Green men – as grey as stone, All talking with their mouths full, Look in any ancient church And you may find a houseful. Part of the grotesque gallery To keep watch on us mortals – Lurking round the capitals, And hanging from the corbels.
Green men, as Pagan as they sound, As yews and birches, As nature-sprites whose temples got rebuilt As parish churches. Or are they jolly demons, greening Hell And sprouting lies ? They don’t look very evil, though – But rather rustic-wise.
Green men, as vigorous as weeds Where priests don’t mow – Though Jesus doesn’t mind, it seems, Content to let them grow. So are they harvest gods of yore, Or mistletoes in larches ? Or are they merely hunkypunks, To decorate the arches ?
In this temple of angels, We’re pilgrims in limbo, Awaiting Saint Peter to check in our baggage – To weigh out our burdens, And peer at our passports, And turn us away, or to bid us safe passage. And then we are summoned By guardian cherubim, Prodding and stripping and shriving our souls. Our pockets are emptied, Our liquids are measured – And we submit meekly, as humble as foals. So on through the pearly gates, Searching for metal, And out into Heaven, we worthy and pure. No longer unclean, We are free of all duty, Absolved of suspicion, we’re righteous once more. We browse through the magazines, Sip our espressos, And wait for our boarding as one patient crowd. And once we are seated, We are the departed – Our spirits are flying first-class to the clouds.
As the son of a dairy farm, My Pa told me a secret charm – On Christmas Eve, between ourselves , Our cattle knelt at the stroke of Twelve. “Can I see it ?” “No, too late, You’ll have to grow up first and wait. Let’s tuck you up, like the hens and geese, And leave the girls to kneel in peace.” But unlike Thomas Hardy, I Was not prepared to pass it by, And woke by chance at seven-to When bursting for the landing loo. But having dealt with that, I said “How can I just return to bed ? This is my chance – I have to go, Or else I know I’ll never know !” I crept downstairs, across the floor, To don my peacoat by the door. I left my slippers on my feet For I had destiny to meet !, Not a second’s hesitation Could be wasted with a lace-on. Lift the latch and out we go, Crunching softly through the snow, (Despite that day’s half-hearted thaw), To squelch across the muck and straw That filled the barn, those bovine halls, And peeked into the Winter stalls (And now I wish I’d worn my wellies) – No ! They’re all led on their bellies ! Some had rolled onto their flanks, And none had tucked beneath their shanks, And all their heads were on the boards, And none kept vigil for the Lord. Our ev’ry beast was heathen-born !, From Hyacinth to Meadowcorn, And Daisy, Rose, and Honeydew, They each and all just slept on through ! And shame the most for Buttercup Who did her sleeping standing up ! So distraught was I, so dead, I didn’t hear my Father’s tread Until his hand was on my shoulder, “Seems tonight you’re growing older. I suppose I set this up, But never thought my little pup Would take my story at my word – It’s passed down with the family herd.” I tried to scream, I tried to cry But all that left my lips was “Why ?” “If you want to ask me that, It’s too late for a lengthy chat – So I will only answer once, Then off to bed and no more stunts.” “Then…then…I want to ask Is ev’ry story just a mask ? Are all the rest a lie as well – Like Santa, Jesus, Tinkerbell ?” “Fair enough, the answer’s Yes.” “For which ?” I blurted in distress, But he just smiled, and shook his head, And carried me upstairs to bed.
The Census of Quirinius by the circle of Willem de Poorter (I have no idea if ‘circle of’ is different than ‘school of’)
The Census of Quirinius
Ev’rybody, listen well, It’s time to let the tellers tell – It’s time to tally, toll, and tot, To work-out how much folks we’ve got. Ev’rybody, near and far, We need to count you where you are. Don’t move about, don’t clog the roads, We need you logged in your abodes. Get off those donkeys ! Park those asses ! Stop this movement of the masses ! We don’t care whose tribe is yours, Your genealogies are bores ! Whatever heritage you claim, You know, we’ll tax you just the same. So you’re descended down from David, Centuries years ago, hey kid ? But so is half the town, no doubt – You are aware he got about ? Ah well, I guess you’ve made it now, Let’s have your data anyhow –
You say you are a carpenter, And also you’re…a harbinger…? So would you be, may I enquire, Yet another Lord Messiah ? Oh, your son, you claim, not you ? I’ll put you down as Number II. But wait…I hear upon your tongue An accent…are you further-flung ?, A shibboleth upon your breath – You say you hail from…Nazareth ? You mean you live in Galilee ? Then why, by Jupiter, tell me ? Why can you Northerners not grasp, You pay your tax to Antipas ? Well yes, they all reach Rome, each load, But travel by a diff’rent road. Now please, go home !, our time is done, Now live your life and raise your son – But give to Caesar, nonetheless… So Hermes-speed, and Juno-bless.
detail from Saint Peter in front of his eponymous basilica in the Vatican, sculpted by Adamo Tadolini
Mistress Blacklock
Throughout the gothic city-states, Secure with many doors and gates, The greatest craftsmen in the land Were those who crafted locks – Protecting life and property Behind the password of a key – And yet, with just a twist of hand It frees our hearths and stocks.
Thus, whereupon the plague is rife, The locals dread their very life, And conjured up a chatelaine To rattle in the night – A mistress dark and grimly tall With sturdy boots and sweeping shawl, And ring-bound keys upon a chain To lock the dead up tight.
Never in a hurry, she, Yet striding on determinedly – She visits those who’s fever runs As fast as runs their sands. No lock can bar her solemn deeds, For she has just the key she needs To reach all lovers, reach all sons – Where’er the fever lands.
The doors unlock, and slowly swing Upon the rogue and saint and king, And in she stalks with silent ease, And stoppable by none. She takes the ring about her waist And cycles, never in a haste, Through all her heavy iron keys To find the very one.
And that she lifts and points toward Her victim, all the rest ignored And presses to his chest her shaft That bloodless passes through. The fingers of her left discern The bow upon the shank, and turn As smoothly as the masters’ craft, Their workings, firm and true.
Her right she offers to he held By him, that fear may be dispelled – They say her bony, steady hands Are warmer than you’d think. And so his latches spring apart To free his soul and stop his heart – Her key withdraws from out his glands With just the faintest clink.
And with that, speaking not a word, And with no other neighbour stirred, The plague has been about its chores With not a jam or jolt. As through the busy, ailing towns She goes about her nightly rounds, Of dousing lights and shutting doors And drawing home the bolt.
detail from a 1700s German painting by, well, who knows ?
Thank-You and Goodnight
The End of the World should come on a Sunday, After a glorious night on the tiles – When we’re hungover with breakfast at noon, Then we’d welcome Apocalypse, fire and typhoon ! We’ve slogged all the week, so give us some fun, hey, Hold off the Hades till priests fill the aisles – Not with a Mardi, but Samedi Gras ! A season finale, and one last hurrah !
Does the Devil lurk at crossroads ? Doesn’t he have some place to go ? It’s a waypoint, not a terminus. But strum a guitar to the croaking toads And see if the Highway Lord will show – Or, failing that, the midnight bus.
Isn’t this where mediaeval priests Would bury the suicidal souls ? Is that why Satan’s such a fan ? But no undeads tonight, at least, Just jamming with the bats and moles, With not a trace of a bogeyman.
Of all the places to meet with fate, A junction seems a strange address – It sounds like the Devil’s lost his way. Whatever, the hour is getting late, With only the hedgehogs to impress – Time, perhaps, to call it a day.
These roads are just two country lanes, That even in daylight are pretty stark – The Devil has better things to do. Now, which way did I come, again ? All these paths look the same in the dark – Where’s the signpost ? Not a clue…
In Church – A Composing Sermon by another anon, alas
Their Ears are Dull of Hearing
“And these are the garments that you shall craft – A breastplate, an ephod, and broideried coat, A mitre, and girdle of curious draft.” And thus it was written, for thus they wrote.
“And you shall take gold, and purple, and blue, And scarlet, and fine-twined linen and thread, With much cunning work, and onyx stones two.” And thus it was written, for thus they said.
“These are the garments most holy you’ll make For priests, that they may minister me In glory and beauty, and for my sake.” And thus it was written, eternally.
Plans and measurements, timber and twill – The Ark, the Altar, the Tabernacle. Why do we need to remember these still ? Haven’t we more pressing matters to tackle ?
“Ham begat Put begat Cush begat Nimrod, And Lotan, and Shobal, and duke Zibeon, And Shem begat Elam and Aram and Lud…” And thus it was written, and on, and on.
“Seethe not the kid in the milk of his mother, Now mine is the firstling from out of the womb, And thou shalt not make of a slave of another… No, let’s drop that last one – we’ve run out of room…”
The Bible lumps the bats in with the birds, And oh, how we sneer. “A mammal is no more a fowl Than a dragonfly is like an owl.” But hang-on, none of those are Hebrew words, So none of those appear – They have their own, we must allow – So don’t confound their language, now.
Maybe what we think meant ‘bird’ to them Meant simply ‘thing that flies’ – And likewise whales are fish that swim, And snakes are worms for lacking limbs. It’s unscientific, so we condemn, But that don’t mean it’s lies. They did the job they were assigned – To each their own, and after their kind.
Rhyming Couplets 