The Judgement of Parishes
Zeus was tried for rape and murder,
So were all his kin –
And the verdict came back guilty
For their cruelty and sin.
Their sentence was to be forgotten –
Maybe not in name,
And yet from our hearts and from our prayers,
We snuffed their precious flame.
We found a god of kindness
Over whom to make a fuss –
Though just as much a lie, of course,
But one that suited us.
He that hath the Key of David
Peter, Peter, holding the keys to Heaven –
Without them, he’s quite undressed !
And looking so very med’eval in expression,
Upon the Papal crest.
And always two, when crossed or in the hand,
As their fated moment waits –
Presumably to seal up the hinterland
Behind the Pearly Gates.
Duplicates ? Or are there two locks ?
Though Roman keys were crude in their click –
I guess the security has taken some knocks,
And been upgraded to the latest trick –
But by flashing the teeth, you’ll hardly outfox
The burglars, who won’t find them hard to pick.
Peter, Peter, jailer or janitor ?
Jingling through the Heavenly crowds.
And locking the safe like a manager,
Or winding-up the clockwork clouds ?
Less Polymath, More Monomath
Leo, Leo, heavenly man,
A mathematician who became a priest –
You knew about sin, and cos, and tan,
And the factors of the Number of the Beast.
But you favoured Logos over logic,
Never counting the chromosomes of the Son –
So now you teach a numeric bodge
By claiming one plus one plus one is one.
Habemus Poppycock
The Pope gave a blessing in Latin,
To a rapt and clueless crowd,
Nodding along like they understood
This showing-off spouted aloud.
He might as well have spoken in Klingon,
To please a handful of nerds –
It would have done just about as much good,
To the un-understanding herds.
Perhaps the Pope is one of those pedants
Who cannot accept things change –
And thinks that holiness is got
From the old, exotic, and strange.
Though maybe he spoke in Latin
So to reach the ears of the Lord –
But does that imply that God is a monoglot,
Stubborn and easily bored ?
Custodia Golgothae
“Say ye, ‘his disciples came by night, and stole him away while we slept’.”
– Matthew 28:13
“You what ? You want we let you take
The very thing we’re here to guard ?
And claim we couldn’t keep awake,
While you came by to simply shake
The boulder from the tomb ?
Have you a notion just how hard
And noisy that would be ?
Or how to fall asleep on duty
Likely means our doom ?
Keep your shekels, keep your plot –
And we shall keep our heads.
For losing corpses, like as not,
Is something that won’t be forgot –
And fatal to behold.
It’s late – best be off to your beds,
And let the fallen rest.
Remember him when at his best,
Not when he’s lying cold.”
The Holy Grail
The cup was just another cup,
And owned by just an inn.
Its purpose was to hold the liquids
Poured out of the skin.
It would be simple earthenware,
With not a jewel in sight –
A vessel meant to do a job,
Like any other night.
It wasn’t the cup of a carpenter,
For it never was his to own –
But merely rented for the meal
As a unremarked-on loan.
It would be washed and set at table,
With a dozen more –
And used by other lips tomorrow –
That’s what cups are for…
Relics are just relics
Of the talismans of old –
Why the search for dreaming clays,
And not the wines they hold ?
The Gospels often mention who is hosting Jesus for a meal, so the fact that they are silent on who provided the Upper Room for the Last Supper makes me think it could have been at an inn. And although this was a Passover meal, it seems unlikely the establishment would have kept a separate set of crockery just for one day. The vessels were probably made from the local terra rossa or marl clay, producing earthenware, with minimal decoration similar to that shown (albeit at the other end of the Empire).
And on a tangent, but isn’t it curious how obsessed we are with the grail that held the original wine, but couldn’t care less about the platter that held the original bread ?
The Lord God Made Them All
The Teacher of my prim’ry school,
Had a class terrarium –
I used to think it far more cool
Than an dull aquarium.
What was in it ? It wasn’t ants,
Or butterflies, or bees,
Nor stick-insects on potted plants,
Or circus-ready fleas.
Woodlice would be far too small,
But these were large as brooches –
And the Head had ruled out, I recall,
Tarantulas or roaches.
I do remember chirping,
But I don’t think they were crickets –
Rather, they were something lurking,
In their tank of wood-chip thickets.
Very shiny black, they were,
And safe for us to handle –
The kind of pet the schools prefer,
That wouldn’t cause a scandal.
Ah yes, they were bess beetles !
And the best beetles around.
They were so pretty, yet discreet,
When burrowed in the ground.
They lived their lives on rotting wood,
With their not-so-many grubs,
Which they cared for like a parent should –
By giving belly rubs.
And they’d recycle wood, as well
And clean the forest floor –
Whenever they were low, it fell to me
To give them more.
The Vicar, when he came to school,
Just loved to point them out –
He found they were a useful tool
To help us be devout.
Even the fathers got involved,
As their kids reached adulthood –
It seemed these insects somehow solved
The trick to being good.
These were godly creatures, he would say,
Almost Confucian –
He never mentioned how they came that way
Through evolution.
Or how they’d eat their excrement, their frass,
To redigest.
That wasn’t the sort of thing for class !,
And wouldn’t be on the test…
Me, I loved to handle them,
They never bit or scampered.
Even their young I couldn’t condemn –
Those maggots plump and pampered.
And they even sang to them, soft squeaks,
And lived a year or two.
In insect terms, these guys were freaks,
Yet ev’ry bit as true.
Bess beetles, betsy bugs,
These patent-leather passalids –
All wrapping up their larvas snug,
To help pupate their kids.
Industrious, yet safe and pure,
In their tight-knit family –
There’s a metaphor in there, I’m sure,
But it was lost on me.
Saints of a Lesser Rank
The names we give our churches
Are all bound by strange constraints –
There’s an unwritten convention
To the way we dole-out saints.
So every town must have its Mary,
And its James or Paul, if space,
And all the All Saints crowding altars
Ever since the days of Thrace.
But as for Valentine, whose name
Is just as big as these, or bigger –
On the street, this saint for couples
Cuts an oddly lonely figure.
P’raps to worship him on ev’ry Sunday,
Sending prayers above,
Must seem to stuffy vicars like indulgence,
Gorging weekly love…
Yet how can priests with vows of chastity
Behold this worldy man,
Who teaches us to worship with our bodies ?
Best to scoff, and ban…
And yet, on February nights,
And far from Canterb’ry or Rome,
We pilgrims come together in his name
At makeshift shrines at home.
I have previously discussed a preference for local saints over here.
The Price of Sharps
I remember when my father gave me
My first penknife, as a lad,
A ritual passed-on from his dad.
“I see you’re growing up, our Davy”
Like me, it was Sheffield made,
With a penny taped upon the blade.
“We always do that – that’s tradition.
You need to give that back to me,
To pay me for the present, see ?
It’s just a silly superstition,
But it’s how it’s always done –
Best to play along, hey, son.”
So now it’s my turn, as the father,
With my boy departing home
To study Greeks and Ancient Rome.
“You’ll have to learn to cook now, rather
Than depending on your mother.
A world of flavours to discover !”
And I gave him a set of knives
With which to peel and dice and chop,
Without a penny taped on top.
It felt at odds with modern lives –
Instead, let’s pass on tools and shears,
And pay them forward, down the years.
Holy Innocents
Hush, little one,
Don’t stir, don’t cry.
Do you hear the soldiers passing by ?
Do you hear the garrison
Over the wall ?
Tonight is their Winter free-for-all.
Little one, they have strange gods within
We hear their tales, we hear their din.
Tonight is a festival to one –
Saturn, I think – a night of fun.
And I saw Pilate come to behold –
He was dressed in finest red and gold.
And joining him, tonight at least,
Was good King Herod, up for the feast.
Hush, little one,
Don’t cry, don’t stir,
I hear the tension, bitter as myrrh.
I hear our rabbis,
Hear their priests –
Tonight, let’s hope they only feast.
Little one, we have a stranger pact
In Jerusalem, where neither act
To antagonise the delicate peace –
But one year soon, all that may cease.
And I saw Pilate, watching me –
Waiting to see what it is I’ll be.
And I saw Herod, watching you,
Waiting to see what it is you’ll do.
Hush, little one,
Don’t fret tonight,
They sound too drunken for a fight.
Perhaps their gods shall treat us kind,
And leave just love and peace behind.
Rhyming Couplets 