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.
In the Beginning there came forth the bursting, With ev’rything rushing from ev’rything else And which is still pushing on all things today, Though no-one can feel this occur.
Then came the clouds that would slowly grow bigger By drawing in other clouds, adding their bulk, And the bigger they got, so the stronger they drew – For all things attract and concur.
Then the clouds shrank, but not in their weight, Till they’re thicker than stone and they’re thicker than gold – Their centres grew hotter and started to burn, And that is how stars were begun.
And in with the stars came there light and came heat, And those parts of clouds still left over became The planets that circle them, round and around. And thus, although later, our Sun.
A ball of great fire, a sibling to stars, But much, so much closer – with planets with moons All smaller by far than the Sun at their centre. And each, not a disc, but a ball.
And the third planet out – why, here lies the Earth ! In its earliest days, so another young planet Collided, and flung out much debris and rock, And the Moon was thus formed from it all.
The Earth was still hot, with no water upon – But one day it started to rain, and to rain, And to rain, until leaving its surface entire Now covered by one endless tide.
And the seafloor was cracking up, carving out plates – Floating around on the runny, deep rock, Barging around, bringing quakes and volcanoes – So slow, yet relentless their slide.
This caused for the granite to well from beneath – Far tougher than seabed, this new kind of rock Would form up the heart of the massive landmasses That rose on up out of the sea.
Life in that ocean was also beginning – So tiny and simple, and so it remained. But ev’ry new offspring was just slightly diff’rent And ev’ry slight diff’rence was key.
The better did better, the lesser did less, The better spawned greater, and so did their young. So slowly life changed into myriad forms. Then life got much bigger and complex.
For came there a time when these tiny lone beings Did better by working together, by losing Their selfhood – to building a single large creature. And some gave up budding, for sex.
Some became plants, who could not move themselves – And some became animals – these ones, they could. So many animals, so many strategies – Hard shells and soft shells and backbones and more.
Shellfish were rampant, they’re moment had come. Many would die out, they did not survive, While others still thrive – and small is the diff’rence. They filled all the sea from the waves to the floor.
The first on the land were the plants on the beaches, Spreading thence over the virgin terrain, And bugs were soon following, creeping and flying, As coal was creating from dead tree and fern.
The fish had grown out of a wormlike beginning. Some pulled themselves out of the water with fins, At first only briefly, then longer and longer, Until came the time when they didn’t return.
Unlike the insects, these creatures grew larger, And larger, and larger, and ever more so. But when the Earth changed, they could not survive it – Except for the birds, who flew on.
Now came to prominence more fish-descendants, Who bore their young live and who nursed them with milk – They filled up the landscape the giants had quitted, But stones still remain of those gone.
Some were the monkeys, who lived in the trees, And some had grown larger, and some had come down, And walked on their hind-legs, and upright, and tall – These were the humans. So now you all know.
And all this had taken so many years, many. More than a thousandfold thousand of lifetimes. And still it continues today, and tomorrow – And so days will come, then, and so days will go.
But all that I tell you is not the whole tale. Parts have been left out that need to be told – Parts to be sought out, to draw back the veil, And parts yet to happen, that wait to unfold.
When the news is full of more beheadings, Bombs on busses, boots on deserts, holy war, And drones attacking family weddings From Benghazi to Lahore, I turn to Senator and Mullah both, And ask them, have they any peace to barter ? Is there any hope for growth From Casablanca to Jakarta ?
But each calls the other a shirker: Says the Senator “Ye see that Ayrab ? He’s nae Rab, he’s a dirty Sassenach.” The Mullah snorts in his tartan Burqa: “That Yank’s nocht but a flithy Irish ! Aye, aw pish, an’ a plastic Mac. Now, I am a Jackobite rightly through, As ginger as the white-on-blue, From Samarkand to Timbuktoo !” At this, the Senator gives laldy: “Listen, pal, I may be black, But I still can gie ya heid a crack, And I’ll see youse, Yaqub, if ye’s lookin’ a’ me !”
Hey, I hear you’re godless – And your universe is empty, And this life that you are living Is your only shot at plenty, And your death will be your ending, And your birth was just a chance, And your soul is just your neurons, And your story is a minor space romance. But are you happy ? Or is your logic just a bluff ? When you’re only made from dust, Is this lonely world enough ?
Hey, I hear you’re godless – But you say the Heavens wallow In a myriad of wonders, With a thousand more tomorrow – And although our death is scary, So much more-so is the chance Of our ever even being, To be living in this epic space romance. I guess you’re happy, It seems you’ve really found your style – Hey, I hear you’re godless, But it’s great to see you smile.
Obey in All Things your Masters According to the Flesh
When even Jesus shrugs his shoulders, Utters not a word ag’enst, And Paul is rooting with the holders Over people bought and fenced – All these chattels in their fetters Must submit unto their betters. God had cursed the sons of Ham – So help yourself – he just don’t give a damn.
And thus were Haitians much maligned By France, the Pope, and even God, (Who spat upon their Negro kind And swore to keep them ’neath His rod.) Till after ev’ry prayer had failed, They struck a pact which countervailed – It’s such a sorry state of works When Satan saves and idle Jesus shirks.
One god, two gods, Sitting on a cloud, But we killed them both for dead When their wrath was disallowed. Three gods, four gods, Lurking in the gaps, But we winkled all them out When we stole their thunderclaps. Five gods, six gods, List·en·ing to prayers, But we did them out of jobs When we always dodged the fares. Dead gods, fled gods, Nothing left to show – Five thousand down, And one more to go.
One man drifts upon a door – Too far from home, too far from shore, Without supplies, without an oar. Or so I’ve heard it told. Both he and raft, three days ago, Were languishing upon the deck – Now all the rest are ten below, Yet he by chance has fled the wreck. Instead, he gets to starve and stare At water, water ev’rywhere ! Beneath the fierce, unflinching skies, He waits his death and hungry flies – When shadows cross his salt-caked eyes… A figurehead in gold !
So weigh the anchor, hitch the stay, We’ll blow you back to yesterday – We’re all adrift and outwards bound, An island’s waiting to be found. So dance with the carambola, By the fair isola of the giorno prima, Ev’ry newborn gleamer.
One man drifts below a prow Too far from home – but safer now, If he can only climb somehow… And so our yarn sets sail. Up top, he finds no sign of life, Yet down below are cages crammed With birds, and beasts, and flowers rife: As live as he, and just as damned. A hold here to behold ! All brought From out the land he sees to port. But where are they who stocked this store ? If only he could swim ashore, To the island of the day before… Ah, therein hangs a tale…
So drop the anchor, be becalmed, We’re porpoised, parroted and palmed In paradise, in distant climes A long long way from Greenwich times. So dance with the mola mola, By the lost isola of the giorno prima, Ev’ry shipworn dreamer.
This is based on the opening of Umberto Eco’s novel.
Noah, lonely and bereft, Cast adrift with wives and sons. Of other folk, no more are left – These are the only ones.
But lo !, across the waves and foam Comes sailing forth on breezes fresh A vessel very like his own – The Ark of Gilgamesh !
This is an early poem of mine that features my patented exclamation comma (!,) which one day shall be combined into a single glyph to rule them all… Incidentally, my older self cringes at my rookie mistake of placing Gilgamesh himself in the other Ark when of course it was piloted by Utnapishtim. However, despite this, it remains the only poem of mine to ever earn me an income (£10), as recounted in the footnote to this poem.
I wonder, does it start with hoofbeats, Or the rush of flapping wings ? The hiss of gas ? A perfect fifth ? Or pistons, switches, cogs and springs ? That moment when the muse comes calling Bringing insight in her wake – She gifts her targets sparks and notions, Just to see what they will make.
And some folks are raptured, and some folks are seizured, And some folks will cherish and others will fear it – And I can but look on and ponder their wonder And try not to envy their genius spirit. And if I can’t join in their synching, Can’t speak in their tongues, or can’t waltz in their dance, At least I can urge them to write down their thinking, And not to leave mem’ry to chance –
So scurry and scramble to get the sprites pinned, That jingle or joke or invention or gen – For how many mousetraps are lost to the wind, When somebody spoke or for the want of a pen ?
I’ve long since stopped expecting the tap, Or the draught from angels’ wings I’ll never be a chosen one Who gets to feel such precious things For I am nothing transcendental – Too much static on the line. I’m not complaining – so it goes, I guess we can’t all be divine.
So I have to prod it, and I have I to wring it, And I have to plead with my brain for a vision – For I can but whittle upon some idea, And patiently bring it, I hope, to fruition. But keep chasing down on that inkling, And tinker about in the back of the mind – And most of all, keep turning up at the thinking – Ah well – back to the grind.
Your whispers and trances may get your thoughts firing, But mine just meander and dawdle and wend. My only damn flashes are sparks in my wiring – But maybe my work is as good in the end ?
The Assumption of the Virgin by Francesco Botticini
Trinity Cubed
Christians pray to three gods: Father, Son and Holy Ghost. But ’tis the Cath’lics have the most; “The Virgin’s ours” they like to boast, “We’ve Cherubs, Seraphs, Angel host. A God of Bread to feast upon, And wash Him down with bloody toast.” And then there’s Saints, the list is long, Like Seer Paul and Pete the Strong; But strangest yet amongst this throng: A Pope who cannot e’er be wrong.