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The Disappearance Diaries of an Apprentice Hermit

The Disappearance Diaries of an Apprentice Hermit

By: David Swarbrick @ The Ceylon Press
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Summary

 From disco to disappearance.Copyright The Ceylon Press 2025 Art Literary History & Criticism Social Sciences
Episodes
  • Pilgrim: 1977-1998

    Pilgrim: 1977-1998
    May 7 2026
    1 in tight lines a dozen houses line the winter wheat – already: frail bungalows with front lawns, at the village edge; homes, already, transitory as inns, and clamped to a new access road that slices though the down. diggers have quarried the chalk - upended it; torn out the clay beneath -heavy, dark,greasy as abattoir meatembedded with flints,clewingto a long-departed sea. in a web of cul-de-sacs,of silent gardensof chipboard walls history is being forgotten; the land is practicinghow to die. SNODLAND, MARCH 1977 2 clouds clogthe river’s fallen level - a dry dayat the furthest edgeof summer; at the month’salmost-final,almost-end-point, flat and still; indestructible. hay,cropped in silent meadowsrests in long gold lines; the battles to be foughtare far away;nothing is corruptible; now is all there is. THE RIVER BEULT, AUGUST 1977 3 wadein the corn wavesundisturbed; come home -there is no toll; the hip-grasswill conceal and recall; fearing no fall,the dusty greenwill restore the world, its marks, its scars - bring itto a field of sun - to this home,crushed outwithin it. NEAR CRANBROOK, AUGUST 1977 4 of coursethere are grander thingsthan this Victorian rebuildingof medieval stone; but not for me. for eight years i have beenits steadfast visitor, a pilgrim of sorts,returning to a placewhere nothingis urgent; where custom points, like transepts,to the enfoldingfields and woodsfirst written in Doomsday. THE CHURCH OF ALL SAINTS, BIRLING, MARCH 1978 5 amongst the few remaining leavesof last year’s autumn, daffodils shakein a slight breeze; they lord it over the wilderness - the stone angeldrowsy under moss; the mausoleums,rectangular, preoccupied; the crooked tombstones,dreaming of placesother than this; the sleeping columbariaspread betweenthe shot green shavingsof recent trees - defiant,redeeming. BIRLING CHURCHYARD, MARCH 1978 6 winter rainhas darkenedthe hayrick’s sides; nowa nine-hour sunexpands upon it, restores it,saves itwith lengthening days; returning all. SNODLAND, MAY 1978 7 onlyon the roadbetween the trees; onlyon Birling Hilldo i evadethe day; slip the sununder leaf; freewheelon the scarp, believing onlyin Cistern Wood and Coney Shaw,in Stonebridge and Ley; in the fields that flit by, worshipping onlythe swift dark woods, the down’s allegiantoak, and beech, and chestnut - saved by speedeach timei turn intothe ceaseless haze. ON BIRLING HILL, JUNE 1978 8 nowthe cool weaveswhite; the high dayends; the ridgesimplifies; the downlandtightens – a narrow gate,darkly green - trees opento an ageless sky; a time for nightjars, nightingales, sparrowhawks; and i amwashed away. TROTTISCLIFFE, JUNE 1978 9 this is a roadfor sunday walkers,wanderlusterswho go just so far,their communion curtailedby an absence of magic, fitted inbetween reading the papersand lunch, as is customary now. THE SNODLAND TO BIRLING ROAD, JUNE 1978 10 clouds shift; over the hillthe moon swells, the grass,dark this side,lights up - ignites a sudden thoroughfareshowing me the way,night by night,as i cycle sectionsof the old pilgrim road, all difficulties shattered, past fields of clover, cowslip;past Blackbusshe, Badgells Wood, past the Battle of Britain cross,
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    21 mins
  • The Summer Fortress: 1979

    The Summer Fortress: 1979
    May 7 2026
    TO RA AND REMEMBERING VERITY FORSYTH I hear you still clear, sure - talking to me now as you would talk to me then; a corner of the garden room; a long table laid for tea, books piled up, shadows of poets and painters stirring; listening, as you hear me say what I do not say; as you tell me what I need to hear but would not: I hear you still I hear you now, I hear you. Skona, July 1997 DATEThis cycle of poems was written in the Weald of Kent between March and September 1979; the last one 18 years later in July 1997, in Skona. 1for thisthere is alwaystime -your fragmentary willconcocts hourswhere the dayhas none,etchesa far horizonforeverin the sun. 2take only touchand that electric guess,hand to hand,till heartsrest within flesh;till your touchupon my facemoves inside. 3you would stretch out,draw me apart,for thoughyou do not know ityour timeis mine.would you want more?would you changethe tidethat carries us,sand within a stream,toward the sea?evenly, 4loving you:the picturesafein the cabinet -mine,the dare to remove;the white palmsstick with sweatnow summer comes. 5knives cut -and death's unknowing,cells grow and bones will break,and still,the starting point -your face,ghosts all the change;leaves -silence,a space for shadows;a space to turn within;and lie at bay. 6your cryhollows the hour,touches starsthat won't explode:and break their hold.butcan hurl javelinsup at space 7you may not believe it but,after the battle,rain washed the bloodonto the village streets,into the Weald.night fallson the Bloody Mountain;a bird pullsagainst empty light;bats fold into theoutline of trees,black on black.above usa harvest moonburns a circle in the sky. 8let us stay,smoke awhilewalk between the silver treesof the Cinders track.night holds us;we liebeside a water tank,listening;waterdrippingdrop by dropwaitingwhere nothing movesthe moment on,where nothing moves.where the airis cool and grassy 9your heart is high,sweeping high:tempers,slackens, on again,states of difference -not by joiningI, in love,would move. 10inyour awkward beautythe landscape breatheswith you;I restI play;in skiesthe peacocks fly. 11do not hold back;you should not fearyou shinefor youhave the brightest light;and shineas life. 12come,we will evade this,armour ourselvesas night checks day;and a smooth sly lightslides through the orchards.thelast bird songsdrain the dayinto a shoal of trees.we can evade all this. 13we will become fond of these days;go over them tirelesslyas armchair generalsover maps.we lay downthe living deathlike bottlesin a cellar;effortlessly. 14the abacus movesbut I will not;its beads have a sort of rhythm,a pretended order.do not listen.silence has a safer sound;even calls the directionsof a hidden road,easily missed. 15i 'd rather notthink;or imagine,know,or evensuspect,grieve,celebrate,wonder.I want tolive easy.whyshould I be troubled? 16yoursis the gift that brings together,that calls me inthat keeps me here;your armsopen;your imprinthauntsyour body,is a barrier of words. 17the train passes placeswhere nothing has changed,where life has gone onjust the sameall the timeI have beenso caught up.it will go on the samewhen this ends; 18dailythe state deepensand I concedeto this roundand to thatthe bets I placethe game I play,the cards that fallfar shortof what I make. 19you smile:the knife you wieldopens the knotthe quickest way,I saw youwalking in fields,a dancer,naked,slender as a scorpion.dares alldo you knowwhat we do? 20lost timeis life's regret:death guilds its share,the daysrob and bleed,and timesmashes easily as glass.the calendarbreaks a little more each day. 21love in distance,and,all the timeI knowthat behind mehe kisses you;youdo not knowhis blooded lipssmear and conquer.each returnyou seegets closer. 22you turnyour eyes,catch up my glance;hold itlike a mirror,distortingby allit cannot see. 23he had madea plaything of fear;caught it in the mirrorwith the sun.autumn will rushbefore the Kentish hopsto dredge his glass -and the image,unreflected,noiselessly dies out. 24death kisses you;the offering of sunsgluts in your heart;an unaccounting changeremoves your hand.you wake;but the rage for lifesleeps on. ...
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    11 mins
  • Greater Still: 1979 - 1993

    Greater Still: 1979 - 1993
    May 7 2026
    1. NOT HERE Still dark, thin curtains resist a taut March sky; my room is uncompleted – unoccupied; my possessions shrink beside books, clothes, stuff left here by others – and because you are not near - not in this village or the next – not in this thin doctored placeso far from the southern Weald – because we are not here –my body moves, a blind man, proving the place,calculating distances between here and there – a bleak, discordant siren enticing me to stay, with a nonsense song: that there is no other way. BEDFORDSHIRE, MARCH 1979 2. EDGE Ploughed fieldsforce me to the edge –a destitute land, barren and friendless –hedgerows of briar and blackthorn stiff as razor palisades, a slammerof bare trees, flooded ruts thick, greasy, drowning mudand a thin, slashing horsewhip wind to keep at bay my breakout. BEDFORDSHIRE, MARCH 1979 3. CEEDED iLight haemorrhages,bleeds through brooding trees, though copse. We await the storm. iiSound of the quiet moor – small hours of dark certainties, sleepless, terminal. iiiThis, the toughest place,a night long anvil smashing every dream that comes. ivHe has let the room – and now a watcher steals everything he knows. vCome and commandeerthis world, that world, take them all - we have an excess. viLift, scatter, dust, winddown the ragged station cold, strangers ever stirring. viiBlue electric crown –by the sky, I bring you close:it covers us both. BEDFORDSHIRE, MARCH 1979 4. CEASELESSA cloudless blueinvites a house, long-lost, white- honoured guest, seated, air still as whispers,friends dining in candlelight;a record playing, photographs shuffled --as if a kindly cardsharp dealt redeeming kings LANGOLD HOUSE, SUMMER 1979 5. BOMB Green fists of budlurch towards summer – bring meto Sussex downs laid on chalk, cut sheer -tracks to the sea. I lie - toes out,following patterns on the waves; following people spreading towels; following familiessweating in a salty breeze – sun pilgrims, returningwith plastic bags and floppy hats. The day has killed their talk; there is onlythe sexy grass beneath bare feet – vast smooth fields below a prosperous sky –a measureless ocean –the smell of summer, spreading like a blast. BEECHY HEAD, JUNE 1981 6. SCHOOL Overnight, our schools have becomestrewn streets in ruined cities - lessons takenby looted shops, gutted cars – classrooms reached down roads burningwith debris from the night before; the playground, a hearthof petrol flames shared on television; the curriculum recastby ragged warriorsin cities north to south – even unobtrusive towns have traded intheir silence for slogans, as if all thiscould ever start a new term. LANGOLD HOUSE, JULY 1981 7. BUSTED This room is busted – this house is broken –bolted, a trail of bricks and masonry. Barbed wire, red with rust,defines the edgesof a disappearing drive Birds call - boundlessly friendless. LANGOLD HOUSE, JULY 1981 8. PETITION Forgive us – say a prayer –let’s dine on blood. Give us this day our daily bread - the man haemorrhaginghis life on bags of spilt basmati rice. All kingdom come -unhallowed bodies bobbing downriver; leperstrespassing the garden gates (dry to the right, wet to the left). The Power and the Glory -the corpse delivered from evil on a jute bier of marigolds, weaving through traffic. Ever and ever -scraps of horse and jockeyminced on earth by a Naxalite bomb, bound for heaven, Thy will be done. LANGOLD HOUSE, JULY 1981 9. TRIBUTE iThis makeshift air, choked.The dreams the old men held dear, mountains poised to rise. iiTapers are unlit;the alter is empty now,its trinkets packed away. iiiSummer twists the knife – leaves an unwieldly wilderness, a wreath, remembered. ivStill he assails,as if love would ever be an explanation. LANGOLD HOUSE, JULY 1981 10. FICTION Why let him dream when really –he cannot; whylet him think that he will live without end,that he will drawthe flame from fire,thathe can take it to the shadow –to the silver in the dim – to burn forever more? LANGOLD HOUSE, JULY 1981 <...
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    25 mins
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