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Monthly Archives: February 2012

Collaborative Poem by poets –

*jdubqca *MyVogonPoetry *Permabloom *vivchook *Troublegummer *afcoory

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Image: Man Ray

Has time rewritten every line?

 

TIME REWRITTEN
It had been so long since someone
mentioned the movie
I never saw. I remembered then,
I’d read the book; Powerful.
But alive, on a screen? Could I?
In the dark the words come to life.
The audience becomes part of the narrative.
As the couple begins their celluloid courtship
we all fall in love a little bit too.
Remembering our own early times –
the excitement, so giddy, and consuming,
with a future hued in rose.
Innocence and hope- owned in childhood
but lost with age, my dreamings
ripped and rearranged and projected
through other eyes.
My dreamings a mosaic foreign to me,
its tesserae still recognizable
as mine. Repudiate?
Rip all up, reassemble, reclaim?

SWITCHED AT BIRTH

by Frederick J George (or James F Churchman)

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Who is this man?

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As a book lover I have been given many wonderful books, including biographies. One biography in particular stands out for its poignancy, Switched At Birth by Frederick J George in 2007.

Frederick George and James Churchman were switched at birth; we will never know the full story behind the switch. However, what we do know is that the respective mothers of Frederick and James loved their sons as they would their own flesh and blood.

It has meant much to Frederick that his biological mother, Helen Churchman was still alive when he discovered the truth of his birth. One of the things she was able to tell him was that although she never consciously doubted that James was her own son, she remembers remarking to the nurse a few days after the boys were born, ‘I think I may have Mrs George’s baby’ and that both women laughed.  Mrs Churchman’s ‘son’ James had a thatch of black hair, while Mrs George’s ‘son’ Frederick was blonde like Mrs Churchman and the rest of  her family.

In 2010 I had my own book published “Whatever Happened To Ishtar?” which like ‘Switched At Birth’ is about life in an immigrant Roman Catholic Lebanese family in Dunedin, New Zealand, during the mid to late 20th Century. At the time I wrote my book  I knew nothing of Frederick’s story, although I knew of the large extended George family, and often saw family members around the streets of Dunedin. For various reasons, I didn’t know any of them well enough to engage in conversation.  I had no knowledge of the Churchman family, even though James’ and Frederick’s families lived in close proximity to one another.  This, as it turns out, is one of the most poignant aspects of the whole saga, but also one of its saving graces: at least the boys grew up together and knew their biological parents, albeit superficially.

In the book, Frederick recalls in detail his life growing up with the George family. His has mixed feelings about his ‘father’ John George and his volatile temper, (Not I might venture to say, unusual in Lebanese men). He further writes that the subject of his ‘suspicious’ parentage only ever came up within his immediate family when his father was angry about something Frederick had done that had displeased him.  Then he would accuse his wife, Ngaire, of sleeping with another man when she conceived Frederick because he ‘sure doesn’t look Lebanese!’  Ngaire George, who was not Lebanese, would respond good naturedly and tell her husband not to be so ridiculous.

As fate would have it the George boys and the Churchman boys were good friends and hung around together playing sport and engaging in other social activities.  The main difference between the Churchman and George families, apart from ethnicity, was religion; Presbyterian and Roman Catholic respectively.

The boys from both families were involved in the hustle and bustle of family life and the issue of the blonde boy in the Lebanese family and the black- haired boy in the Anglo-Saxon family, by and large remained unquestioned, at least publicly. But privately, Frederick  writes: ‘I used to have these peculiar feelings …of being in another world, or in someone else’s identity’. He goes on to say ‘Actually, I was in someone else’s world, and so was Jim Churchman…he was in the world I belonged in and I was in the world he belonged in.’  James told Frederick that he used to have those same feelings.  Ngaire George often said to Frederick, ‘You live in your own world!’ … ‘She was right, I did’.

Both mothers genuinely believed that each of their boys’ odd-one-out complexions were some sort of throwback to their genetic roots.  Frederick writes of the many coincidences and parallel life experiences of members of the two families, and they are compelling, in hindsight and in light of knowledge of the switch.

Years later, the suspicion of a switch at birth became an urgent issue for ‘James Churchman’ (the real George boy) when he became seriously ill. In his fifties, he had a severe heart attack. This was particularly significant, because there was no history of heart attacks in the Churchman extended family, but there was in the George extended family.  While James was recovering in hospital, he asked his best friend, Frederick’s Lebanese brother, to contact Frederick who was then living in the US and ask him to organise a DNA test for himself, while he James would do the same. The tests proved beyond any doubt that Frederick and James had been switched at birth.

As you can imagine, the news was life-changing for both families, but particularly for the men themselves.  The saddest thing for James was that he never knew his biological parents intimately and never would. Out of both sets of parents, only Helen Churchman was still alive when the test results were revealed, and she was then in her eighties.  James often spoke to Ngaire George when he called on her sons, not knowing who she was in reality.

Frederick says at the end of the book that he is left wondering what life would have been like with his biological family.  What had he missed out on, if anything?  How different would his life have been? Questions that will remain unanswered.

-Anne Frandi-Coory  24 February 2012

Collaborative Poem by poets –

*jdubqca *MyVogonPoetry *Permabloom *vivchook *Troublegummer *afcoory

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Image by Chris Floyd

<images of war torn Syria

LET’S START ANOTHER WAR

The Arab Spring is here, they say
As long as the oil is flowing.
Democracy is the way to go
Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Iran.
Let’s start another war.
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Freedom at any cost,
Never mind the innocents.
We can replace fine young men
Someone has to pay.
Let’s start another war.
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These streets once belonged
to the youth of a nation,
but now they are bulleted
and torn and bulldozed.
Let’s start another war.
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Washington generals sit in
Leather chairs and smoke
Cuban cigars, picking up the phone
And dialling in on a strike.
Let’s start another war.
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Alerts will be sounded.
as forces are scrambled.
Buildings will crash to
the earth in one heartbeat.
Let’s start another war.
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As we watch from
safe distance,
nothing can hurt us,
we just switch the channel.
Let’s start another war.
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We’ll watch for as long as
blood is shed spectacularly.
Then we’ll stop
and go back to the sitcom.
Let’s start another war.
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At best the martyrs will become
a romantic footnote,
next to a Qabbani poem book
or the mashrabiya mirror.
Let’s start another war.
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Perhaps a few do wonder
the reasons for it all –
as we watch from our comfort,
the dismal Truth behind
Let’s start another war.
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Do we realise the cost to us?
That a higher price is paid –
Our Innocence, and empathy, fades –
the true Collateral Damage of
Let’s start another war.
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Shock and awe streams like soap
A solitary shrouded figure sees red mist
then becomes Red Mist
We can put on a show right here
Let’s start another war.
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Statues fall and statutes crumble
While flags are waved and burned and worn
The gladiators, entertainers, spectators dance
to the rhythm of shells and gunfire.
Boredom and fear

Let’s start another war.
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Collaborative Poem by poets –

*jdubqca *MyVogonPoetry *Permabloom *vivchook *Troublegummer *afcoory

Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth. – —-Kahlil Gibran

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Another Poet Is Silenced – Ibrahim Qashoush.

Poem PHOTOGRAPH and Photographic Image  © Copyright To Anne Frandi-Coory

– All Rights Reserved  7 February 2012 

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My poem *PHOTOGRAPH

Dedicated to my Lebanese father, Joseph Jacob Habib Eleishah Coory

Photograph

A fleeting encounter

like an unopened rose

remains eternally

inside a withered heart

never to blossom

on a summer’s day

never to slowly fade.

Time mellows into memory

his face, his voice

cushioning past intensity

once a storm

now just a photograph

The man who was but shouldn’t have been

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My father Joseph, a long awaited first son, was a very sick new-born who wasn’t expected to survive. But against all odds, he lived. However, so certain were his parents that he would not survive, they neglected to register his birth. He spent the rest of his life, prone to illnesses. He ate a very limited diet and for all legal matters used another Lebanese man’s birth certificate, whose surname therein was spelt ‘Coori’.  When I discovered my father’s fake birth certificate with the misspelled name and the wrong birth date, I assumed that the department of Births, Deaths and Marriages in Dunedin, had made the mistakes. During my extensive research into my Lebanese family tree and history, the truth was laid bare. – Anne Frandi-Coory

BELOW: Joseph with his beloved dog, Tim, outside 103 Maitland Street, Dunedin, New Zealand, where I lived with him during my early teens. 

Joseph and Tim 103 Maitland St Dunedin

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 DRAGONS DESERTS and DREAMS

*****

2nd edition (2020) Dragons Deserts and Dreams

Available now in Kindle e book and paperback 

HERE at AMAZON BOOKS