Roman Soldier with Vesuvius Erupting Behind by Peter Jackson – nothing to do with the poem, but too fun not to…
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.”
A modern reproduction of a terracotta Roman cup by Potted History
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 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.
St Valentine proudly bearing some anachronistic double roses. Thanks, AI…
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.
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.
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.
Clip-clop, Bump bump, Non-stop. Why are we so keen to jump This almost child, This treasured lump, From out of me ? I’m trying to stay mild, If unclean – But why must we Be on the road at all, So close to my confinement ? To carry safe this precious ball Is the god-ordained assignment Given to each mother Who ever bore another one within. Husband, dear, please, I fear I shall begin To push and squeeze My cheerful load Right here, on this busy road. Husband ? Hah ! That’s a joke. You may be my betrothed, But I kind of broke that bond When I told you I was bound for motherhood. You should have scolded me, Your broody hen, Once you had found-out you were conned, And cast me off, no doubt, As one no-good. But no, you stick around, You’re far too fond, And not like other men. But given that, And the coming brat, Could we not then have wed already ? And claim the marriage bed For our firstborn child ? No – it’s my firstborn alone, Not yours, and that must weigh. I’m the one beguiled, Who must atone for nights astray, Or so they’ll say. Thus could we not have tied the knot, As we intend to, soon enough ? I’ve brought it up, my love, a lot – So how come you forgot ? No, that’s alright, I know why not. You want this over with, And my slate clean, Before you feel you even can Then give your word to me. You want this whole absurdity Behind us, not between, Before you ever plan To ask me for your queen. You never questioned once my story, Grasped your incredulity, As comfort in the news. You’ve never been accusatory, Never voiced your views. That’s why I love you, I suppose, That’s why I chose To tell you all about it – Knowing how you’d never doubt it, Daring you to call me out, As one of those. Ow ! These famous Roman roads Are just another jagged track, Where loads must carry so much baggage On a donkey’s back…
Somewhere, deep in the Abyss, In mid-December – could it be That there exists a little glow of bliss Upon a tree ? I like to think of Lucifer himself As stringing fairy lights, With a tot of mulled wine for his health, And whistling Silent Night.
I bet he hangs up baubles, just like us, And choc’lates from afar. I hope he really makes a fuss When topping with the star. Do the demons gather round as well, As the season is unfurled ?, With a Ding Dong Merrily in Hell, And a Joy to the Underworld…
…why, thank you AI. And a very Daply Merveys to you, too !
A new god is stalking the wintertime solstice, He knows who you are, he’s checking his list. For Greenland and Finland, a new holy war – And pilgrimage grottos in every large store.
So want, children, want – believe in the glamour – Your faith is his power, your wishes his manna. So buy, parents, buy, dash yonder and hither – He’ll lift not a finger, yet always deliver.
The church is dedicated to a saint I’ve never heard of – To a Supine of Sardinia (or possibly Southend). A mural might have shown him once, before they scraped the dirt off, While the stain-glass is a patched-up jumble showing “Christ with Friend”. A reliquary hold his middle finger, so the wall-plaque claims, And possibly an eyeball, (though it may have been a sprout.) I asked the local vicar what his story was, but he just blamed “the heathens” And said Supine was a martyr to his gout.
The organist was more forthcoming, gushing over miracles – Like turning water into thirst, or plague into the pox. He brought a locust back to live by breathing on its spiracles, And made an old Ionic column weep, and found lost socks. He even taught a fish to swim, and once out-stared a snail, And he claimed that worms were demons when they crawled from out the earth. He went upon crusade – and found, then lost the Holy Grail, And he prophesised the world would end the year before his birth.
I wondered why no other churches recognised the man ? Have we all become so cynical, insisting on the proof, Until we haven’t got the space to celebrate an also-ran ? Why, the next thing, we’ll demand on prophets only telling truth ! But in the end, he met his fate when challenged on a cliff, When he said that God gave wings to all those strong in their belief. And so he died for faith – and just as real as any myth, Now he’s patron saint of bucket-men, (or possibly false teeth…)
When I wrote this, I thought it was too flippant. So I wrote the fourth verse to give it a bit more weight. However, on reflection it feels like an anti-climax, so I cut it off and present it below:
Relegated Relic
The church is dedicated to a saint I’ve never heard of – And yet somebody still knows him – and today that’s me, and you. And there’s plenty more I could have told, and I barely know a third of All the things that come attached to him, (regardless if they’re true). And I wonder if they’ll still remember me, a thousand years from now ? And if they do, what strange, outrageous feats will I perform ? So raise a prayer to Saint Supine, who made a convert of a cow – And celebrate the pilgrims who have wandered from the norm.
Rhyming Couplets 