On 14th June 2009 an event was held in the Glastonbury Assembly Rooms: a celebration of the life of John Michell, for his family & friends. This poem was written specially for the occasion.

THE BALLAD OF GENEROUS JOHN - a fragment

Oh where is John? Where could he be gone?
Have you seen him in Powis Square?
Is it true what they say - has he passed away?
Surely he must be somewhere

Could he truly be dead? Not hiding instead?
Has the fox gone to ground in his den?
Can it really be so that he's laid below?
Perhaps he is risen again?

Is he off seeking pleasure in the marvel of measure
And the angles of England's towns?
Is he jotting still in Notting Hill?
Does he ramble the Marlborough Downs?

Does he not wander the hills over yonder?
Does he ponder no longer their leys?
Does he sit 'neath the moon by bonnie Doon
Perusing her banks and her brays?

Alas, 'tis thus: John is taken from us
Who would have thought it could be?
He passed away on Saint George's Day
(But only by GMT)

In the shore of a Dorsetshire churchyard
In a hamlet half-hidden from view
John the brave lies deep in his grave
'Neath the shade of an ancient yew

He suffered not long; though his mind was strong
His body was weary and ravaged
Cancer apart, he was killed by his heart
Which was far too big to be managed

The generous John, his salon is gone
His seat in the pub left unsat
His boots by the door will be muddied no more
They mourn with his coat and his hat.

Bow every head, the Magus is dead,
The bard is departed from life
The shaman of shapes and measuring tapes
Is discharged from duty and strife

Beat on your chests; ignite cigarettes
Dash your cups to the floor
Raise ye a roar from Glastonbury's Tor
For the wizard is whizzing no more

Let banners be raised, let beacons be blazed
His passing proclaimed by the fire
May the dread metrication, the scourge of our nation
Be burned on his funeral pyre

Raise ye the bones of the Avebury stones
In the dew of a May Day morn
In the fields and farms of Alton Barnes
Stamp out his memory in corn

For the Golden Chain is broken again
Oh Albion's sons and daughters
Fear not my friends, it will some day mend
The wizard in his wisdom has taught us

Remember John - remember him long
For his limitless mental capacity
A man of letters, of more and better
A man of resource and sagacity

In the sixties his UFOs and ley-lines and who knows
What things that no others had thought of
Brought great renown; he went on to found
The Glastonbury festival (sort of)

John was bright and frighteningly erudite
For his learning he made no apology
He found language a breeze, pronouncing with ease
Long words like phenomenology

He did his best to resurrect
The study of ancient metrology
Reading Plato anew; the gematria too
Euphonics and numerology

John roamed the land exploring first-hand
The geometry of Britain's geography
With a knapsack, a map and a cap and a mac
And a penchant for ancient cartography

He suffered fools gladly no matter how badly
Or madly they'd state their case
To tales of visitation by pixies or aliens
He always would listen straight-faced

John never grew weary of crackpot theory
Ever kindly and patiently listening
Without rile or rancour he always would answer:
"Oh really? How terribly interesting"

On the measure and merit of traditions numeric
He wrote with precision and vision
He loved tacheometry, Euclidean geometry
And sexagecimal division

Division by sixty was used throughout history
For measuring angles and lines
From Sumerian maths to Cartesian graphs
And for the division of time

John believed it was right to apportion one's life
In a sexagesimal way:
Sixty seconds in each minute, sixty minutes each hour
And sixty spliffs in each day

Oh where is John? Where could he be gone?
Now he is mortal no more
He has travelled far from us, he has crossed Oceanus
To Elysium's shining shore

He walks with those who have thrice kept their oaths
The great and the good and the wise
With those ones with the cleanest and purest of souls
He sits 'neath Elysian skies

No more does he toil in this mortal coil
At last his soul is set free
No more does he sleep; he is drinking deep
From the river of memory

John wanders a world of perpetual wonder
A relief to him, no doubt
There's an endless store of listeners galore
Who know what he's talking about

Magi and mystics, sages and seers
Saddhus and saints by the score
Philosophers, prophets, cynics and sophists
Poets aplenty and more

There's the entire Hindu pantheon
With their top-knots and turbans and beards
There are Buddhists and Taoists and John Cowper Powys
(Though everyone thinks that he's weird)

There's even a pub - the literary club
Where John is inclined to wander
Existentially French, it serves only Absinthe
Which makes the heart grow fonder

There John idles the day with Iamblichus,
With Plotinus, Proclus and Cato
He exchanges views with Yeats and Ted Hughes
And sometimes plays ping-pong with Plato

John shares a bottle with Aristotle
Debating the nature of logic
He has mushroom dinners with Terence McKenna
And delights in the hypnagogic

If John isn't enjoying the afterlife
It's not for want of trying
He's even been out on a drinking binge
With Lord Byron and Flann O'Brien

Like so many others, John strove to discover
Who the writer known as Shakespeare could be
Now doubt is dissolved; the mystery is solved
For he knows the man personally

The gregarious Greeks throw great parties
Smashing plates as they sing and they laugh
They're all great fun except for just one:
Archimedes, who won't leave his bath

Thomas Taylor's a chap who will cheerfully check
John's Latin or Greek translation
Kepler and Ptolemy advise on astronomy
And the limits of lunar mensuration

John eats angel cake with William Blake
Swapping technical tips on lithography
He finds it quite hard though, explaining to Strabo
How satellites are used in geography

You can smoke all you like in heaven
What's the harm, if you're already dead?
Fags are free - they grow on trees
You can even smoke safely in bed

The famous fields of Elysium
Are verdant and fertile and fair
And though not many people know it
The finest marijuana grows there

In those fields, to the deep and delicious delight
Of any discerning reefer-seeker
Grows every strain of Mary Jane:
Cannabis, both Sativa and Indica

The finest plants from around the world
Full-budded and bursting with health
Enough pollen for Nepalese Temple Balls
But you'd have to make them yourself

Field after field, of fabulous weed
Of a quality money can't buy
John occasionally stops to inspect the crop
If he happens to be passing nearby

Although the stuff is quite strong enough
Should John wish to get higher, he can
By having a toke of the 'little smoke'
With Carlos Castaneda and Don Juan

John savours the mysteries with the sages of history
Philosophers, thinkers and poets
He drinks with De Quincy and Coleridge and Keats
(But he doesn't get on with the Stoics)

Samuel Palmer and Turner both are there
And the Shelleys - dear Mary and Bysshe
But no-one can fathom why heaven would have 'em:
They're born-again atheists!

Philosophy's fine, but not all the time
If he feels he's exceeded his quota
John can chat to the workmen, conversing with Charon
On the workings of outboard motors

John's perfectly happy in heaven
Though he does miss his mortal friends
But maybe with luck, if they read the right books
They'll one day join him again

He fears it was frightfully impolite
To suddenly leave, in a coffin
He'd like to write, just to say he's alright
But the price of the postage is shocking

Though John is dead, may his books still be read
May his words live on forever
May they ne'er be dimmed, may he stay in print
And be remaindered never

Remember John, remember him long
Mark you remember him well
Let's raise a toast to our absent host
The late, great John Michell

 

Copyright 2009 Steve Marshall
All rights reserved.

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