PORTRAIT OF A MYSTIC.
(First published in The Science of Thought Review, later ‘New Vision’)
I doubt whether many of you will ever have heard of Derek
Neville who died in 1976 and I doubt whether Derek ever heard of many
of the major Indian mystics. Though on a rare trip to London Derek
found himself looking directly into the eyes of Mahatma Ghandi who
happened to be passing in a ministerial car. Derek was a lover of the
mystical poets and they were his gurus. Who knows what he may have made
of someone like, for instance, Ram Dass. But I know that the mystic of
mystics lived within this great poet and human being.
This is my story of our friendship:
The letter read: "Come and visit me for a few days in
Itteringham. We can talk. I enclose five pounds for petrol." Derek
Neville and I began to write to each other after I wrote and told him
how much I had enjoyed his new collection of poems: BREAKING THROUGH.
He wrote back and kind of guessed that I was a poet too and
invited me to send him some stuff. I knew at the time that he was just
being kind to a young writer but his reaction to my work was more than I
could ever imagine. "I do not hand out praise lightly," he wrote,
"but......." and he went on to tell me that I had 'moved him', or words
to that effect. Later he was to have published my collection of poems:
THE COMING OF THE GIANTS. But he upped and died very soon after his
wife Mary, had passed.
The little time I spent at Itteringham Mill with Derek and his
wife Mary was a time of tea, toast, talk, honey and scones. Peace hung
on the trees like blossom and each corner of the Mill was just a poem
away from inspiration (Inspiration, incidentally, was the title of a
magazine that Derek edited). I spoke often to Derek's life-long pal
Mary Wooler who lived with Derek and Mary. I remember that she took on
my pet phrase-of-the-moment:' a small eternity'. If we touched on anything remotely to do with the 'infinite' we called it a 'small eternity'.
Later we were to write to each other for a couple of years after Derek
left the world. I and Jenny Porcas, an oboe player and another close
friend of Derek, went and saw her just before she died at a Quakers
Retreat somewhere: she lived in a small flat and we visited her there. I
recently worked with Jenny in Chichester Cathedral where she was doing
a recital and I was asked to introduce her and her pianist partner to
an enthralled audience. We still spoke of Derek! (Later on we worked
again together at Bangor Catherdal, I reading my poems and she playing
oboe)
By now you'll be wondering what I'm prattling on about. Derek
Neville was the only mystic that I ever met in the flesh, at least at
the time. Here was a man who could sink down into a meadow and BECOME
the meadow. Here a man who could tumble out of the throat of a bird
disguised as a song. Here a man who was lost in the midst of nature yet
was never alone. Here a man whose poetry gushed from him like a river.
Here a man who was a man for all that. I remember his story of the
bird who came in through his window and sat on his typewriter filling
the room with its song, a song that rang in his heart and produced yet
another poem.
"I need to write at least two thousand words a day, Paul; I NEED to
do that." Whilst I stayed with him he worked every morning in a corner
of the Mill's restaurant with the bustle of waitress and punter. Always
there in case he was needed and grumbling a little when pulled away
from his work to scrape burnt scrambled-egg from the bottom of a pan!
There was a room filled with his books on sale, books that were
reprinted and reprinted time and time again. Here was a man that had
gone and lived with the 'down and outs' for a year, selling pen and ink
poems from door to door for sixpence. It was there, down amongst the
filth and grime that he saw God glowing in the dark faces of his fellow
travelers. He saw it too in those that responded with tea and a
biscuits. He never quite knew again the comradeship that he felt with
these fellows who did more with a piece of newspaper than just read it!
That year he spent was rich and dripping with God. He starved and went
thirsty and the more he saw the more he grew closer to the Infinite.
This was a rich vein of experience that he would draw on for the rest
of his life. I admit that I was never a fan of his rhyming poetry,
though he was a master of it, but felt more at home with his Free Verse
and beautiful stories like HONKEY, the story of a Grey Lag goose that
was found injured at Itteringham Mill where Derek nursed it back to
health. Though Honkey never flew again he became the master, next to
Derek, of Itteringham Mill and every duck, goose or swan knew their
place, knew who was governor, respected this cheeky, arrogant but
beautiful bird. Honkey eventually found a mate to share his life:
Honey. This golden goose stole his heart. Their offspring grace the
Mill to this day. Derek's love of nature and the Infinite knew no
bounds. He was a Devic Master in disguise. His spirit was the spirit of
the Earth. He 'knew' Her so well.
The letter flopped down on the mat. One from Derek, the other
from Mary Wooler telling me that Derek was dead. At the same time I
found a bird trapped in our kitchen, hurling itself at the window, bent
on freedom no matter what the cost. I opened the window and watched as
it grabbed freedom with both wings. A poem for Derek came thick and
fast and the final draught typed within half an hour.
I was determined to get to the funeral and my mother and sister
Josie also expressed the wish to go. The real journey to Itteringham
Mill in Norfolk began on a golden day in summer. I planned to pick up
Josie in Canterbury then straight on to the Blackwall Tunnel and off to
Norfolk. Things just didn't work out. I left in plenty of time but
there was some strange spanner-in-the-works. Firstly, I got stuck at
some lights for I5 MINUTES near Canterbury. Realizing the lights were
faulty (which dawned on me nearly twenty minutes later) I ploughed on
to pick up Josie. This done we were off again. After leaving the
Blackwall Tunnel I followed the signs to Norwich.....but ended up
going in the wrong direction. How signs could turn themselves round
I've no idea but this happened twice. When we were REALLY sure we were
on the right road the red warning light went up on my oil gauge. Now I
had filled up with petrol and oil before the journey. What now? I
stopped at a garage and filled up with oil and set off again at a pace.
Twenty miles on the red light went on again. I couldn't believe it.
Again I filled up with oil. By now time was seriously running low.
After more oil stops I arrived in Norwich. Again signs pointed in the
wrong direction. By now I was desperate. I had to ask someone for
directions to Itteringham. I spotted a lady in her front garden and
asked her whether she could help. With a broad smile and a 'yes' she
popped into her house to get a map.
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, just as I was about to drive off, she
re-appeared with a piece of paper with exact directions. We thanked her
hurriedly and belted off at warp-speed!
When we arrived the service was all over. The church was filled
with trapped birds waiting for release from the vicar or verger or
whatever. We walked back out into the sunshine. The grave-diggers were
at work. I remember the sound of earth on wood. The many flowers told
us that this was Derek's resting place, well at least for the physical
body that he took on for this time round. We paid our respects and
left.
I wanted to take mother and Josie to the Mill for tea. I wanted
to show them the beauty of the place, the peace of the place, the place
where once lived a mystic that I knew who wrote poetry that tore my
heart out. I needed to do this.
We arrived. The place was much the same, though in different
hands now. The ducks and geese and swans were still there, the jumping
fish were still there, most of the magic was still there. No longer a
place for Derek's books, mind you. We took our seat and ordered tea and
cakes. I asked the waitress if there was a village garage who might be
able to look at my car, there was no way we could get home otherwise.
The oil-light was on all the time! She told us that there was and
pointed out the way.
We sat and drank tea and eat out cakes whilst I talked of Derek
and Itteringham Mill. We were just three people, there were perhaps two
other tables occupied but that was all. My real disappointment was
that I had planned to read my poem for Derek at the service. I had
asked Mary Wooler if that was okay to which she replied yes. I really
wanted to do that. I lent back in my chair. Suddenly there was a
distinct two taps on my shoulder! I turned round expecting to see a
friend of Derek's that I might have met during my other visit. There
was no-one there! My mother and sister looked at me in surprise. There
was nobody else any where near me. I 'knew' immediately who it was. It
was Derek. It was Derek letting me know that it was okay, letting me
know that he was there that HE was okay.
We arrived at the small garage and the mechanic agreed to look
at my car. After a few minutes of scrambling around under the vehicle
he told me that the rocker-box was missing and that was why I was
loosing so much oil, my car was a VW Beetle and are not something you
just happen to have around. You have to order them and they take a
couple of days to arrive! Then the mechanic told me that -
coincidentally - he knew of two old VW engines in a back-garden
somewhere 2O miles away. And what is more he would get on his motor-bike
and go and get me the much needed rocker-box! What was going on here?
Suddenly everything was being reversed. Things were working out.
Off went our trusty and oil-stained mechanic who returned in just over
an hour. The rocker-box was fitted in ten minutes flat and filled with
oil(again).The mechanic couldn't understand for the life of him how
the rocker-box had come loose because the other one that he fitted went
on as tight as a drum. He was truly puzzled. The amount he charged was
minimal and we set off back home....without a hitch!
I never found out why we
experienced what we did only that I'm glad it happened. My collection
of poems that Derek was to have published were accepted by Derek's
publisher of BREAKING THROUGH (Mitre Press) and this was my first slim
volume in hardback. I never got to read my poem for Derek but I added
it to the collection of THE COMING OF THE GIANTS and dedicated the book
to him. Who else?
Derek’s poem was first published in I976 by THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT REVIEW, (a magazine to which Derek regularly contributed.)
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