Poetry in Motion

Cambridgeshire Romany writer Kathleen Cunningham is continuing the long Gypsy tradition of capturing the past in poetry, reports Jake Bowers.

Kathleen Cunningham’s bungalow is unremarkable. Like many of the Gypsy homes across the flat fenland landscape, nothing about it gives away her identity from the outside, until you see its name – “Novada”. Like her poetry, it’s subtle, but when she reads it, it comes alive.

A Smith/Wilson wedding that appears in the book "The Great Romany Showman".

“I called it “No Vada”, because I haven’t got a Varda (wagon) anymore!” she quips and invites me in. At her kitchen table she spreads out the impressive amount of books she’s had published. She wrote as a child, but as an adult the pressures of raising a family and being moved from place to place kept her from it. In later life, when illness struck, she realised that her grandchildren weren’t learning much about the history of her people, she returned to it and she’s been writing ever since.

“I realised if I didn’t get my old life into some form of writing, my grandchildren wouldn’t know anything about it.” She’s passionate that they need to learn from the wisdom of their ancestors, who may not have been as rich as her descendants, but were probably happier.

Her latest book, the “Great Romany Showman”, reaches far back into that family history. From the Fens of Cambridgeshire to the fairgrounds of Ireland, via Scotland and northern horse fairs, it is a British Gypsy history told from the inside. She faithfully recalls stories she heard as a child about her grandfather Esau Carman and blends them with her own poems and drawings that capture a world that should be remembered.

She might not have a varda anymore, but her way with words is as strong as ever.

The Old Turf Fen

Just outside March in Cambridgeshire, I can
remember when.
There used to be a place there called
Chatteris old turf fen.

It used to be full of Romanies but things were
oh! So different then.
You could pull on when you wanted to, and
park just where you pleased.

Stake your horse, light your fire, hang
washing out in the breeze.
And just whenever you wanted to you could go
and move away,

Up the Great North Road to Appleby you
could spend weeks, months or days,
Travelling where you wanted to, selling
baskets, pegs or lace,

From May until October for you knew there
was a place,
Without a doubt within your heart when you
came back again,

There would be a spot for you on the Chatteris
old turf fen.
You didn’t have to ask the council or the local
people there,

You didn’t have to be in the ‘Showmans Guild’
or part of the Status Fair.
You just hitched up your horse, and moved
where fancy called,

For the common land belonged to everyone,
and welcomed one and all,
The men would race their dogs and pony traps
across its vast expanse,

Play ‘Pitch and Toss’ and horseshoe quoits,
sit around an outside fire, play music, sing and dance.
Of all the modern Gipsy sites there never will
be one of them,
that will have the atmosphere and
character of ‘The Chatters Old Turf Fen!”