You say you believe In demons and miracles, Gaia and Eve, In songlines and spirituals, Voodoo and karma, The Secret and aliens, Danu and dharma, And Episcopalians, Dreamcatchers, leylines, The Masons and star-signs, Von Däniken, Xenu – They all mean you well. From Asgard to Jedi, From Hades to Hell, There you dwell.
And I, you think of as too scientific, Too always-specific, Too unhieroglyphic, Too closed in my mind And too open to doubt, Who therefore won’t find What it’s really about – Too weighted by knowing To get where I’m going, My aura ain’t glowing Within or without.
And I guess That you may just be right after all, I confess My cynical pride’s due a fall – That is, If we’re really not really at all But a part of some story Whose telling is tall. For mostly in stories All magic is true, With morals and mores As naïve as you.
Not like in the Real World, The boring old Real World, Where physics still rules And must do so forever – It hasn’t a twisting Beyond its existing, But punishes fools Who refuse to be clever. For the laws shall apply To each rainbow and fly – We cannot suspend them For even a second. Impartial and total, Not just anecdotal – We’d best to befriend them, For by them we’re reckoned.
So tell me, my dear, Are we really right here, right now, Just as real as we feel ? Or maybe, somehow Are we all, I don’t know… Characters perhaps In some novel or show That scripts us and traps us, Creates us and scraps us, Like gods of the gaps Where the laws come and go. So tell me the deal, Your ardent conviction – Are we really real, Or are we just fiction ?
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.”
There is wonderment more in the Kingdom of Heaven Than all of the glories on all of the Earth – The colours are brighter, the music is sweeter, Forever and perfect and never in dearth. There is beauty and love in the Kingdom of Heaven Far greater than ever we know on this Earth – But strange how the holy are nervous to claim it, And dawdle below to delay their next berth.
There is marvel enough in the Kingdom of Heaven To fill up a thousandfold worlds with its mirth – Or so it is promised, and why should we doubt it, Inspite how we cling to all life all it’s worth. But I can wait long for the Kingdom of Heaven To sup on this world from its poles to its girth. There may be a paradise waiting in Heaven, There’s surely a paradise thriving on Earth.
There are still things that you don’t understand, he said, Things that your science cannot yet command, he said, Things that will always be strange and unplanned, Till you see our Lord God at their head.
That’s true, but I think you are crowing too soon, I said, True, but we’re learning, for all you impugn, I said, True, but just shrugging won’t fly to the moon, But it will gawp up limply instead.
Why, oh why Does Friar Fry Regard himself as I & I ? My questing question grew and grew, As fruitlessly I’d try and try To fathom out that guily guy. I chewed that puzzle through-and-through For where the answers likely lie – He knew, of course, I knew he knew, But still he let my brooding brew, While smirking on some higher high The way those holy dudes will do While letting we poor students stew. His glance was always slightly sly, As if to say “I’m using you ! I may yet further crew accrue – Am I not worth my duet due ?” And so, dejected, by-the-by, I looked him in the eye and eye And bid he share his news anew – “Oh Friar Fry, pray wise me why You see the world as mine & my ?” He looked me back and sighed a sigh And said “You know what’s truly true ? We each and all are two-by-two – Both I & I, and you & you.”
I woke that morning, I recall, Surprised somewhat I woke at all – And out my window, plain to see, My street was smoky-ruins-free. In fact, so fine a morning shone, My coat I had no call to don – The larks still sang, the doves still perched, And nowhere sulphur rained, nor zombies lurched.
I walked on through that wrathless dawn, Alive ! Alive and springing ! I gaped for lack of demon-spawn, Alive ! Alive and swinging ! I fed the ducks, I named the clouds, I mingled with bewildered crowds – We wore no coats, we wore no shrouds, Alive ! Alive and singing ! Our lives would never be the same, That day that Jesus never came.
I gawped that morning, hollered out, Surprised I had the breath to shout I danced with gnats, I waltzed with trees, I hugged the rain and kissed the breeze. I cried with strangers, wept with folk, I stuttered ev’ry word I spoke – I didn’t care, I couldn’t mind, I thanked the Lord that I was left behind.
I ran on through that wretchless day, Alive ! Alive and wheeling ! I laughed for lack of human prey, Alive ! Alive and reeling ! I leapt, I skipped or simply stood, I didn’t care for ought or should – I sang and sang because I could, Alive ! Alive and feeling ! Our lives were ours ! There was no shame, That day that Jesus never came.
So when you turn to pray in the facing-Mecca way Do you use the Great Circles or the Rhumbs ? Though both have got it wrong – for the route that’s shortest-long Shall be plumbing through the mantel as she comes.
Saint George & The Dragon by the Salviati Workshop, Woolwich Garrison church
For England & St George
Up in Heaven-on-the-Clouds You works on our behalf, Pushing through the saintly crowds To bat for Halifax and Bath, And bring to Lynn and Dale of Borrow Sun today and jam tomorrow.
Working hard in Upper Eden, Pushing England’s cause. You wouldn’t get the saint of Sweden Cheering on so many wars. Rule Britannia, Hope & Glory – Welcome to the national story.
Tea and crumpets, trains and cricket, Stratford to South Shields. There you lurk, on moor and thicket, Anglicising foreign fields. Who needs Alban, Bede or Swithun ? Give us Bowie, Dench and Niven !
But wait, I hear the Genoese Have hired your service too – And Catalans, and Portuguese, And Greek and Germans join the queue – The Georgian and the Muscovite Are proud to sport your red and white.
And soldiers, archers, and the Scouts, Equestrians and knights, And farmers rearing sheep and sprouts Are likewise firmly in your sights. I do hope, George, with all this lot That England’s voice won’t be forgot.
And then there’s leprosy and plague, And syphilis to boot, But here your role is rather vague On how you earn your extra loot – Helping patients come to terms ? Or do you represent the germs ?
And back home in your country seat, Its lord is rarely seen – In ancient times, your sandalled feet Came nowhere near our mountains green. But hey, who cares from where you’ve strayed – For Englishmen aren’t born, but made.
You spend your days in Greater Blighty, Meeting with the Boss – Asking him to make us mighty, From Land’s End to Gerrard’s Cross You always done us proud, our George, When lobbying for Cheddar Gorge.
“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.
Jesus ? My word ! Oh my lord, it’s the boss… Well, I never expected to see you today – Except maybe just hanging out up on your cross… Yet it’s funny, but when as a kid we would pray, And the Reverend Thomas instructed our eyes To be scrupe’lessly be tight and respectfully shut, Still I’d sneak them half-open and squint at your thighs, Half-expecting you’d come down a moment and strut. When there’s no-one to see, would you take-up the chance To relax and to stretch, and to smoke, and to dance ?- Till the words of the prayer were quite lost to my trance. Yet you never showed even the hint you’re alive, So you hung just the same when we sipped on your blood, And you looked down as glum when we learned of the Flood, And you seemed as remote when our prayer-books would thud, And we mumbled or massacred Hymn Forty-Five.
But anyway, never mind my reminiscence, Just how long’s it been since you came round my way ? For somehow you faded in slow evanescence, Your black and white certainties merging to grey. And old Reverend Thomas was no help explaining The problem of evil or problem of gays, And so finally, even my lifelong ingraining Could not keep the wonder or stem the malaise. But reading the papers, there’s plenty of good news – From leprosy vaccines to movies and blues, And there’s juries, and voting, and self-tapping screws – When abandoned, alone, we learned how to be great. I had waited and waited back there in your church For some word or some action to come from your perch, But unheard was my questions, and unseen my search – Until now, when I find you, I find you too late.
Rhyming Couplets 