Gaze into the gaze of Medusa And be forever transfixed, Petrified by our seducer, And the slither of her hips: Just a flick of the tongue and a hiss of a smile, Is all she needs to beguile her prey. With her sleek, sleek body and her big, big hair, And her cat-eyed long, long stare –
Back when slow-worms still had legs, Asklepios, a shy young god, Adrift without a cause or temple, Just a toga and a rod, Was blundering through Sarpedon, Up the valley, down the scarp, and on In search of sacred streams. And there, within a cave, it seems, While carefree and quite unawares, He found the girl of his nightmares and his dreams…
For they say that young Asklepios Had never found his way, Until he gazed upon Medusa, Fell in love that very day, And swore to heal all those who pray to him, On her behalf, And swore to ever after bear Her symbol round his staff. His temple was a shrine to her will, Where serpents freely slinked among the ill.
But these days, preachers rarely praise The grass-snake in the grass, The serpent in the Garden Isn’t welcome at the mass. Saints were crowned for banishing and slander – Or even worse, The mauling, groping, serpent-handlers, Just to prove a single verse – Snake-oil merchants, hick-wood hacks With diamond rings and diamondbacks.
But we who gazed upon Medusa, Goths and metalheads and geeks, Who don’t recoil from fang and coil, As steadfast as those ancient Greeks, Are blessed forever with her curse – To see in ev’ry child of hers Her beauty – deadly if unwise – In never-blinking eyes.
From the First Notes of Dawn to the Last Chords of Dusk
1. Praise Apollo, Sun and Light ! Praise the hand-harp glorifier ! Plays them strings like dynamite, Plays so far he’s outasight. Bringing on the dawn with its mojo rising, Day-long solos from his nuclear fire – And as for his vocals, you should hear the guy sing ! From early-morning blues to evensong choir. He plucks and strums it, Twangs and drums it, Whistles and hums it till his rays expire.
2. But to Marsyas the shepherd, Dusk was no time to retire – So he heckled undeterred This yawning, lightweight, early-bird. “Eager rising, my premising Says is most unhealthy and absurd. Dawn despising, my advising Says is only nat’ral and preferred. For those of us by music stirred Think morning is a dirty word. And what bards view his skies of blue or clouds of white ? Or ever gets to see Apollo’s pyre ? We rise with the lunar satellite To score the shadows, sing the night, And likewise dress in black attire.”
3. “So a challenge I declare, Apollo,” said this acolyte. “Dude, I gotta tell you square I love your image, dig your hair, So please don’t think that all my criticising Is intended as a jealous slight – But you, without your even realising, Lost, I say, your promise and your bite. Let us both play, if you dare, Before the Muses, maidens fair, To blow their fuses, lay them bare. And they shall judge between us, good or dire: Who’s all that or who just cruses, Who’s got nout and who’s got flair. (And man, those spacey chicks can sure inspire.)”
4. Thus the play-off was before These groupies egging on the fight. Order settled by the straw: The kid played first. (He’d lost the draw.) This farmboy fresh from out the shire Lets his magic flute ascend and soar As swooping melodies explore And drift in phrases reaching ever higher – Never shrill, but weightless flight, Aloft, a-dream, their souls alight, He sates their ev’ry appetite. Then comes a shift, the notes downpour As raining from the sky they roar – Led on, led on: this pilot-piping flyer, Who brings them home with themes comprising Of a thousand heights or more. Surely now the gold he’s sizing – How can old Apollo match this score ?
5. Picking up his trusty lyre, Tuning up the strings a nock, Stroking soft each tension-wire, So he turned to his defier: “Son,” he said, “for all you mock, You’re not just crock, I’m no denier: Prince of Pipes – the Fluting Jock. Now, Mister, go home to your flock – For I am King, and you will call me Sire.” Suddenly by some strange sleight His strings were ringing loud and bright, The very air his amplifier. He could make that catgut weep, and tenderly suspire. Now the god was energising Thrashing up the fahrenheit Bass-enticing, tenor-prising Vaporising kryptonite. Squealing strings – discordant crier, Then teased from the aftershock A melody so pure and sprite: The long-lost chord to which we all aspire. “Son, for all your poppycock You really tried, you weren’t just schlock I’m almost sad to clean your clock – But this gig’s mine, you neophyte, For you might fly, but I can rock ! ”
6. Waiting for the girls to sum it, Who would get the nul point blight ? Not our Marsy, for he’s won it ! Blow me down, the kid has done it ! He made all the dames ignite – Faced the music, overcome it. But this god won’t take the plummet: “Just a moment, squire.” Apollo turned his harp capsizing, Upside-down he plays, reprising All he played before entire. “Can you do the same ?” came his enquire. “Course I can’t !” the boy said, wising To his sudden shaky plight. “Flutes don’t work like that, as you know quite.” “Okay, then, no need for spite,” Apollo said, “I’ll turn mine right.” And so again he played his harp – but still the artful tryer, Now his voice was synchronizing, Sweetly singing, improvising – Such a voice ! And who can not admire ? Swiftly was the kid cognising How he’s losing out his prizing, But his protests only mire – For, Apollo makes surmising: “Do you not use your breath to expedite The notes within your flute ? And might Not I use breath to best excite My strings, with my sweet harmonising ?”
7. Then came to Apollo’s aid The Muses, (each a sweet-faced liar). Soon the lad was cast in shade, As Sunshine charmed each fickle maid. They chose again their jollifier, And upon the brow divine were laurels laid. Apollo rent his godly ire: Had that shepherd bound and flayed He flogged the lad himself, to see him slayed. Strip by strip his agonising Sucked his wind and gasped his breathing tight – The breath he blew with, this chastising, Stole away forever, ev’ry smite. “All this for a flute” he whispered as he paid, “It is too much. Your lashstrap is a critic’s blade.” At this Apollo brought respite, The execution briefly stayed, To answer him on how he’d strayed: “You thought my Sun was old, must surely tire, Yet with age comes cunning and desire: When we dim, we fight on smarter, ruthless, slyer. It’s only talent makes the grade – It ain’t what notes you blow, it’s how they’re played.”
The ancient Greeks were pretty clever, Worked out that the Earth was round From shadows cast by poles at noon And by the Earth upon the Moon, And how the sky was put together Just from watching from the ground, And some who guessed a central Sun About which all the planets run.
But then along came Aristotle, Then along came Ptolemy – And they alone would set the tone Till their mistakes were set in stone. The hand is dead, but still can throttle, Piously and solemnly, Of any thought that might get out – So hush the whisper, choke the doubt.
But still, but still, The more we looked, the more we saw – The though the heavens mostly draw Upon the Ptolemaic law, They sometimes would exert their will That rubbed enquiring watchers raw.
You see, the ancient Greeks well knew That crystal dome and ev’ry gem That all the night, without a rest, Would wheel above from East to West. And like the stars, the planets, too – Though slower, losing ground on them. Except…well, that’s where trouble lies, With yearly yet unruly skies.
Because they each would switch their motion, With the stars, and overtaking ! Week by week, the Greeks would trace The way the planets dance and race. So Ptolemy proposed a notion, Saved the universe from breaking – Sure it was all fudge and spin, But epicyles for the win !
But here’s the thing – For all its complex shells and reels, For all its windmills within wheels, It somehow kinda always deals With accurate positioning, As though the sums would guide their heels.
So if the Greeks were badly off, Well, spare that scoff – they did their best With nothing but a pair of eyes To theorise what they can’t test. But did they ever pinch their gaze And mutter at the tangled ways In which the heavens spend their days ? Did even Ptolemy have doubt And long to hack the deadwood out ?
The Romans, though they changed the names (From Krios, Aries, from Ares, Mars), They kept the skies just as before, For fourteen hundred years or more. And though the planets’ little games Were thought as written in the stars – A monk proposed a new appraiser, Slashing bunkum with his razor.
Simple answers, they’re what matter ! Less is more than meets the eye – If two proposals have to fight, The simplest one is often right. And all those epicycles clatter With a clean, efficient sky – Forget the Church and ancient stuff, Copernicus has had enough !
And yet, and yet, Despite his perfect circles round His central sun, we quickly found Like Ptolemy’s, they ran aground, Till Kepler and ellipses met – And suddenly, the maths was sound.
Truth be told, Copernicus Had little proof on which to base His unbound Earth and steadfast Sun – In faith alone, his planets spun. But still the world must turn, and thus, Young Galileo took his place – Perhaps with fewer facts than hope, But this time with a telescope.
And in the eyepiece, clear as night, The moons of Jupiter were seen – As though the planet gave them birth – And not in orbit round the Earth ! And better yet, the startling sight Of Venus phasing inbetween A smaller full and larger new – And then the revolution flew !
So here’s the thing – With claims of modern matter dark, And energy with unseen spark – Has it the proof of string and quark ? Or do they chase around a ring To make the model fit the mark ?
And like Copernicus, they could be right, Despite a lack of evidence. Or like old Ptolemy, they could be wrong, Yet strong in their defence – His theory held up, truth to tell, In matching observations well – But oh, it was a complex hell ! So scientists, and heaven-gazers, Never lose your sharpest razors !
“And, behold…the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, And came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.”
– Matthew 27:51-53
And the very earth shook beneath us, And the sky came dark and the veil of the temple was rent – As the Son at last came to leave us, So the tombs where slept the saints were breached as He went. And there they sat, arisen yet still, Since so long dead, they patiently waited For a night and a day and a night until On Sunday morn, they arrived belated. Zombies on the loose, they come ! Zombies in Jerusalum !
And yet not a word was spoken, As He was interred by Joseph of Arimathea, Of other tombs that were broken – For surely he witnessed the quaking’s rough aftermath here ? For there they sat, arisen yet still, Awaiting the one who had yet to be buried – So lay Him within the sepulchre’s chill And roll up the stone, his soul long ferried. Zombies yet procrastinate, Zombies lurk and zombies wait.
And lo, not a word was spoken By the Marys on Sunday making their way to His tomb, As they passed all the saints newly woken, As another earth-tremor gave sanction to auto-exhume. No more they sat – unprisoned, unstill – Now great was their stagg’ring and groaning as any – As stumbling and jerking, they lurched down the hill To Jerusalem, to the marvel of many. Zombies, rotten of complexion ! Zombies join the Resurrection !
And never a word was spoken By the Twelve at the Pentecost, just a few weeks on, With their tongue-gabbling voices choken – Yet never to ask where now had the dead all gone ? Where now they sat ? Or risen they still ? Where went their mission, so silent of news ? What is the purpose they mean to fulfil ? Is this what is meant by Wandering Jews ? Zombies, born again through Christ ! Zombies, torn from Paradise !
And still not a word is spoken, And the puzzling verse is never read out in church. No statue or stained-glass token Celebrate animate saints as they stumble and lurch. And those who are sat in the pews quite still And pretend that the verse is a metaphor or test – I guess they haven’t the need or the will To admit to themselves that it might be a jest. Zombies, clinging to their mask, Zombies, too afraid to ask.
“There came wise men from the East to Jerusalem, saying…we have seen his star in the East.”
– Matthew 2:1-2
When we first saw the star, we knew. The whole of our lives we were waiting for signs, And here was just such a clue – And oh, what a clue ! How she shimmers and shines. What is her news ? A King of the Jews ! And just in time for the midwinter feast ! A saviour is born, So set off at dawn, And follow His star in the east.
As we followed that star, we thought That our route would take us a strange way yet – For if Judea were sought, Then why does she lead us on into Tibet ? But on we must trek With the star as our check, Until the ocean was stopping us dead. So we chartered a ship To continue our trip, Because she was waiting ahead.
So we followed the star by sea – Always due east would she lead our band, Until we wise men three Were finally washed on an unknown land. And on we went ’Cross the continent And strange were the people and customs upon. Then at the next moat We hadn’t a boat, So we build one – and so we sailed on.
And we followed the star some more, Across the African sands we were coming, Until at last at the Jewish shore We reached the land for which we were plumbing. We took from our camels Fine skins and enamels, And spices and lapis, all fit for a priest, And strange silks and feathers We’d gathered together From all of the lands of the east.
We knew we could trust her, we sighed, She brought us all safe where we needed to be. Now where is the child ? we cried, Where is the one who we travelled to see ? We told the bazaar How we followed the star To the King of the Jews, of whom we bespeak. Then up spoke an urchin – “How long you been searching ? They just nailed that guy up last week.”
Twelve days waiting in a barn for them, we were, For two weeks, nearly, with the horses. Two weeks waiting for a bit of gold and myrrh, And a warning not to fall to Herod’s forces.
The shepherds came by early, but they couldn’t stay for long – As they’d left their sheep all grazing in the pasture. (I hoped the wolves weren’t prowling, nor the north-wind blowing strong, And their truancy not noticed by their master.)
Surely now the census had been tallied up and done, There must have been some room back in the inn ? But there we slept, and waited, till the angel told us “Run”… …Or was it we went home, back to our kin ?
And that, my lad, is how you spent a fortnight in a manger, On the hay of cows – or so we’ve always spun. They must have used the Julian, those fine-attired strangers, While you were pure Gregorian, my son !
Tusk-tusk, Tuscan, You’re just a stripped-down Doric, Sat squat upon your plinth – You don’t fool me. And don’t posit Composite, You ain’t so long historic – You’re just Corinthian That’s running-free.
If Bassae’s still Ionic, (And it is), And so are Ammonites – Then isn’t it moronic To insist that Serlio is right ? To favour Romans over Greeks, And not allow some playful tweaks, Patrolling boarders of the orders Just to keep them pure from mutant freaks.
The Tuscans and the Composites Were born in the Renaissance, When Italians made counterfeits To stand-up in response. Well fair enough, by why stop there ? Now that we have this president, Let’s have a hundred orders blare To prop-up ev’ry pediment.
Dead of winter, and Josh drinks alone – His birthday today, and the years have flown. Thirty today, and what has he done ? Never been married, never had a son. He feels he’s achieved far less than he’d oughta Whittling the wood while his life’s getting shorter “Gimme a break, an’ I’ll set the joint humming, I’ll give unto Caesar just what he’s got coming !”
“I’m gonna Rise with the dawn to pray and sing, I’m gonna Rise with the dawn and bless the poor – They’re gonna raise me up an’ crown me king, An’ when they think me beat, I’ll be back for more !”
Dead of winter, and Josh drinks alone – All night he’s preaching in his slurrey drone. He’s wasted round here, his vital mission – There’s plenty to hear him, but none to listen. Already he’s had two more than he oughta, Knocking it back as though it were water. He bangs down his grail with an angry thud – “Gimme another, cos this is my blood !”
“I’m gonna Find me some fishermen, and practice how to talk, I’m gonna Find me some fishermen and go from town to town – I’m gonna cross the waves if I have to walk, And if you wanna stop me, you’ll havta nail me down !”
Dead of winter, and Josh drinks alone – This world is a bitch and it needs to atone. He’s got his sermons and hymns to dispense – He’s telling his stories, but they don’t make sense. “Why won’t you bastards listen like you oughta ? Why won’t you hark to the lessons what I taught yer ? The love of money is the root of all malign !” But the barman doesn’t care as he charges for the wine.
“I’m gonna Work with my hands till I raise some sparks, I’m gonna Work with my hands till they heed what I tell, One day so these palms are gonna bear marks, An’ if you don’t believe me, I’ll see you in Hell !”
Dead of winter, and Josh drinks alone, He’s got his second wind, he’s rolling back the stone – Says he’s gotta leave and join the cherubim, To do unto others like they’d better do to him. He knows he’s delayed for longer than he oughta – Someone’s gotta be the Devil’s holy thwarter, Someone’s gotta sow so the reapers reap their seedful, Someone’s gotta help all the camels through the needle.
“I’m gonna Quit this hick town and walk the Earth, I’m gonna Quit this hick town and bang my drum, I’m gonna walk out and show them what I’m worth, I’m gonna walk out till kingdom come !”
The Romans faced decline, they say, A hundred years or more, Before the Goths stole Rome away, All in one day. It wasn’t just a day, of course, With forces building at the core Throughout the hundred years before.
So were there Romans in that fray Who watched the turning of the tide, The steady slide, the slow decay ? And were they powerless to stay The endless slump of getting worse, The creeping curse, the seeping sore, The gradual fade to grey ?
Or did they never smell the rot They’d got ? Perhaps too decadent, Too drunk to see their own descent, Too busy in the hay. They maybe missed the skulking spore Until the joists had given way, And brought Rome to the floor.
But that was then. We’ve surely learned How Rome was burned from within as without – The morals shine and loudly shout, And history shall not be spurned. And yet.., I sometimes look about And wonder where we’ll be in, say, A hundred years or more.
Ah, those Classicists, Those poets of antiquity ! They never faced the style fascists, Never faced creative mists, With lines that must engage in trysts – They could keep it loose and gritty. Rhythm, metre, drove their gist. Their audience would ne’er insist Their lines be docked and chimed and kissed – How our plight they must so pity. Sappho, Virgil, Homer, Horace Never had to suffer this – They never had their epic bliss Reduced by form into a ditty. Of all the literary crimes Befallen us since ancient times, I curse the most whoe’er invented rhymes.
Rhyming Couplets 