detail from The Adoration of the Magi tapestry by Edwin Burne-Jones, Wllliam Morris & John Dearle
The Gifts of the Magi
The Magi came to Bethlehem As guided by a rising star, And there a newborn greeted them Beyond the busy brisk bazaar. So three wise men each bore a gift – The other nine just looked-on, miffed.
The first brought gold – a solid lump – An ingot, so the paintings show. That must have made young Mary jump As Caspar flashed his gift aglow. But prizes prising gasps aghast Should surely be withheld till last.
Then Melchior with frankincense To sweetly burn at times of prayer – The sort of thing we all dispense, To hosts and strangers ev’rywhere. Safe and useful, just the thing To give to clients, in-laws, kings.
And finally there came the myrrh – Embalming oil for the dead. A tactless gift to give, for sure, That only brings a parent dread. Poor Balthazar had left them cold – And wished he’d also thought of gold !
The Angel Appearing to the Shepherds by Govert Flinck
The Annunciation to the Shepherds
An angel found some shepherds In the lambing pastures, not too far, All keeping one eye out for wolves, And one eye on that bright new star.
And the angel said: “Behold ! Upon this night so cold, I bring you tidings great with joy ! In David’s royal city, a saviour-son is born ! Go see – for swaddled and mangered, Is a strangered, innocent boy, A cheat of death, Who takes his breath So calmly on this bold, still morn.”
Some shepherds found an angel In the lambing pastures, glowing gold, And after all its urgings, They sat and thought on what it told.
And the shepherds said: “That’s nice, But we must watch our precious ewes. For all your holy light, We cannot leave and risk to lose A single suckling sheep tonight. So go tell folk in Bethlehem – Those townies love to be beguiled… But we must keep our trusting lambs As safe as any child.”
Charon Carries Souls across the River Styx by Alexander Litovchenko
The Charon Line
We lined-up on the shore, All so silently and patient, As we waited for the ferryman to come. The river was so calm, And the air so deathly still, And the souls were so sepulchral and so glum.
The sky above was black, With no moon or stars upon it, And yet light there was, from unseen candle wicks. The ripples barely washed On the river we all knew we knew: Some say the Acheron, and some the Styx.
The sand beneath our sandals Was a ghostly grey, and barren, And was bunched up by the groynes that strutted out. No birds were seen there wading, And no crabs were on the scuttle, And no barnacles or sedges, flies or trout.
Yet offering a focus Was a short and ancient jetty – Like a road to nowhere but the endless sea. And here it was we waited, With no sense of how long waiting, For we hadn’t any other place to be.
Then through the unseen nothing Came the faintest splash and motion, As a distant dory drifted into view – And standing at its stern Was the sternest man left standing, As he worked his ten-foot ore into the blue.
With a slow and practices action Of his stroke, recover, stroke, So his rust-red ferry glided to the shore With not a punt too many, He was docked upon the jetty, As he paintered-up and shoulder-slung his oar.
Bearded and burly With the bearing of a bull, Looking old as both the river and the boat. A loincloth and a cloak Were his only grubby garments, With his chest and thighs as hairy as a goat.
He stood upon the planks And he held his other hand out, Which we knew was for the taking of the fare. We reached into our mouths, And we felt beneath our tongues, And withdrew the coin deposited in there.
Some could find no obol And they feared they should be stranded, And they clutched their worried forehead in dismay But lo !, they found two pennies Had been placed upon their eyelids And they sighed with some relief that they could pay.
The boatman took the money Which he dropped into a leather pouch – He never looked, but fingers felt the coins – He knew which ones weren’t obols, And he tossed them in the river, And their owners likewise shoved against the groynes.
In life, we might have wondered Where he ever got to spend it – But now that was no concern of ours at all. Instead, we simply paid him In our final ever payment, And were left withouot a bead in wherewithal.
Those who proffered pennies Earned a scowl and muttered whinges On tradition, change, and numpties who know best. But rules are rules, and tolls are tolls – He pocketed the coppers both, Then waved them on his barge just like the rest.
He only took a dozen, As we sat on barest boards, While he stood upon the till and plumbed his oar. And those who couldn’t pay him Were the stranded on the strand, Who must wander through the wasteland evermore.
And what was waiting for us On that other, distant, shrouded bank ? We never tell, and you shall never know – At least, until the day you die And make the trip yourself – Unless, of course, you’ve somewhere else to go ?
Mary, Mary, Little fairy, Like those Grecian girls of old: The bull and swan have entered in, The golden rain has soaked your skin, So what’s inside, Mary Bride, And were you told ? Like the girls and the Nephelim did when they kiss In the book of the partheno-Genesis, So a tale this big is too big to disbelieve, And the giants in this world are conceived By women who are bold.
Mary, Mary, Extr’ordinary How does your foetus grow on its own ? Maybe a haploid, unfertilised seed, That’s only half a human, indeed ! So are you sure, Mary Pure, Just what you’ve grown ? But it has been shown in the lizard and the aphid, And a miracle Messiah has been prophesised since David, In a tale so big it’s too big to be denied – So the drag-king of the Jews must be supplied Through your daughter – through your clone.
Out of work and out of dole, While high on blues and low on soul. And all the songs we’d ever hear Were old, and theirs, and insincere. We hung around in aimless bands To stop us feeling suicidal, But the Devil makes work for idle hands – And boy, were our hands idle !
So we are why the faithful flocks Must mumble hymns while Satan rocks ! We’re drowning-out the choirs of Heaven With three-chord worship at 11. His music fills a hole in us, It hugs our pockmarked skin – If God gave rock & roll to us, Then Satan plugged us in.
Portraits in the Characters of the Muses in the Temple of Apollo by Richard Samuel
Unamused
I used to walk with Grecians ev’ry day: Callíope would whisper in my eager ear Of battles fought for kingdoms won for heroes slain, While Clío often passed my way With tales of nations ancient, far and near, And Thália could make me laugh a hurricane.
Melpómene just loved a fallen king, While Érato was swooning over some romance, As pious Pólyhýmnia was lilting psalms. Eutérpe, now: that girl just loved to sing !, Which always caused Terpsíchore to up-and-dance While even swot Uránia had starry charms.
I used to dream with Grecians ev’ry night. And thanks to them, I wrote as fast as ink would run My songs and tales and poems, all my brain could hold. And all of it was doggerel and trite ! For all of my ideas, there was not a-one That captured even half an ounce of what they sold.
I’m better now – a lifetime lived and well, Of sights and thoughts and loves and wisdoms heard, Has brought me to the seasoned man I am today But I am now, alas, beyond their spell – For all of my ability to turn a word, I cannot think of anything I need to say…
The names are given in their Greek form, which is slightly different from the Latin alternative we may be more familiar with, hence the accents to spring the correct syllables.
I wonder what the First of November is like In the depths of Hell ? A day, perhaps, when demons all go on strike And stay in their shell – A lazy morning, then walking the three-headed dogs And feeding the trolls, Or taking the chance to restock the brimstone logs And polish the skulls. Packing the trident away along with the horns For the rest of the year, And binging on soaps with the grandkid-demonspawns And an ice-cold beer. And somewhere, in some office, some poor devil Stares at a screen, And starts to draw up plans at the management level For next Halloween.
It was late o’clock in late October, I recall, As I buttoned up my coat and set off home – My hours in the library had still left no trace, The depths of my mind were whipped to foam. So, keen to sooner reach out to my waiting bed, I took a shortcut past the ancient church – And in my barely-woken walk I stumbled through the graves, As I fancied how their folks might up-and-lurch.
But I never thought they would… But I never thought they’d push the slabs aside… And yet, here were their skeletons Just walking round as if they’d never died ! Good thing I was overtired, Or else I’d surely have to scream and hide…
Paralysed by shivering and weariness, For the sight of all those bones had rattled me – But most because I’d spent all week to memorise On the finer points of man’s anatomy. And as I looked in horrified astonishment, A prayer had made its way onto my lips: “The head bone is connected to the vertebrae, And the metacarpals to the fingertips.”
But I never thought they could… Yet I never had the chance before to watch the dead. And yes, the hour was very late, But then, well, so were they ! Yet there they tread – And right there in the flesh… Or, excuse me, out the flesh, I should have said.
I saw upon those skeletons the marks of busy lives, Like bones that once had broken and re-set – I saw some more with fractures, some with cancers, some with spurs, In a lesson I could never now forget ! Their joints had lost their cartilage, yet showed no trace of arthritis, Where bones were grinding naked onto bones, And osteoporosis having tapered some so thin, Yet so carelessly they danced around the stones.
And I’ve never understood… But I suddenly remembered ev’ry word I’d read – These visions were impossible, Because of ev’ry fact that popped-up in my head And I was overcome, And I dropped down in exhaustion on my grassy bed.
And when I woke up, slowly woke up, propped against a gravestone, Quite alone in my new neighbourhood – Well, I dusted off the dew and I made my way to class, To a test I had to pass – and knew I would. Now I cannot expect you to believe a single word of it, Yet deep down in my marrow, there’s a shred… Though I looked around the churchyard on that morning as I left And saw ev’rything was still and very dead.
But I never said you should… Don’t believe my ev’ry no-word-of-a-lie – And as a trainee-medic, I will always trust in science till I die. But whatever did occur that night, I’ll always know one thing – dem bones ain’t dry !
I am a little bit embarrassed to admit that ‘arthritis’ above needs to be stressed on the first syllable instead of the second to fit the rhythm, but I can’t be that embarrassed since I haven’t removed it.
If you should ever find yourself Eye to eye with the Devil himself, If you should ever find yourself Face to face with the face of Hell, Then hold his gaze as long a spell As you can hold that gaze. And when you blink, (you will blink first), Then do not think your chances cursed, But show him as your eyelids rise A pair of still and steely eyes That stare out straight and sharp and wise, That no reflex shall maze.
Rhyming Couplets 