Circuses

'For the benefit of Mr. Kite
There will be a show tonight on trampoline
The Hendersons will all be there
Late of Pablo Fanques Fair - what a scene
Over men and horses hoops and garters
Lastly through a hogshead of real fire
In this way Mr. K will challenge the world...
And of course Henry the Horse dances the waltz!'
Lennon & McCartney 1967

My sister was one of those lucky screaming teenagers who attended a Beatles concert at the Indiana State Fairgrounds in 1964. This was the very same venue that I went to see my first and only traditional circus a few years later around the time that For the benefit of Mr. Kite was being recorded. I was about five. If memory serves me correctly, the circus was a three-ringer and what an extravaganza, particularly the elephants and lions. I also remember coming home and standing in my parents’ bedroom and vomiting from the sheer excitement of it all!

I have often wondered what circus this may have been, not what I might have eaten. Was it the Ringling Bros. & Barnum & Bailey’s circus? To satisfy my own curiosity I went on a quest to find out. After spending way too much time on the computer going down various circus rabbit holes, I am now fairly certain it wasn’t the really famous circus. I suspect it could have been Coles Bros., Rex Bros. or Murat’s Shrine Circus, all good contenders. What was made clear as I trawled through cyberspace was that there was quite an extraordinary number of traditional circuses touring the United States and Britain in the 1960s, despite this being the beginning of the end of this popular form of entertainment due to animal rights issues.

Fast forward to 2009 when I was an artist in residence in Blackpool. I had been commissioned to make an artwork in response to researching the archives at the local library and creatively worked with various community groups about their memories of Blackpool. Many participants had memories of seeing elephants on the beach, and one person remembered riding an elephant in the ring.

Elephants on the Beach - Blackpool Central Library Collection

During the residency I also had conversations with business owners, hoteliers, donkey proprietors and those who had been involved with Blackpool’s Tower Circus sharing memories of the clown Charlie Cairoli and ringmaster Norman Barrett. However, they mostly chatted fondly of working with the animals, particularly in the circus’ hey-day of the 1950s and 60s. 

Memory of riding on an elephant at Blackpool Circus circa 1960

Drawing by unknown workshop participant

They also talked about what happened when animal rights bills began to be introduced and the changes that occurred. This led me down another rabbit hole. Here is what I discovered.

In 1635 the first known animal protection legislation was passed in Ireland. Laws were passed during the 1800s and early 1900s in Britain to address issues intensive agricultural issues and animal testing in the science and cosmetic industries.

Then in 1957 Irene Heaton founded Captive Animals’ Protection Agency hoping to bring about change in the attitudes and practices within the entertainment industry. This organisation would later become Freedom for Animals. In Britain, the first bill to prohibit performing animals was put forward to the House of Lords in 1965. It was defeated. The 1970s saw demonstrations by animal rights activists outside circuses. In the 1980s campaigns to stop animals performing at Blackpool Tower began. 1990 saw the animal performances ending at the Tower with the animal acts moving to the Pleasure Beach. Performances continued until 1997 when it was announced that circuses with animals would no longer perform on the property - an end to an era.

On reflection, much has changed in the last fifty years. Attitudes have shifted on both sides of the pond. Living conditions for sentient beings have improved. Yet in this crazy circus of a world, there is still so much to be done. And on that note, I share the following poem written in May/June 2020 when the UK was in serious lockdown whilst considering restrictions, uncertainty, handling of the pandemic (or not) by world leaders (ringmasters) and also the refugee and migrant encampments highlighted at the time.

Set Up

I

worthy

or worthless - we at birth?

An argument between two camps

pitched tents - stitched wounds - seeping - seething

seams ripped open - frayed - painted canvas - splashed blood

brushed with death - madness - chaos - Big Top under one sky.

Monsters running the show - bears dance - lions roar

cracked whips - cracked lips - water fountains run dry

crying out – shame – blame - out of balance - lost control

hear the thunder hear the thunder hear the thunder - here.

Thank you for reading, Kate J

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The Ritual.

For reasons unknown, the theme this week is Ghost Stories. Well, it is coming up to the end of October- ghouls are a big thing this season and vampires are just so, whatever. Honestly, if I hear another schoolgirl swooning over bloody Cedric Diggory (whom is still dead, by the way... Vampire my arse.) I'll probably lose it.

This being a 'poetry blog' though, I decided to go with my newly refreshed enthusiasm (thanks, Lancaster LitFest) and write something new. Trawling the mind for childhood memories- the ones I feel are always the scariest, the one moment of fear I remember most from those days is quite clear still- waking up to catch children being dragged through a door on TV (I believe, Poltergeist). I was sleeping out, away from home at a friend's house over the way.

I was quite surprised it was a different story that came from within me then. I spent a lot of years in the Scouts as a kid, learnt a lot about myself in the process but, like all the other kids, was only really there for the holidays. A few mates, some tents and several liberated miniature spirit bottles did me for a weekend just nicely, thank you very much. Some of the memories, it seems, weren't quite as jolly. I hope you enjoy the poem.

The Ritual

Trudging with socks sodden from the track

we smelt the air- caught ear of crackling wood over

bleating sheep and rushed towards flickering light.

It was there, with Pendle Hill still fresh in mind

you showed your stripes- pulled rank and asked,

Do you believe in ghost stories.

Our legs trembled below fire flushed faces

as marshmallows bloomed and dripped their mess

into the spitting hearth. You snapped.

On the tops things change- new variables

with every breath of the wind. You must obey.

Do as you are told, pull together.

That was the night he danced.

Took to the pole for tuck shop

twenty-ps he gathered, cap in hand.

And boy, did he dance. Shed his shell

crab like as he scuttled fleshy and nude-

woggle half covering his pubescent penis.

We soon saw his face- caught it in the torch

as you hoisted damp pants up the flagpole.

I'd never seen a ghost before-

and we just sat there, trembling.

Thanks for reading, S.

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First Day Nerves

I couldn’t write this post last night, nor could I write it this morning. I couldn’t write it for one reason: I was panicking, fretting, worrying, and was even convinced for a moment that I was about to die suddenly from a heart attack. Obviously, I didn’t die – I’m not writing this from beyond the grave – and my anxiety has now quietened to a mere mumble. Therefore, I feel able to write again...

Today I started back at Lancaster (this is what caused the shortness of breath and rapid heart rate), and I was filled with both a sense of excitement and one of dread. I’m not very good at change. I’m not very good at meeting new people. I’m not very good at being sociable. Therefore, first days are always difficult. I mention this because – as I drove back from Lancaster, having survived the first day – it struck me that my antonymic emotions are not dissimilar to the way in which I feel before writing a poem. There is often an element of enthusiasm – a new idea, a single line, or even just a title is enough to unlock smile-faced serotonins. But at the same time there’s an injection of trepidation, and this always seems to steal away any opportunity of writing a poem that is solely fuelled by untarnished excitement. However, I’ve learnt (sort of) to appreciate both the favoured and unfavoured; to realise that enthusiasm inspires me, while the doubt is the force that moves me, causes things to happen, creates a ‘final’ draft. If I was less self-doubting, I’m almost certain that I wouldn’t write.

This week’s theme is ‘best resource’ and for me, personally, I’d have to say that self-doubt belongs in my top five resources. Yes, I realise it isn’t concrete. It can’t be acquired at the library. It doesn’t have a website that you can visit, and you can’t subscribe to it monthly. But, in terms of poetry, I believe that it is the main thing that pushes me to be the poet that I’d like to be. It’s the editor that I don’t have to pay for. It’s the critic, who keeps me grounded and always asks that I give more.

Alongside the slightly odd choice of ‘self-doubt’, there are also a few more conventional resources on my list: my Roget’s thesaurus, my dictionary, photographs and, when all else fails, ‘Thinking Putty’ (thanks Katy).

Thank you for reading my Tuesday afternoon post,

Lar

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