My Autobiography A Life of Poems

By Spencer Carvil

In an ideal world, we are all born equal. Though in reality some are, some are not. As Shakespeare once quoted; Some are born great, some seek greatness, where some have greatness thrust upon them. None of those were in the offering when I was born. Though it was somewhat similar in a funny kind of way. B

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Media Reviews
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781961395404

Spencer Carvil

SPENCER JOHN CARVILAUTHOR, Poet and ArtistMarried Doreen Ann Ireland in April 1966 and was Widowed in 2009. Doreen died of Lung Cancer, though she never smoked. Two Children: Lesley1966, Stewart 1969. Three GrandChildren Previous Occupation; Master Carpenter and Joiner, With 50 years' experience Born with Dyslexia and Apraxia. A victim of the bombing of our Local Church on the 16th August 1943, where I was buried alive under the rubble. Standard State Education up to the age of 15 no qualification when Leaving School 1956, With the inability to pronounce words I used Poetry to educate myself. I have written my autobiography in poems Though I had never had intentions in writing. My first Book Charlyyk was a Sci-fi that I self-published, with Authorhouse. I disassociated myself from them. Reissued the Book as The Alien Girl; The first Two Books are Published, with two more books to complete the Story. That I sort of self- published with Leavitt Peak Press.Then I wrote Two books of Isbel, Art and any sport were my hobbies, I was Team Manager of the Brighton Royals Ice Hockey Club where I trained Boys and Girls to represent their Country and turn professional. This included my son Stewart.

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Copyright © 2023 Spencer Carvil.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author and publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-961395-40-4 (E-book Edition)

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Contents

1. When St Cuthman’s Was Bombed?

2. When I was a Lad

3. The Big House on top of the Hill

4. I Found a Penny

5. The Fight

6. Expectations

7. Never Knew His Father

8. The Quiet Man

9. What Are Dream?

10. The Cold Wind

11. Life’s Ambitions

12. Loves Illusions

13. I’m Being Told, Not Asked

14. Stanmer Park, August 66

15. My Daughter’s Slumber

16. A Troubled Soul

17. The Begging Bowl

18. Vanity leading to Insanity

19. On Reflection

20. A Birthday Tear

21. Lady is a Diamond?

22. Things I Know

23.The Sheltered Bird

24. History Recalls

25. 999 Emergency

26. Brighton Pride 2019

27. Christmas’s Past

28. Dippers Meadow

29. This Languished Heart

30. Lockdown

31. Captain Tom Moore

32. The Silent Assassin

33. The Lady of Leyster

34. Beware the Money Tree

35. Sweet Serenity of Innocence

36. Little Patsy

37. Brighton Beach

38.Taking the Knee

39. What is Life

40. The cost of a Loaf of Bread

41. Knowing Your Age

42. Non-Est Affectus Accepatateo

43. Living in Old Age

44. Duties of Husband to his Wife

45. Corvid Blues

46. The Hazel Dormouse

47. Being Old, Is Not All Bliss

48. If only to dream

49. That Hurt Me Inside

50. Lost in Silence of the Night

51. My Brother Theo

52. Poor Emma

53. The World Awaits

54. Rule Britannia

55. The Beauty and Brutality of Nature

56. Who was that Thief

57. Heavy the Weight I wear

58. NHS Nurses

59. I am, who I am

60. As Winter Arrives

Sonnet 1

Sonnet 2

Sonnet 3

Sonnet 4

Spencer John Carvil.

Entered this world kicking and screaming.

Born 2nd October 1941; during the second world war, in Brighton on the Southcoast of Britain. My mother’s fifth Child, to become later the middle child of nine. The eldest being Peggy the only girl. Tony, Gordon, Theo, Myself, Charles, Jeffery, Terry and the youngest Robert

16th August 1943, I was the infant victim from the bombing of our local church, when we were caught in the blast. Being buried under rubble, suffering head injuries. The air-raid warden believing the Limp lifeless body he was holding; was a fatality. Placed myself on the cold marble slab, that my mother would roll the pastry out on. The sudden cold, caused my body to spasm. The ARP warden, physically ran with my damaged body up the Brighton Race hill, to the local hospital.

I had been previously born with polyps in my nasal cavities, that had hung down like festoons Then suffering from chronic catarrh unable to speak properly; later being associated with the apraxia, also with dyslexia…where my written words being spelt back to front. Mostly missing words, that my dyslexic brain, convincing myself I had actually written, but later discovered that I had not, as they really were missing. It was very similar to speed reading, when missing words, so to shorten the story. Though it was so apparent in my writing, as my brain behaved faster than my writing ability could, meaning my brain would skip words. Teachers finding great fun to ridicule at my attempts of writing essays, though now and again I would find a teacher that understood where the problem existed and would attempt to give guidance. Grammar was also absent in my writings, and even to this day I still struggle to edit what I had previously written. Knowing I had to find a way to improve, to be able get on in life. My Mother showed myself, how those that stuttered, would mouth their words in a mirror to improve their speech, this enabled myself to find some way forward in being understood.

As I was always impatient to prove to everyone, I was not stupid. Some I did, then some I didn’t. Though that did not deter me; for what I knew, that inside my mind there was a very determined person, that wanted to achieve at everything.

My love of sport, though not that good at many. Much better at some. The boxing came about when our local policeman, kept dragging myself off those school bullies, who thought it would be fun to pick on the little lad that talked so funny, when they kept jumping on my back, going He-haw, he-haw; then when they tried to run away, finding, that same little lad, hit hard, when aiming his fist to where it hurt the most. PC George Boxall our local policeman, who was the one that dragged myself off many of those lads, decided I needed some help. He presented myself to the local Gym, for to learn the meaning of controlled aggression.

These poems have been a collection of scribbles of instances that have happened over many years, scribbles written mainly to improve by writing ability, over time re-writing, though not altering to how I tried to capture that particular moment in-time.

To make those changes in life, first you must accept where your wrongs are, for you cannot cheat on life, for you are only cheating on yourself.

The entrance exam to the Brighton art college was an educational step too far, as it proved that my principle, was not as good as my practical. So, I became a Carpenter and Joiner instead, still using my hands, it also helped