Cathars being Expelled from Carcassonne in 1209 by the Workshop of the Boucicaut Master
Carcassonnet
“Kill them all – the Lord will know his own.” Now there’s an brutal, pithy epitaph That any poet would be proud to hone To horribly describes the aftermath Of the one and loving Church when rampant, Laying siege to the souls of heretics – This is the cost of faith triumphant, Policy and zeal allowed to mix. We like to tell ourselves those days have gone, But only thanks to disbelief and village schools – The moral, true from Mecca, Rome and Carcasonne Is to never trust a priest to write the rules. For the fatal fallibility of pope and prayer Will delegate to God the need to even care.
Diesel-hungry four-by-fours, Draft-dodgers dodging wars, Betting on the football scores – Well, that’s the price of freedom.
Christmas Cards on sale in June, TV news all afternoon, And folks who claim we faked the Moon – Cos that’s the price of freedom.
Despots have it easy, They can do away with clutter – But me, I’ll take the messiness Of ev’ry geek and nutter. So tune them in or tune them out, But never for a second doubt That we can ever do without.
Sticky kids on talent shows, Tattooed arm and studded nose, Neighbours’ hedges come to blows, And that’s the price of freedom.
Metric units here and there, And lots of artificial hair – It isn’t always right and fair, But that’s the price of freedom.
Dreamers have it easy, They can make the world anew – But me, I’ll take the old one Cos it’s here and now and true. So make it sweat or make it blink, But never for a second think That freedom is just pen and ink.
Thirteen copies were written, at least, And probably many more – All passed from bishop to sheriff to lord, And pinned-up, read, and, finally, stored, Then rotted or burned or thoroughly creased, Until we were left with four.
But then, for many centuries, Their words were out-of-date – Their scutages and fishing-weirs Belonged to long-forgotten years, And busy parli’mentaries Have moved on the debate.
Their Latin text is cramped and clipped, With not an inch to spare. And just like half the baron knights, We cannot even read the rights We’re gifted by this foreign script – We have to trust they’re there.
But so what if the parchments fade ? They’re passing, mortal things – It ain’t the laws that they imparted, But the movement that they started – In their image we are made, Who bow to laws, not kings.
The urban billboards haven’t been updated now for weeks, Still enticing us to salons, bars, and holidays in Rome, Or advertising musicals that never got to open Or for services from businesses where nobody is home.
I always used to hate these hoardings, snapping at my eyeballs – But now they seem so innocent, with cheery friendliness. Their absence feels more communist, without their bourgeois mindwash, Replaced by public notices to queues and cleanliness.
Shaggier and shaggier we grow – Our roots are getting longer, Like our fringes, like our beards – Our thighs are getting hairier, And nostrels too, and ears. But does it really show On low-res video ? Just let it do its thing – Bed-head, birds-nest, afro-bloom, The natural look is in. Nail scissors, Philishaves, And goodbye highlights, goodbye waves. I never thought I’d miss the comb and clip And the stripy pole, Until the scales fell in my eyes And my tresses tangled with my soul. Barber, barber, never go, We never knew we need you so – As shaggier, and shaggier, we grow.
The game goes on, despite the news, Despite the empty stands – No pre-match build up now, of course, No captains shaking hands. With silence as the coin is tossed, But not born of suspense – Then the ref’s whistle deafens But you couldn’t call it tense. The sound of boot-on-ball And teammate calls are very clear Even from the back row, Has the action felt so near ? Except, from our separate sofas On this long, long afternoon, They might as well be playing On the far side of the Moon. The empty seating does not care What happens down the wing And though the cameras catch it all, Their ops don’t want to sing. Like a stand-up cracking belters in rehearsal To an empty hall, The elephant in the stadium’s Not trumpeting at all. A goal is barely celebrated, No-one’s bellicose – Their tackles are half-hearted, They’re unsure of getting close. A pigeon pecks the touchline And the players work their shift – As if the world has changed the channel, Cutting them adrift. It all feels rather academic, Pondering the score – For does a lonely goal still count If no-one’s there to roar ?
detail from The Veth Sisters by Jan Veth, remastered with FaceApp
Heavy Canvas
The modern portrait comes in many gazes – Some are staring at us, While others ponder into space – And profiles never even know we’re there. But the thing that most amazes Is the thing we barely suss, Until the aggregate of faces Steals upon us what it is they share:
It is their air of serious concern – The weight upon their brows, Their watchful eyes, Their level lips. These sitters sit unblinking, deep and stern, In ranks of frowns and scowls, And endless masks of empty guise Through which their boredom slips.
They’re pictured well, each grave expression, Well enough to find them in a crowd – And yes, they entertain us for a time, For all their dour style. So portraiture’s a serious profession, Justly resolute and proud – And yet…can it be such a crime To sometimes paint one with a smile ?
Burdock is a spit for rhubarb, Giant leaf and fleshy stalk, As if a kitchen garden has been on a woodland walk. It’s not a sorrel, (nor a laurel), ’Spite of what it’s name may say – Its lineage ain’t sitting with the dock nor with the bay. It’s true it grows from burrs, But its barbs all grow up rhubarb-y, All decked-out in another’s species’ garb, apparently. At least until it bolts, When its thistleheads are in the hedge – Unlike the cauliflowers of its doppleganger veg. And then there’s the invader – The mutant, spiky, giant kind – Whose leaves atop are rhubarb, but beneath are sharply-spined. They aren’t at all related, When these three have never shared a bed, It’s just the way plants get when they get big and broad and red.
I see them on the seats – all waiting, waiting patiently – The loved-up couples holding hands and smiles, Others with a carry-cot – happy too, but somewhat tired, And those who simply sit and stare for miles. They all have to come here, face-to-face, and talk to us – Fiancés booking churches or our hall, The parents who haven’t quite decided on a name, The loved ones left behind – we see them all. The not-yet newlyweds, or the newborns needing paperwork – A second birth, officially existing, A passport to a passport, to a doctor and a school, With their whole life held within this single listing. And then, amongst this joy, there are the ones to register a death – It’s often by the next of kin, as if a final test. Sometimes slipping peacefully, sometimes out of nowhere, Sometimes only following an inquest. We try to keep the office looking neutral and, well, yes, bland – It does not, cannot, suit for either side. A vase of flowers helps – though more white than colourful – Compassion for the griever, confetti for the bride. All must be recorded in our special everlasting ink, The wedded and the born and the deceased. It may be bureaucratic but the future’s sure to thank us, And our touch is always personal, at least.
Rhyming Couplets 