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Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Monthly Archives: May 2015

All Saints, Bransgore (New Forest, Hants)

31 Sunday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Architecture, Family, History, mythology, Nature, Poetry, Religion, Sculpture

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

All Saints, Avon Tyrrell, Bransgore, Clovelly, Foret de retz, Furze, Gorse, Grenadiers, John-Neville Manners, Lady Manners, oculus, Pegasus, Phoebe Traquair, puttees, Rond de Reine, Te Deum, Thorney Hill, Villers-Cotterets, WW1

DSCF6476

(image of Lt Manners’ monument, All Saints, Bransgore

copyright Candia Dixon-Stuart)

Over the graveyard’s barbed wire fence I spot

two white horses, as if through a gun sight.

My lens fails to foreground a red poppy

spared from mowing round the War Monument.

Can I see clearly down a century?

Now strong sunlight obscures my vision,

but then it was an early morning mist:

Lt. Manners squinting down the ride,

looking for a paternal miracle.

But no one wagered on this outcome.

There was no unexpected coup de grace-

the response rather from artillery.

Soon two Old Etonians lay dead.

Grenadiers shared a blood-soaked sylvan bed.

Here prickly furze and gorse on Thorney Hill

excoriate its brow; leave cicatrices.

Bronzed youth leans his head on his haversack,

clean puttees tightly laced; his belt buckled,

while dreaming on his military mat.

In the peace of the Rond de Reine he meets

his uncorrupted, virginal sibling-

she of the seraphic face on doors

and oculus of this sanctuary.

They embrace in an Indian summer.

She rests in Clovelly; he in the Retz-

beech forest around Villers-Cotterets.

While, for the next six years, Lady Constance

stares out of a different window each day,

at Avon Tyrrell, but she never sees

her heart’s desire.  And so she goes to them.

She’d yearned for an Apocalyptic steed:

a pale white Pegasus which would bear her

beyond the realms of possibility,

to meet both children on the moors once more;

to laugh with gypsies; listen to birdsong.

At peace in the silence of the forest,

the sharp sting of death is now neutralised

in a temple of togetherness, lulled

by the gentle Te Deum of the bees.

Notes:

The wager refers to Manners’ father who won The Grand

National and with the proceeds of his bet, built Avon Tyrrell.

Lt Manners’ older sister died in India, of cholera and the

church is a memorial to her.

Lt Manners was an Old Etonian and other school friends lost

their lives in the same rencontre.

Avon Tyrrell had 365 windows, being a ‘calendar house’.

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Permission Granted

28 Thursday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Education, Family, Humour, Literature, mythology, Philosophy, Poetry, Religion, Social Comment

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

BIrnam Wood, Browning, Dickens, Dunsinane, Gove, Hamelin, Human Rights, in absentia, mojo, Moselle, Musicians of Bremen, Narrative Verse, Pied Piper, Poldark, radon, Riesling, Rip Van Winkle, Schlachte Embankment, Scrooge, scything, St Birinus Middle School, Va-va-voom, Weser

Image result for letter

Mr Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle, opened the parental

letter which he had insisted should be sent.

Mum will send you an e-mail, sir, Peregrine Willcox Junior had simpered.

Paper notification is what I require, child, Snod underlined.  I don’t trust

new-fangled technology for record-keeping.

Blimey! thought Peregrine-or something to that effect.

And so it was that a letter, curiously addressed in childish,

round cursive script, landed on the form desk.  There was no

accompanying apple, with, or without a resident worm.

Once the bell had rung and the boys had filed out to Assembly,

Snod took a closer look.  You will have detected a reckless dismissal

of his need to attend such ritualistic gatherings.

At least the missive did not terminate in the infamous:

Signed,

My Mother.

So… Mrs W was in the travel business.  Might be good for an upgrade.

He had heard of teachers who had taught boys who had become pilots.

Such students frequently proved to be good contacts when a favour was

required from the airlines.  He was short on such sources of beneficence.

But, no-this mother was complaining about the Gove effect.  She could not

comprehend why she could not take her offspring on holiday during

term time.

(OGL image)

Nothing much gets done in the last couple of weeks, she observed.

In your opinion, thought Snod, but in the case of your bratlet, nothing

much gets done all term.

Mrs W went on to recognise that she could face a fine of £60 per day.

She made the point that she would be saving that amount (and more)

by travelling off-peak.  She did not fear the Birnam Wood of prosecution,

nor the Dunsinane of incarceration.  She seemed to fear no man of woman

born.

Aha! reflected Snod.  Never underestimate the power of metaphor.  A wood

did come towards Dunsinane!

He anticipated the appeal to Human Rights and was not disappointed.

She quoted the CEO of a Cornish tourist board who advocated family

enrichment weeks.  Cornwall- that was where that wretched Milford-Haven

hailed from.  The Junior Master didn’t seem to have been enriched by his

upbringing down that neck of the woods. Perhaps it was the radon that

had affected him.

This woman seemed to think that Snod should turn up to teach whether

her child was in absentia or not.  She suggested that staggering the school

holidays might be a good idea.

I would be the one who would be staggering, fumed Snod.  I’m practically

a stretcher case by the end of June as it is.  When am I expected to re-

charge my batteries?  I will not utilise the ghastly phrases about losing my

mojo, or va-va-voom.  I just need to vamoose.  Preferably for eight weeks.

This out-dated long summer break is tied to our agrarian past, continued Mrs

W.  It might have made sense when children were needed to bring in the

harvest.  Things have moved on.

I wouldn’t agree with you there, Snod scowled, though mollified that she

had used a Latin based adjective.  The only interest the children of today

have in land management is an unhealthy curiosity in scything, as

demonstrated in Poldark.  It would do them a lot of good to bring in the

hay, whether the sun shone, or not.

He suddenly remembered how he had assisted the groundsman in his

school  holidays, when no one had collected him and he had not been

invited home with any chums.  He had felt abandoned like the youthful

Scrooge in Dickens’ heart-rending tale.

The summer holidays had stretched out forever.  How bitter some of his

experiences had been back then.

Suddenly he felt quite benign.  A snatch of that awful song from a

Disney film came to his mind.  Let it go!  It will be one fewer ink

exercise to mark.  He, or she, who pays the piper calls the tune.  And,

yes, Mrs W pays the school fees, whether her son attends or not.  It is

just a pity that a greater proportion of that payment doesn’t filter down

to the rats who, as in my case, are contemplating leaving the sinking

ship of Education anyway.

And was he a piper then?  He had no intention of leading his students

into a Rip van Winkle cavern.  Maybe he did induce sleep in some, especially

on a Monday morning.  That would be his drone.  Piper…drone!  Puns had

always amused him.

No, the boy could go.  What did he care?

Felicitously, Snod didn’t have to worry about what to teach in Period

One.

The woman had jolted his memory of how successful a source

Browning’s poem could be.  Now where was that copy of Narrative Verse

through the Ages?

Maybe his tolerance and compliance might be good for an upgrade after

all.  Hamelin– he didn’t think he had been there.  Maybe he and Virginia

could take a river cruise down the Weser?  He wondered if that might tie in

with the consumption of some fine German wines.  He would ask Mrs W for

advice.

No problem, Mr Snodbury.  We can arrange a Hanseatic cruise for you with

a two day Schlachte Embankment break.  Tell you what- we will throw in a

complimentary Musicians of Bremen beer garden experience at no extra

charge, in view of all that you have done for Peregrine since last year.

It wasn’t exactly Moselle and Riesling, but at least that was some of

the school hols sorted.

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Beast of Bolsover II

22 Friday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Education, History, Humour, Literature, Music, News, Poetry, Politics, Psychology, Satire, Social Comment, Suttonford

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

acolyte, aleatoric, Arms and the Man, Avant-Garde music, Battle of Little Bighorn, Beast of Bolsover, Black Rod, Custer's Last Stand, Denis Skinner, front bench, Get out of Jail Free, House of Commons, John Cage, nursery pudding, probationary teacher, Raina Petkoff, Scarlett O'Hara, SNP, Spotted Dick

It was the end of the week and the St Birinus’ Middle Staff Meeting had rolled

around once more, with terrifying regularity.  The gathering was a

sacrosanct feature on the school calendar.

Mr Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master – ‘Snod‘ to all and sundry-made his

slightly tardy arrival.  Some bitchily said this was in order to achieve a

grand entrance, but Scarlett O’Hara he was not, nor even Raina from

Arms and the Man, though he DID know the original source of Shaw’s

play’s title, being a Classicist.

He knocked the door peremptorily, provoking Mr Geoffrey Poskett to

move his lithe frame which was appuyant against the staffroom exit.

Who does he think he is?  Black Rod? The Head of Music fulminated

silently.  Geoffrey had conveniently positioned himself so as to be

able to leg it over to lunch while there was a possibility of Spotted

Dick still being on the menu.

Snod directed a crushing glance in his direction and slid past him,

negotiating his path towards his favourite seat in the front bench,

correction: front row, from which he preferred to challenge The Head

Teacher, pretty much in the sarcastic manner of Dennis Skinner, MP,

in The House of Commons.

But, mehercule! Qu’est-ce-que-se-passe ici?

He whom the Junior Masters had nick-named The Beast of Bolsover II

had been supplanted.   A probationary Minister, nay, Master was

ensconced in Snod’s favourite armchair.

Image result for armchair

I think you’ll find that I had reserved that particular place, Snod

menaced, looking for the evidence of his battered and displaced

hymnal.

I didn’t realise that places could be reserved, replied the impertinent

pup.

Don’t take that particular SNP tone with me, young sir, Snod

answered.  I inherited this chair three decades ago, on the demise

of its previous incumbent, my own House Master, Mr Stickland.  It is

directly in the line of fire and consequently only for occupants of a

rebellious nature.  You, sir, have not enough experience to be able to

sabotage at the appropriate level.  Half the Junior Masters are toerags

compared to…

Kindly withdraw that pejorative remark, Mr Snodbury, commanded The

Headmaster.

He was also looking at the clock and was itching to conclude proceedings

so as to leg it to the refectory as fast as was decently possible.  Nursery

puddings-yum!  He wasn’t allowed them at home.

Snod threw his hands in the air.  All right, sir.  The other half aren’t.

The Headmaster gave up any idea of ingesting the last of the

steamed pud.

It wasn’t that Snod sought to emulate Dennis Skinner, except in that

old curmudgeon’s conscientious record for best attendance and so on.

However, Snod and the MP shared an appreciation of the importance of

Custard- Freudian slip!– Custer and his Last Stand.

Charles Marion Russell - The Custer Fight (1903).jpg

Early bath, Mr Snodbury! warned The Headmaster.  The Battle of Little

Bighorn had not even commenced.

Everyone sniggered.  The usurper, however, moved to the seat behind,

chiefly because he required the support of The Senior Master in a little

matter in which a parent had complained about the distinct lack of prep

that he had recently set and marked.

Boys to be discussed…? The Headmaster wearily inquired.

Boothroyd-Smythe, a Form Master suggested.

Everyone groaned.  The Supplanter sweated under his collar.  He knew

he was in for it.

Can you comment on this homework matter, Mr Snodbury?  The

Headmaster appealed.

Certainly, sir.  It is a matter of ‘when posh boys are in trouble they seek

to sack the servants.’

Resolved then?  Let’s go to lunch.

Collective stomachs rumbled gratefully.  Mr Poskett heard nuances of

an aleatoric symphony of  Avant-Garde music.  But then he had just been

teaching John Cage to an unresponsive bunch, so the similarity sprung

to mind.

Thereafter, The Junior Master gave place to his elder and better as

he knew that his career at St Birinus’ was entirely dependent on his

ability to extract a Get Out of Jail Free card from Mr Augustus Snodbury,

Senior Master.  And with this revelation, he joined the ranks of

faithful acolytes.

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En Retard

13 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Education, Family, Humour, Literature, News, Poetry, Suttonford

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Coventry, half-term envelope, Henley Green, lotos-eating, Marvell, pocket watch, politeness of kings, Roadside Rescue, speed awareness course, The General Strike of 1926, Time's winged chariot

John Boothroyd-Smythe took his half term envelope out of his

rucksack and gave it to his mother.   This was a miracle in itself.

Usually it would fester among his rugby socks for weeks on end,

until his mother suddenly realised that she was deficient in some

vital piece of information for the following weeks.  Then she would

launch a search party to discover the whereabouts of the said

missive, which, by then, had semi-biodegraded.

A red slip fell out of the envelope.  She picked it up and

expostulated:  They’ve got another think coming!

The piece of paper was headed: En Retard! She was being fined

ten pounds as she had seemingly been late on at least three

occasions in the previous half term.  Late in picking John up

in the afternoons.

They must have got the idea from that school in the news…what was

it?  Oh yes- Henley Green in Coventry.

Don’t pay it, mum, her delinquent son advised.   Who shopped you-

Mr Milford-Haven?  He has to wait till every boy has been collected

from the yard.

Yes, that snivelling Junior Master, apparently.  That is his signature

on the form, is it not?  They’re probably trying to raise money for a

cushy new armchair in the staffroom – one into which they can sink

at the end of a particularly hard day while we parents battle through

the rush hour traffic to pick up the children that subsidise their lotos-

eating.

John concurred.  He didn’t know what lotos-eating was, but it

reminded him that he was hungry.

Well, I’m going to complain to his line manager…

John looked blank.

Mr Snodbury.  He is sure to support me in this infringement

of human decency.

John was not so confident.

Well, the old duffer is behind the times himself.  But, leave it till

tomorrow, mum.  What’s for tea?

***********************

Three times.  When?  How had it happened?

There was the Tuesday when she had had a puncture after hitting

that pothole and she had had to wait ages for the Roadside Rescue

chap.  But when else?

Oh, she remembered that she had got her shoulders stuck in a dress

that she had been trying on and had had to solicit assistance from

one of the salesgirls.  She was embarrassed as she had only had her

second best bra on.

But when was the third time?

Ah.  She had been delayed when she had been stopped for

doing thirty-five mph in a thirty zone and had had to agree to go

on a speed awareness course, or take points on her licence.  She

was being punished twice.

Mr Snodbury picked up the phone in the office of The Head’s PA, Virginia

Fisher-Giles.

Who is it? he mouthed to the silk-stockinged one.

That dreadful Boothroyd-Smythe woman, Virginia whispered.

Well, Mrs Boothroyd-Smythe, as my own venerable Housemaster

used to say: ‘Life isn’t fair’.  In fact, Mr Quentin Stickland, or ‘Stickler’

as we were wont to call him, did once address me on the matter of

timekeeping, in my days of callow youthdom.  He looked pointedly

at his pocket watch and reminded me that punctuality was- and indeed

is- the politeness of princes. And once, when I was thirty seconds late

for hymn practice, he admonished me with his personal recollection that

he had never been tardy, even throughout The General Strike of 1926,

so he could not comprehend my problem.

Gisela knew that she was on a losing wicket.

But Snod was in full reminiscence mode now.  You know, that dear old

boy was in Registration before 9am every morning, for forty-five years.

The only occasion that he didn’t quite make it was when he collapsed

outside the Form Room at 8:59 am and breathed his last.

That was when the hour hand on the school clock-tower froze, in 1962.

So, you see, Mrs Boothroyd-Smythe, your contribution, along with those

garnered from the-ah-less punctilious parents, will go some way to the

restoration of the clock, in his honour.

Who knows?  I may even have the privilege to honour his memory once

again, as I did at his first Memorial service when I recited a bowdlerised

and truncated version of his favourite poem by Marvell.  The lines about

hearing at one’s back the wings of Times’ chariot seem especially apt in

these days of casual dilatory behaviour…

But there was no back-channelled response.  At his back, Snod could only

hear the buzz of the dialling tone.

Gisela would pay up.  She just didn’t have the time, nor inclination, to

argue.

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International Rescue?

12 Tuesday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Family, Film, Humour, News, Politics, Satire

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

David Miliband, International Rescue, Thunderbirds

Series title over a image of outer space

David Miliband 2.jpg

And please don’t nick my idea, anyone!

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Waiting for the Wistaria

12 Tuesday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Horticulture, Nature, Religion

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Cana, Priors Gate, Winchester Cathedral, wistaria

Chinese Wisteria Blütentrauben.JPG

A re-blog, as every year I get a kick out of

seeing the magnificent wistaria at the entrance

to The Cathedral Close in Winchester:

WAITING FOR THE WISTARIA

Waiting weeks for wistaria’s welter

of tendrils, to titivate Prior’s Gate;

to flourish its purple helter-skelter

ear-rings.  For Winchester, it seems quite late;

elsewhere trailers blossomed against bright brick

facades, yet soon their petals will be spent.

But this one saves its special party trick

till last-like choice Cana wine, heaven scent.

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Metamorphosis

05 Tuesday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Arts, Humour, Literature, News, Politics, Satire

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Big Ben, Chief Whip, election, EU, Kafka, millipede

Ed Miliband 2.jpg

Ed awoke on the morning of the election from uneasy dreams

and found himself transformed into a gigantic millipede.

His wife said:  Hadn’t you better get up?

He could hear his voice reverberating, but destroying the sense

of his words.  He suspected that his delusions were about to

evaporate.

Ed!  The Chief Whip’s here!

The Chief Whip had been encouraging him to explain why he was

not facing up to the deficit.

Your position in the firm is not unassailable, he had warned.

It’s not going as well as I had hoped, Ed had admitted.  But just give

me another chance.  The voters just need to be soothed, persuaded

and won over.

He was finding it difficult to make a U-turn.

In the crowd who awaited his levee was a small businessman

who opened a file which he claimed had details of his complete state

of despair.  He complained that Ed and his friends had borrowed so

much that although households had been kept afloat, everyone had

become complacent about the cash flow.

A music student presented herself and said that she could not afford

to study at the conservatoire.  Ed felt sympathy for her plight, but knew

student fees would have to be budgeted for in other ways.

There was a lot of grumbling from older folks about dividends being all

very well, but money needing to be kept for rainy days.  The aged and

disabled could not be expected to make a contribution.

The hospital across the road was beyond his field of vision.  The view

from his window was of a gray land under a gray sky.

The ordinary family were now so over-worked that they had no time to

think about Ed.  Circumstances had conspired to make it impossible to

downsize from their apartment, as they had had to take in lodgers

to avoid bedroom tax.

Ed had felt guilty in the past that he had not helped enough and so

he had decided to put in an appearance.  He would show himself to

the masses now!

Delegates from the EU were appalled at the thought of having such a

creature in the same chamber.  They refused to pay a penny towards

their keep.  Rather, they demanded compensation.  Ed feared that the

general tension would discharge against him.

It was agreed by one and all that they would have to rid themselves

of this creature.  He would be the death of them all.

If only he would understand us, sighed a poor old man, who had

worked for a bank at one time.

The music student hissed:  He’s just like Clegg.  Another unpleasant insect.

We believed in him for so long and in what he pledged regarding fees. 

They all weaken our borders and want the apartment to themselves!

Ed remained still until Big Ben chimed.  Then he realised that he had not

the ghost of a chance of survival.

The parasites dispersed.  They left a note confirming that the finances

were not hopeful.  He crawled back under his bed.

But then the electorate went out into the Spring sunshine and discussed

their prospects without him. They weren’t too bad after all, because

they all had jobs which were quite promising and which could lead to

better things.

Maybe the future wasn’t so Kafkaesque after all!

Black-and-white photograph of Kafka as a young man with dark hair in a formal suit

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THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT

03 Sunday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Arts, Literature, mythology, Philosophy, Poetry, Psychology, Religion

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

ballad, de-cluttering, Field of Blood, Forgiveness Window, Judas, Judas tree, Lord's Supper, Monk Pear tea, Robert William Buchanan

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT.

How are you getting on with clearing out your cellar,

Candia?

Brassica and I were in our favourite haunt, sharing

a Monk Pear tea.

It takes hours to throw away a few sheets of paper,

I admitted.  I keep wondering if I might need all the

notes for future reference.  Then I come across old

school anthologies of narrative verse and feel compelled

to read the less familiar poems.

You’ll need to be more ruthless with yourself, advised

Brassie.

Hmmm, that’s not a problem normally, I replied.  Anyway,

you know how I have been banging on about Judas since

Lent and even before…

Yes, we have all read your poems on your WordPress site,

Brassie interrupted.

Well, I discovered a ballad I had been unaware of by a poet

called Robert Williams Buchanan on the subject and I am going

to publish it on my site so readers who enjoyed my ‘Judas

Tree’, ‘The Forgiveness Window’ and  so on can continue to

develop their thoughts and join me on my theological journey-

dreadfully cliched metaphor, though that is!

Good idea, said Brassie, but don’t get too sidetracked.  Your

husband will be fed up with your rate of de-cluttering.

So, here is the poem:

’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay in the Field of Blood;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Beside the body stood.

Black was the earth by night,
And black was the sky;
Black, black were the broken clouds,
Tho’ the red Moon went by.

’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Strangled and dead lay there;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Look’d on it in despair.

The breath of the World came and went
Like a sick man’s in rest;
Drop by drop on the World’s eyes
The dews fell cool and blest.

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did make a gentle moan—
‘I will bury underneath the ground
My flesh and blood and bone.

‘I will bury deep beneath the soil,
Lest mortals look thereon,
And when the wolf and raven come
The body will be gone!

‘The stones of the field are sharp as steel,
And hard and cold, God wot;
And I must bear my body hence
Until I find a spot!’

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
So grim, and gaunt, and gray,
Raised the body of Judas Iscariot,
And carried it away.

And as he bare it from the field
Its touch was cold as ice,
And the ivory teeth within the jaw
Rattled aloud, like dice.

As the soul of Judas Iscariot
Carried its load with pain,
The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn’s eye,
Open’d and shut again.

Half he walk’d, and half he seemed
Lifted on the cold wind;
He did not turn, for chilly hands
Were pushing from behind.

The first place that he came unto
It was the open wold,
And underneath were prickly whins,
And a wind that blew so cold.

The next place that he came unto
It was a stagnant pool,
And when he threw the body in
It floated light as wool.

He drew the body on his back,
And it was dripping chill,
And the next place be came unto
Was a Cross upon a hill.

A Cross upon the windy hill,
And a Cross on either side,
Three skeletons that swing thereon,
Who had been crucified.

And on the middle cross-bar sat
A white Dove slumbering;
Dim it sat in the dim light,
With its head beneath its wing.

And underneath the middle Cross
A grave yawn’d wide and vast,
But the soul of Judas Iscariot
Shiver’d, and glided past.

The fourth place that he came unto
It was the Brig of Dread,
And the great torrents rushing down
Were deep, and swift, and red.

He dared not fling the body in
For fear of faces dim
And arms were waved in the wild water
To thrust it back to him.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Turned from the Brig of Dread,
And the dreadful foam of the wild water
Had splashed the body red.

For days and nights he wandered on
Upon an open plain,
And the days went by like blinding mist,
And the nights like rushing rain.

For days and nights he wandered on,
All thro’ the Wood of Woe;
And the nights went by like moaning wind,
And the days like drifting snow.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Came with a weary face—
Alone, alone, and all alone,
Alone in a lonely place!

He wandered east, he wandered west,
And heard no human sound;
For months and years, in grief and tears,
He wandered round and round,

For months and years, in grief and tears,
He walked the silent night;
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Perceived a far-off light.

A far-off light across the waste,
As dim as dim might be,
That came and went like the lighthouse gleam
On a black night at sea.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Crawl’d to the distant gleam;
And the rain came down, and the rain was blown
Against him with a scream.

For days and nights he wandered on,
Push’d on by hands behind;
And the days went by like black, black rain,
And the nights like rushing wind.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
Strange, and sad, and tall,
Stood all alone at dead of night
Before a lighted hall.

And the wold was white with snow,
And his foot-marks black and damp,
And the ghost of the silvern Moon arose,
Holding her yellow lamp.

And the icicles were on the eaves,
And the walls were deep with white,
And the shadows of the guests within
Pass’d on the window light.

The shadows of the wedding guests
Did strangely come and go,
And the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretch’d along the snow.

The body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretched along the snow;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Ran swiftly to and fro.

To and fro, and up and down,
He ran so swiftly there,
As round and round the frozen Pole
Glideth the lean white bear.

’Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,
And the lights burnt bright and clear—
‘Oh, who is that,’ the Bridegroom said,
‘Whose weary feet I hear?’

’Twas one look’d from the lighted hall,
And answered soft and slow,
‘It is a wolf runs up and down
With a black track in the snow.’

The Bridegroom in his robe of white
Sat at the table-head—
‘Oh, who is that who moans without?’
The blessed Bridegroom said.

’Twas one looked from the lighted hall,
And answered fierce and low,
‘’Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot
Gliding to and fro.’

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did hush itself and stand,
And saw the Bridegroom at the door
With a light in his hand.

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he was clad in white,
And far within the Lord’s Supper
Was spread so broad and bright.

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look’d,
And his face was bright to see—
‘What dost thou here at the Lord’s Supper
With thy body’s sins?’ said he.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stood black, and sad, and bare—
‘I have wandered many nights and days;
There is no light elsewhere.’

’Twas the wedding guests cried out within,
And their eyes were fierce and bright—
‘Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
Away into the night!’

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he waved hands still and slow,
And the third time that he waved his hands
The air was thick with snow.

And of every flake of falling snow,
Before it touched the ground,
There came a dove, and a thousand doves
Made sweet sound.

’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Floated away full fleet,
And the wings of the doves that bare it off
Were like its winding-sheet.

’Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door,
And beckon’d, smiling sweet;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stole in, and fell at his feet.

‘The Holy Supper is spread within,
And the many candles shine,
And I have waited long for thee
Before I poured the wine!’

The supper wine is poured at last,
The lights burn bright and fair,
Iscariot washes the Bridegroom’s feet,
And dries them with his hair.

(This version of the poem from:

http://www.robertbuchanan.co.uk/html/sel4.html)

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Syadvad

01 Friday May 2015

Posted by Candia in Education, Family, Film, History, Humour, News, Philosophy, Religion, Satire, Social Comment

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Absolutes, Bank Holiday, Ben Kingsley, Caucasian Chalk Circle, Gandhi, geiger counter, Hobnobs, Ipad, Jain, Kathiawar, Ofsted, outsourcing, rank order, syadvad

Image result for grading

Castor!  Pollux!   Have you done your prep?

Brassie was just checking that everything had been cleared so

that the family could enjoy the Bank Holiday.  She hadn’t noticed any

scholarly activity going on in the boys’ room.

It’s all under control, mater, said Castor.

No worries! Pollux chimed in, not even looking up from his Ipad.

Are you sure?

Yeah, we outsourced it.  It should be e-mailed back to us from India by

Randeep in time for Tuesday period 4.

What?!  Brassica thought she was going to explode.

Well, explained Castor, Mr Milford-Haven was telling us that he was

snowed under by marking and that he had read about the latest

service where teachers could send their guilt pile abroad and have

scripts marked in a far continent for two quid… I mean pounds. 

He had registered his mother’s glare.

I don’t know why you don’t like the idea, Mother Darling, Pollux

chipped in.  You send out our ironing, don’t you?

It’s not quite the same thing, their mother pointed out grimly.

Teachers are supposed to gain knowledge of their pupils’

apprehension of their subject from assessing their charges’

responses.

Mr Snodbury doesn’t pore over our work, Castor replied.  He

told us that he climbs up to the galleried landing over the

vestibule and, if the coast is clear, he scatters our exam scripts

over the banisters.  He says that he has an instinctive awareness

of who is hot and who is not.  He can tell by looking at the writing

if they are any good, or not, without even reading them.  So he

picks them off the floor in  rank order.

Apparently he has an inner geiger counter that tells him who

should be top.  He was born with it and he says that is what

makes him a good teacher, added Pollux.

I don’t believe what I am hearing, Brassie said.  It is a pity that

there will be no one in the office on Monday, as I would like to

speak to The Headmaster about this.

Oh, don’t Ma, both boys chorused.  Snod is the best teacher in

the school.  Everyone knows that.

I wonder if he even had teacher training, pondered their mother.

He said it was a waste of time, Pollux volunteered.

Oh yeah, agreed Castor.  In that History lesson he said teachers,

like soldiers, only learned in the field.  He told us that the difference

between theory and practice was as great as learning to stick a

bayonet in a sandbag in a training camp in Kent and actually going

over the top in World War One.  That’s why some people call

teaching ‘classroom warfare’, he said.

I think that was a totally inappropriate thing to say to young

impressionable people, Brassie said, tight-lipped.  I’ll deal with

this next week.  Now, what was this prep that you sent off? 

English, or…?

Maths, answered the twins.  It’s not exactly difficult to grade. 

It was all multiple choice.

I suppose the staff are relying on your honesty in feeding back

the scores?

Yeah.  Chillax, Mumsie.

Brassie gave Castor another severe look.

Anyway, laughed Pollux.  Mr Milford-Haven told us that practically

everything is subjective.  Even Gandhi just managed 64% in Kathiawar

School Exams and only achieved a ‘fair’ in Arithmetic.

And this is the standard of the people who will be marking my sons’

work! thought Brassie bitterly.

So what happens if you challenge Mr Snodbury’s scores? she persisted.

You don’t, clarified Castor.  The last boy who questioned Snod’s addition

had a mark subtracted for impertinence, so nobody says anything now.  We

don’t mind.  It all comes out in the wash.  That’s what he always says.

I see, said Brassie.  She would have to discuss this with their father.

Clearly the only marking that was being done in that school was the

defining of masters’ territory.  The way they still sat at those high desks

as if they were inviolate inside some Caucasian Chalk Circle of their own

making made her blood boil.  She could only hope that Snod, The Senior

Master, would trip up as he stepped down from his raised dais to go to the

Staffroom at break- like that Millipede, as the boys called him. He needed

taking down a peg or two.

Image result for Caucasian Chalk Circle

She felt like encouraging her boys in non-co-operation, something

that funny little man in the loincloth had advocated, she seemed to

remember.  Ben Kingsley, yes.  She’d seen the film with Cosmo when

they were courting.  Passive resistance. It would be interesting to see

how Senior Management would handle that mode of soft insurrection.

It might bring the institution into the twenty first century.  Goodness

knows how Ofsted had ever rated them ‘Outstanding!’  Maybe the

Inspectors just made everything up so they could go home early at

the end of a difficult week, eating Hobnobs in various base rooms and

frightening the life out of those who still had any remnants of vivacity

and enthusiasm for their subject.  Fools!  Did they not know that they

were being assessed on whether the Hobnobs were the chocolate variety

and whether the coating was milk or plain, according to the predilection of

the individual interrogator, eh, Inspector?

She was surprised at her strength of feeling!

It would serve the staff right if they encountered a bit of opposition if

they were contemplating posting off her boys’ precious outpourings to

a country where the Jain concept of ‘syadvad ‘ was rife.  All views of truth

are partial.  Ha!  What she paid the school fees for was confirmation of

Absolutes.

And she could hardly chide her little darlings if they were merely

anticipating and enacting the vile policy of those who were supposed

to be their guardians and mentors.

The face of Gandhi in old age—smiling, wearing glasses, and with a white sash over his right shoulder

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My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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