheasby in Cananea
telling of the troubles and the hunger and the ills and the deaths
of those who’d been taken there
he said Alsop admitted the place was no good
tho’ he’d fill another ship at Liverpool quay
of desperate folk and their families
ready to be carried away
chorus
six more days, another Friday came
and Stanton appeared at the Crown
he told them fine detail of all that he had seen
of what their kin over there had found
he’d picked up portuguese and had learnt so much
they marvelled at the detail he did tell
and after an hour & half many thought he spoke the truth
and Tom Alsop could go to hell
chorus
© sheepdipmusic 2019
Narration: sometimes, migration was more local…to the city, whether close
by or to the large industrial cities of the north where
manufacturing was king
8 song: ‘leaving Warwickshire fields’ ensemble
leaving warwickshire fields (6/8 jig)
chorus
we’re going up north to find the work at making things I’ll try my part
not tending crops in the mud and the dirt,
leaving warwickshire fields, can’t wait to start
We’ll have a house of brick and slated roof all stood in a line
Running water everywhere, and I don’t mean down the street
A brick privy out the back, that's got to be so fine
And you’ll never believe but near everyday, we’ll get to eat the meat
Chorus
I’ll labour hard up at mill, that’s how I’ll make me way
p’raps I’ll get some training and become a skilled hand
and if I’m smart I’ll progress, up the ladder up the scale
and our house will have gas lighting, now wouldn’t that be grand
Chorus
The machines all run on steam up there, they go terrible fast
And those that work to maintain ‘em, command an handsome wage
It’s the industry of making, the mills of England they will last
I’m for a life in the city, it’s a shiny bright new age
Chorus
There’s a group of lads from Napton south amerikay bound
The Brazilians paid their passage to go labouring on their land
They’ll have sun and sea and sangria, festivals in the town
If it turns out Sheffield ain’t up to much, I might follow that happy band
chorus
Jacky’s come back to Warwickshire, says up north’s is not for him
The noise, the heat, the dust and soot, it’s far too mucky up there
He missed the peace and open fields, he couldn’t stand the din
Well I love these fields but the empty belly I simply cannot bear
Chorus
It’s time to leave for the future lass, don’t dither we have to go
I’m off to make a better life, we gotta make a start
But when I get to be rich and grand I want you all to know
It’s hard to leave these warwickshire fields, it’s where I leave my heart
Yes, it’s hard to leave these warwickshire fields,
Ieaving warwickshire fields, it’ll break my heart.
© sheepdipmusic 2019
9 poem
The song of sea and sand
“No one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than land”
Father of Syrian boy Alan Kurdi, whose body was washed up on the Turkish coast.
For centuries, people have listened to the creak
and shudder of boats not built for long journeys –
he lies on pale sand how any toddler sleeps, face
down, limbs slack, feet turning in just a little –
rafts or dinghies not designed to carry so many
souls and scars and nightmares and hopes.
I can hardly bring myself to look at the photo:
his body perfect and peaceful and drowned.
There is no going back, the horizon swallows
language and family and familiar streets until –
a Turkish policeman can’t look at what he carries,
a shock of tenderness on his face, silent as prayer
the songs of women and children’s names
drift like bones along too many seabeds,
as if he knows already he will forever dream
the lightness of a child’s corpse in his hands.
having called out their homes to the winds
no papers, no place to mark the spot
the tide brushes away any trace too easily of this
boy that never got to run through yellow fields
they just wanted to be safe, to tread on dry
land, to call somewhere other than water
home.
© Olga Dermott Bond 2019
narration: Migrants develop their own culture. Contemporary migrant
culture on the Mediterranean crossing includes the practice of
calling out your name and your village when a boat goes down.
With no proper papers, it’s the only chance that someone might
remember you were there. The next song is called ‘Johanna’.
She set off with others in an inadequate boat nine months
pregnant. When thrown into the water, she was also thrown into
labour. Neither survived. If we can’t give strangers life, we at
least owe them their name….
10 song: ‘johanna’ male vocal
when the waters broke high over your head
it was hard to hear all of the things that were said
a last naming of self and the places of home
cries in the darkness to not be left alone?
or just calls to all of those who were near
to be witness, to remember, you were here?
when the waters broke over the little one’s head
no light flooded in, just darkness instead
no air rushed with a cry to fill out new lungs
washed in salt water before first breath begun
with no nurse to untangle the cord
at life’s first border she stayed an alien abroad
when the waters swirled and swallowed that boat
it n’er touched the conscience of those with the vote
who refused to suffer the children to be free
from their wars, for they fear they’ll swamp you and me
but this boat is not full, the idea is absurd
that a few strangers might wash our life overboard
when the waters broke high over your head
none heard your call to take the names of the dead
but of those who survived, one was the father of the child
his hand torn from yours in waters bitter, dark and wild
now he calls in his briny frustration
johanna, johanna, johanna, johanna, johanna, etritrean for congratulations
© sheepdipmusic 2016
11 2 poems
A different story:
In a different story there is enough room on the boat
In a different story the sea is calm
In a different story no one is scared of water
In a different story politicians make up beds in their spare rooms
In a different story mothers keep their wedding rings
In a different story the drowned get to dance
In a different story borders are open arms
In a different story the only thing to capsize is
children’s laughter
© Olga Dermott Bond 2019
Hyetal
We came here in a boat
flimsy as a broken umbrella –
my beautiful children wept,
their bright souls treading water.
We waited while governments
sent slow shuddering telegrams,
siphoned shifting promises
as long as the horizon, as hard
to reach. Belonging seemed
a slow, silent dream. Where
we are and where we could be
was fathomless: but now we are
Here. My children run to
school through splashing
singing puddles, pavements
laugh silver, like new oceans.
© Olga Dermott Bond
narration: knowing our place, where we belong, need not exclude others
from also knowing their place with us, place can be common..
12 song: ‘reprise of last 3 verses – ‘from this ground’ ensemble
from this ground we strike out
with a march and a shout
the future’s a palace, ours to be found
we’ll take it and name it, dress it and frame it
and claim it for those from this ground
from this ground we draw song
and we’ll dance all night long
in the company of kin, stranger and friend
all who’ve not forgotten we stand here in common
bondage and root to this ground
from this ground I have come
it’s where I’ll return
when time is no longer my friend
and all things come back, their beginnings, their ends
to take rest and peace from this ground
© sheepdipmusic 2018
All lyrics and music © michael luntley, sheepdipmusic
All poetry © Olga Dermott Bond 2019
Michael luntley, vocals, guitars, banjo, mandola; Maura Barnett, violin; Nicky Luntley, vocals;
Olga Dermott Bond, poetry.
With thanks to Leamington Library for hosting this. All money raised from this evening is
going to the homeless nightshelter: LWS nightshelter.
2 October 2019