The theatre is haunted, of course, Because, well, you know actors… An ingenue, I think, or else a restless dame – Or was the spectral source A longtime patron, or some benefactors Still attending shows just like they always came ? Expectation’s such a force And narratives are such attractors – No stage worth its boards can be without its ghostly claim. The theatre is haunted, of course – That must be the common factor, Why both the roof and the backstage gossip leak-out just the same.
As Atlas said to Sisyphus, To lift the latter’s frown: “We bear a heavy burden, But don’t let it drag you down.” As Sisyphus replied to Atlas, In a weary wheeze – “Huh. Yours is on your shoulders, But mine is on my knees.” So Atlas said to Sisyphus “Don’t be a deadweight, dude. You’re so intense and full-of-lead, And warp space with your mood.” But Sisyphus replied “Just stop !, You’re weighing on my soul. But I wouldn’t stand down there, mate – This rock’s about to roll.”
detail from John Kay, Inventor of the Fly Shuttle by Ford Madox-Brown
Ravelling
Penelope just cannot seem To stitch the seam to stop her shroud – She warps her wefts and weaves her wools, And intermingles through the crowd. But somehow, she can’t cast them off, Who lurk around her loom – They watch her fingers thread and pull, To work the fabric of her tomb.
She has the memory of a goldfish, In that she remembers pretty well. She is a frog in a warming dish That knows it is no place to dwell. And she’s a giraffe who loves shut-eye, An ostrich with her head held high, A colourblind bull when the red rags fly, And an old wife with new tales to tell.
Staring deep in wonder at an apple, Or contemplating where to move in chess, Shutting-out the thoughts with which we grapple – Boring, boring, boring mindfulness !
Lazy-arses squatting in believe-ment, While others get stuff done so you can pray – But beauty’s in distraction and achievement, And life’s too short for omming it away.
Where were the darts of Galilee ? And the damsels of the Rubicon ? Was Runnymede so needle-free, Or the Athens Woods of Oberon ? So where are all the dragonflies ? There’s not a word in tale or scroll – The Greeks and Romans closed their eyes, The monks and knights ignored them whole.
It took the new Enlightenment To even notice them at last – And then Romantics sought intent In Nature bold and wild and vast – Till Art Nouveau, which gave them wings That keeps them soaring till this day – As wardens of eternal springs, Where dreamy Summers while away.
So where were the dragonflies of Hermes ? Why no mention in the myths ? Why did Freyr not claim these flurries, Crafted by the finest smiths ? Perhaps the Bible’s just too dry For water-sprites as story-tools, But rainy Europe shouldn’t shy To catch the eye with flying jewels.
Transforming in among the reeds, A lit’ral metamorphosis – The fey-folk surely rode these steeds ?, Yet Brigid never knew such bliss. Shouldn’t the Devil have taken hold ?, Or gargoyles, say, or heraldry ? Yet where were the dragonflies of old ?, Who chirped and danced for nobody.
‘Adderbolt’ is the only earlier name for them that I couold find, and this only dates from 1483, according to the OED, and ‘Devil’s darning needle’ is only from 1809.
And finally, the image below is from a poster which looks reminiscent of others advertising the various Art Nouveau exhibitions at places like the V&A.cHowever, I cannot find out anything else about this particular image, and if it is even an original by William Morris. I hope it isn’t AI…
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.
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 ?
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.
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 ?
Rhyming Couplets 