Exhortation

Tags

exhortation, love thy neighbour, Scottish Makar, Scottish National Portrait Gallery, Scottish poet, Ten Commandments, William Dunbar

William Dunbar 15th century Scottish poet. 

Photo by Stephen C Dickson (Wikimedia)

Scottish National Portrait Gallery

 

To God be humble,

to thy friend be kind

and with thy neighbour, gladly lend and borrow;

his chance tonight,

it may be thine tomorrow.

Poem from a Time of Trial

Tags

atheist, blame game, Kipling, natural consequences, Natural Theology, plague, theology

Natural Theology

by Rudyard Kipling

Primitive
I ate my fill of a whale that died
 And stranded after a month at sea.
 .
 .
 .
There is a pain in my inside.
 Why have the Gods afflicted me?
Ow! I am purged till I am a wraith!
 Wow! I am sick till I cannot see!
What is the sense of Religion and Faith :
 Look how the Gods have afflicted me!


 Pagan

How can the skin of rat or mouse hold
 Anything more than a harmless flea?.
 .
 .
The burning plague has taken my household.
 Why have my Gods afflicted me?
All my kith and kin are deceased,
 Though they were as good as good could be,
I will out and batter the family priest,
 Because my Gods have afflicted me!


Medi/Eval

My privy and well drain into each other
 After the custom of Christendie.
 .
 .
 .
Fevers and fluxes are wasting my mother.
 Why has the Lord afflicted me?
The Saints are helpless for all I offer--
 So are the clergy I used to fee.
Henceforward I keep my cash in my coffer,
 Because the Lord has afflicted me.


 Material

I run eight hundred hens to the acre
 They die by dozens mysteriously.
 .
 .
 .
I am more than doubtful concerning my Maker,
 Why has the Lord afflicted me?
What a return for all my endeavour--
 Not to mention the L.
 S.
 D!
I am an atheist now and for ever,
 Because this God has afflicted me!


Progressive

Money spent on an Army or Fleet
 Is homicidal lunacy.
 .
 .
 .
My son has been killed in the Mons retreat,
 Why is the Lord afflicting me?
Why are murder, pillage and arson
 And rape allowed by the Deity?
I will write to the Times, deriding our parson
 Because my God has afflicted me.


 Chorus

We had a kettle: we let it leak:
 Our not repairing it made it worse.
We haven't had any tea for a week.
 .
 .
 The bottom is out of the Universe!

Conclusion

This was none of the good Lord's pleasure,
 For the Spirit He breathed in Man is free;
But what comes after is measure for measure,
 And not a God that afflicteth thee.
As was the sowing so the reaping
 Is now and evermore shall be.
Thou art delivered to thine own keeping.
 Only Thyself hath afflicted thee!

Plague Poetry

Tags

15th century, Dunfermline, fabulist, Makar, Middle Scots, Robert henryson, Scottish poetry, the plague, University of Glasgow, vernacular

Maybe we would take a different perspective on disease and punishment nowadays, but an interesting 15th century perspective, nevertheless…

 

Photo : Kim Traynor, 2011.  Wikipedia.

Ane Prayer for the Pest

by Robert Henryson

O eterne god, of power infinyt,

To quhois hie knawledge na thing is of obscure

That is, or was, or evir salbe, perfyt,

in to thy sicht, quhill that this warld indure;

Haif mercy of us, Indigent and peure;

Thow dois na wrang to puneiss our offens:

O Lord, that is to mankynd haill succure,

Preserve us fra this perrelus pestilens.We the beseik, o Lord of lordis all,

thy eiris inclyne and heir our grit regrait;

We ask remeid of the in generall,

That is of help and comfort desolait;

bot thow with rewth our hairtis recreat,
We ar bot deid but only thy clemens:
We the exhort, on kneis law prostrait,
Preserf us fra this perrellus pestilens.We ar richt glaid thow puneiss our trespass
be ony kind of uthir tribulatioun,
Wer it thy will, o lord of hevin, allaiss,
that we sowld thus be haistely put doun,
and dye as beistis without confessioun,
That nane dar mak with uthir residence.
O blissit Jesu, that woir the thorny croun,
Preserve us frome this perrelus pestilens.Use derth, o lord, or seiknes, and hungir soir,
and slaik thy plaig that is so penetryve.
Thy pepill ar perreist: quha ma remeid thairfoir,
bot thow, o lord, That for thame Lost thy lyve?
Suppoiss our syn be to the pungityve,
Oure deid ma nathing our synnys recompens.
Haif mercy, lord, we ma not with the stryve:
preserve us etc.Haif mercy, lord, haif mercy, hevynis king!
Haif mercy of thy pepill penetent;
Haif mercy of our petouss punissing;
retreit the sentence of thy Just Jugement
Aganis us synnaris, that servis to be schent:
Without mercy, we ma mak no defens.
Thow that, but rewth, upoun the rude was rent,
preserve us frome this perrellus pestilens.Remmember, Lord, how deir thow hes us bocht,
That for us synnaris sched thy pretius blude,

Now to redeme that thow hes maid of nocht,
That is of vertew barrane and denude;
Haif rewth, Lord, of thyne awin symilitude;
Puneiss with pety and nocht with violens.
We knaw it is for our Ingratitude
That we ar puneist with this pestilens.

Thow grant us grace for till amend our miss,
And till evaid this crewall suddane deid;
We knaw our syn is all the cause of thiss,
for oppin syn thair is set no remeid.
The Justice of god mon puneiss than bot dreid,
for by the law he will with non dispens:
quhair Justice laikis thair is Eternall feid,
of god that sowld preserf fra pestilens.

Bot wald the heiddismen that sowld keip the law
Pueneiss the peple for thair transgressioun,
Thair wald na deid the peple than owrthraw:
bot thay ar gevin so planely till oppressioun,
That god will not heir thair intercessioun;
bot all ar puneist for thair Innobediens
be sword or deid withowttin remissioun,
And hes Just cause to send us pestilens.

Superne/ Lucerne/ guberne/ this pestilens,
preserve/ and serve/ that we not sterve thairin.
Declyne/ that pyne/ be thy Devyne prudens.
O trewth/ haif rewth/ lat not our slewth us twin.
Our syt/ full tyt/ wer we contryt/ wald blin.
Dissiver/ did never/ quha evir the besocht.
Send grace/ with space/ and us Imbrace/ fra syn.
Latt nocht be tynt that thow so deir hes bocht.

O prince preclair/ this cair/ cotidiane,
We the exhort/ distort/ it in exyle.
Bot thow remeid/ this deid/ is bot ane trane,
for to dissaif/ the laif/ and thame begyle.
Bot thow sa wyiss/ devyiss to mend this byle
Of this mischief/ quha ma releif/ us ocht
for wrangus win/ bot thow our syn ourfyll?
Latt not be tynt etc.

Sen for our Vyce/ that Justyce/ mon correct,
O king most hie/ now pacifie/ thy feid:
Our syn is huge/ Refuge/ we not suspect;
As thow art Juge/ deluge us of this dreid.
In tyme assent/ or We be schent with deid;
We us repent/ and tyme mispent forthocht:

Thairfoir/ Evirmoir/ be gloir/ to thy godheid
Lat nocht be tynt that thow sa deir hes bocht.

Lampedusa Cross

Tags

Amazighs, Barbary pirates, Coniglio, Coromandel, Eritreans, flotsam and jetsam, Lampedusa, Mary Magdalen, Mediterranean, migrants, Montelbano, Patmos, Phoenicians, Saracens, Somali, St Paul

Was watching an Inspector Montelbano programme – for linguistic

purposes, you understand.

It certainly wasn’t for subtlety, but the scenery is good!

Anyway, it was about migrants and I suddenly remembered my poem on

Lampedusa and thought I might as well publish it, rather than leaving it

on standby.

A local artisan made a cross from the bits of driftwood from the wrecks

of migrant boats and set it in a chapel.

So, here is my poem.

 

Lampedusa Cross,

nailed from shipwrecked lives, splinters:

Tuccio fecit,

amid Artemisia,

with Wormwood, like the toxic

star which fell to Earth,

corrupting all our waters.

Mugwort – protector

of travellers, from spirits,

malign and bitter –

why did you not help them live?

 

Francesco, you honoured them:

the Eritreans;

the Somali refugees.

You worked with the wood,

which tanged of salt suffering;

carved their scuppered crafts and

crafted signs of hope;

placed one above an altar;

trembled at its touch,

as if handling a relic

(as though St Paul had

blessed all those who washed to shore,

clinging to freed planks

not dissimilar to these.)

 

Castaways swam to

Coniglio’s lights, as if

striving to strand in Heaven,

kerosene-covered,

or later, wrapped in gold foil,

like saints receiving new robes

for abandoned rags,

once through the deadly portal.

 

Phoenicians, Romans,

Amazighs, Greeks, all landed here,

where Saracens sacked;

Barbary pirates plundered,

raking out slave loads.

 

The Marabouts were washed up

hereabouts, seeking

alms to fund their pilgrimage.

The Mare Nostrum

buoyed up Mary Magdalen;

John sailed to Patmos;

Thomas to the coast

of Coromandel, it’s said.

 

Sea-sick disciples

berated the Son of God

in a storm on Galilee.

He was still on board,

though He seemed to be asleep.

But, when He said, Come!

one found he walked on water.

 

In Lampedusa,

the sacred table, chalice,

fashioned from driftwood,

have been assembled from beached

flotsam and jetsam –

sacrosanct, reserved fragments,

though mere detritus,

from the high tide’s waterline.

Their significance

will grow, till the world is healed

by a Carpenter

who shows compassion for crowds;

loves the discarded

and creates His own kingdom.

His invitation

is to those no one welcomes.

 

 

 

 

 

A Man’s A Man For A’ That

Tags

Burns' Night, Rabbie Burns, Robert Burns, Scotland's National Poet, Scottish Literature, Sydney statue

Rabbie Burns – even celebrated Down Under (Sydney)

Photos by Candia

The Temptation of St Anthony by Sidney Nolan

Tags

Australian art, billabongs, Black Mist, catharsis, Cooper's Creek, desertification, drought, Emu Fields, eucalypt, gamma rays, grail, Graves' Disease, isotopes, manus dei, Maralinga, Mount Hopeless, nuthatch, Regin, Rimbaud, Sidney Nolan, St Anthon's Fire, Temptation of St Anthony

Image: The Temptation of St Anthony by Sidney Nolan: NGV, Victoria.

 

Rimbaud: I sought voyages to disperse enchantments

that had colonised my mind.

 

Where the sun strikes and the prickly thorn proffers

no shelter and the cicada no relief,

there’s a dessicated torment and no

solitude in the desert, as Christ found.

Harsh glare distorts even a saint’s vision.

The reclusive can lose their perspective.

Gamma rays will cause some to lose their minds.

 

A goanna is my constant totem

and a huge dragonfly lures me to leave,

but Satan has monopolised the air.

 

If I kill the dragon; dip my finger

in its blood, will it reveal its secret?

Will it transform me into a prophet,

who may see the approach of The Black Mist,

or experience St Anthony’s Fire?

The drought has made the billabongs brackish.

The gold cache tempts for a month of Sundays.

 

The Manus Dei issues no blessing;

no intervention.  The struggle is mine.

The mind is its own place and my free will

may choose to receive the full stigmata.

 

I foresee The Darkening Ecliptic;

the universal diagnosis is

Graves’ disease – even for haloed beings.

Should I go to the wars and fight Regin,

or heed the nuthatches’ advice and act?

I must carry knowledge in my own grail:

the only way to be a dark hero.

 

My own survival strategy was the

weaving of eucalypt leaves, to combat

oppressions of desertification:

devil-delivered snakes, beasts, scorpions.

Yet each seemed to lack power in itself.

If I was confident and mocked demons,

might I reduce them to a puff of smoke?

 

The last man, or woman, on this scorched Earth

will carry in their bodies isotopes,

blown from Maralinga and Emu Fields.

The thunder brings no catharsis as yet.

Each must pass Mount Hopeless; find Cooper’s Creek.

The Red Chamber

Tags

Chaupadi, gahut, goth, Kalidasa, menstruation hut, Red Chamber, Saraswati, Vasant Panchami

Giclee Prints available of above image.

Another young girl’s death reported after being banished to a menstruation

hut.  She inhaled toxic fumes from a fire.

This poem is my outraged response to the barbarity of the practice:

 

 

 

My turn in this red chamber, wrapped in jute,

drinking bovine urine, for I’m impure.

I may not touch a plant, food, or a man;

I may not milk a buffalo, or bathe.

I’ve come here from menarche to this goth

and I’ll come here until my menopause.

 

I look at the night sky; try to count the stars;

wonder why Saraswati is angered

if any of us wants to touch a book.

She sits, pen in hand, on a white lotus

and leaves no trace of menstrual fluid,

her clothing as unstained as mountain snow.

The swan at her feet drinks milk at its will.

I’m told she is the best of mothers and

she dwells upon the tongues of poets too.

I pray she will preserve me from lightning;

keep all snakes away and send me to school;

pray that my mother will hand me flatbread

and not fling it at me, as to a dog.

 

Chaupadi.  I study my child’s face

and sip gahut to purify myself

from drunken animals who molest me.

I pray the rats will not come here tonight.

It’s cold – cold enough to kindle a fire,

but I must stay alert, for my sister

was found lifeless, smoke-choked, six months ago.

 

Tomorrow will be Vasant Panchami.

I hope the goddess will help my baby

to learn some alphabet, so she’ll read

how to rebel, without bringing bad luck

from past generations into the next.

Then her destiny will no longer be,

what we’ve all shared: the lowly cattle shed.

 

The Blood Moon has arisen over the peaks.

I pray for synchrony; for company

and hope that, at the chaupadi dhara,

I’ll meet another girl who’s not a ghost.

Oh, that Kalidasa would take a dip

with us one day and share our suffering!

 

Don’t sleep standing up. Just one more day now.

.

 

 

;

Time Marches On

Tags

Graves, Japanese poetry, memento mori

Photo of kanji by Jmettlen on Wikimedia Commons

 

Even our friends’ graves

will one day be ploughed over.

Grief diminishes

through time and we smile once more.

Calligraphy on

headstones will be eroded.

The deceased’s peers die;

his name is then forgotten.

The pines which are deemed to live

for a thousand years

are, in actual fact, chopped down –

disrespectfully,

or just pragmatically,

according to how life’s viewed.

St John the Baptist, Cirencester

Tags

Anne Boleyn, Benjamin, Cirencester, communion chalice, Dissolution of Abbeys, fan vaulting, farthingale, Gethsemane, Henry VIII, Herod, Salome, St John the Baptist church, wool church, Woolsack

(Anne Boleyn’s Communion chalice, donated by Elizabeth I’s physician,

is displayed in a niche in the above.)

 

 

Had her head been brought in on a platter,

she might have seen a vaulted porch, with veins

like gills, or fine tracery of brocade;

or diagrams of a nervous system;

or skeletal frames of hooped farthingales.

That narrow windpipe staircase on the right,

constricted as her white, extended throat,

might have reminded her of a Tower

and the futility of counting steps.

 

This holy place was built on virgin wool.

It was a fold for sheep, who stood before

shearers and then were led to swift slaughter.

Here is a wine glass pulpit, slim as waists,

pre-gravid: a stem for those who could grasp.

 

A Lamb prayed such a cup would pass from Him,

but had to drink it to the bitter dregs

and she had her Gethsemane as well.

Benjamin, caught with a stolen vessel,

was offered clemency – but she had none.

Her gilt chalice, though charged with sacred blood,

conferred no immunity,  nor did it

prevent Dissolution of the Abbey.

 

Criticism of a current favourite

did John the Baptist no favours either.

But the dancer in Herod’s court was sly –

perhaps more so than this sloe-eyed woman,

who ultimately was beheaded too.

 

May, the traditional time for losing

one’s heart to one’s love, was a nuptial month,

but also a month of execution.

 

Cherry tree confetti in the graveyard,

proleptic of this afternoon’s wedding,

has already been bruised and downtrodden.

 

You may sit on a Woolsack, or a throne,

and gain the whole world, or lose your own head.

 

(The engraved acanthus decoration

evokes immortality; lineage.

Though its thorny leaves speak of sin and pain,

it was an apt gift to a physician,

from the grateful daughter of Anne Boleyn.)

 

 

 

Cow Parsley Summers’ Lease

Tags

cow parsley, Shakespeare sonnets, Summer

hath all too short a day.

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart.  Words by Shakespeare – sort of…