kfg moore

Cadman

ON THE DEATH OF THE FAMOUS FLIER
ON THE ROPE AT SHREWSBURY

Fond Icarus of old with rash essay,
In air attempted a forbidden way;
Too thin the medium for so cumbrous freight,
Too weak the plumage to support the weight.
Yet less he dared who soared on wax and wing
Than he who mounts to ether on a string......

Like Cadman, Cadman, (who he)
Salop hero and madman
Salop hero and sadman
Super hero and badman.
Spiderman set in stone
At one with gargoyle and vane
To challenge logic or the gods
Going beyond the sickly Icarus
And dead eye dick of a Dedalus.
To the need, not for fire or flight, but both
For the ultimate toy for man to manhandle
In his final feat of destruction.
Born in search of flight
And freewill.

DATELINE 1740, JANUARY
An iron hard, big freeze of a winter
The ground marbled with frost and snow
Serenity Severn turned solid crystal
A place for fairs, diversions,
And the swishing glissandos
Of skate edge and sledge.
A winter, easy on the eye
But agony for the underclad flesh of the poor
Made poorer by the elements
And the iceberg hearts of the witch-titted rich.
On to the rage of this polemic stage
Strode Cadman, slight of stature, but cable strong
Steeple Jack, Jack of all Trades,
Jack ‘o Lantern, Spring heeled Jack,
Jack Daw, familiar of Rook and Crow, Raven and Magpie.
Jack, the totemic name
Supplanting insipid Robert
No name for a sprite or free spirit or shaman of the spires.
Astride the roof of this church
He noted how we are bound in varying degrees,
From the lack-limb cripple
To those for whom their vision is
Far from Blakes’ world of imagination and vision.
He notes also the pecking order of sneering
How church-bound gargoyles look down with contempt and ugliness
Frustration distorting their features
As they spew out the waste of embittering envy;
How some with a foot in the clay still strive for the stars
Whilst those mired in mercantile mud mock and ban them.
He knew he must be Prometheus
Unbound by flight to bring the flight next time in a transcendental levitation.

A practical man as one who rebuilds fallen spires must be,
He also paid the winter price
The scrapings of the day labourer
Especially from the church his patron
Known for receiving much and giving little,
No work, no bread the daily motto and cry.
Time for the ultra funambulist to show the multitude
a clean pair of spring heels.
Casting a seasoned eye over the river to Gay Meadow,
He saw over forty chains of hemp from steeple to ground,
Multitude on river,
Crowds on bridges,
Couples on the bridle path,
Funsters in the fields,
And a goodly collection promised.
Permission sought,
Plans laid,
Equipment tested,
Pistols primed,
Handbills printed.
Wife sent to collect on pain of domiciliary visit.
On 24th January publicity appeared
Setting somnolent Salop into a buzz.

“FOR THE BENEFIT OF MR FLIGHT, HIS FAMILY AND THE BENEFIT OF THE PARISH”
“!This is to give notice to all lovers of art and ingenuity
that the famous Robert Cadman intends to fly from off
St Mary’s steeple over the River Severn on Saturday next,
flying up and down, firing off two pistols and acting
several diverting tricks and trades upon the rope
which will be very diverting to the spectators!”

Saturday the twenty seventh rises to air
So clean, pure and virginal
That it invites penetration
By an expert.
Ceremonially, he dons his clothes of office
Muscle-revealing
Colours-appealing
A serviceable extravagance
He calls his acolytes to process,
Led by a small band with jongleurs and mountebanks,
Names redolent of skill, fun, fear and other worldliness
Already the sweet smoky smell of chestnuts and mulled ale,
Are drifting their invitations through the streets.
The entourage gains body in the taverns
Where flagons are bought and ritually raised
To the gladiator-martyr
Smelling of fame and death.
Skirts were urgently raised in a celebration of life and sacrifice.
(October would bring a confusion of births!)

The final stop: The Yorkshire House, St Mary’s Place
Turned from tree-lined haven of quiet christianity
Into the seat of Dionysian revels. Their God preparing boisterously for his apotheosis,
Buoyed by the voices of the crowd, that seemed to lift him
High to the steeple in a mysterious trice.
All agreed afterwards that there was something new in the air
Belying rational perception.

From his platform he sensed as much as heard
Mixed applause and silence,
Waves of scepticism and faith, schadenfreude and empathy,
Ascending in equal measure.
He then knew what must happen today,
He must fly or die.

With more than usual enthusiasm,
He descended the tightrope,
Somersaulting, hanging from his feet,
Flourish after curlicue till the bottom was attained,
Inciting the crowd to awe and generosity,
As his wife’s leather bags were filled and refilled.

Ascending the rope, now an integral part of Cadman,
He excelled himself in a volley of tricks, bells, squibs and noise.
Attaining his platform to roars of delight,
He announced his intentions
Displayed and donned his props,
Bells binding wrists and ankles,
Two short planks strapped on as wings,
As he lowered the greased groove so smoothly
Onto this his final rope.
He took his pistols in hand
As he formed the perfect, prophetic cruciform.

To mark the start a mortar was fired.... And I’m off
In slowly gathering momentum.
Pistols are fired to the building rhythm....

Am I falling or flying...
I feel above Earth and its temporal magnets...

Faster, faster...faster

The cheers are from another world...faster even faster...
The world is flashing its life before my inner eyes...

Suddenly a change in the tension of the rope......
A gradual unravelling of a dream.....
A snap and a final parting of the fibrous ways...

I’m flying.....I’m, flying at last........My last.....
The marbled sky is rushing to greet me.


So fast...So fast

The Gods are laughing sternly at me and mine...

But still, I flew in the faces of their logic,
And showed it could and will be done
By some other Cadman, son of the jealous Gods.


© kfg moore july. 2004