You have been very quiet lately, Candia, Brassie remarked. It’s not
Well, I thought I’d let everyone catch up with my outpourings. I
did get somewhat carried away at the time of The Referendum.
Here’s an old poem to stave off your withdrawal symptoms:
The Angel of the North
Benediction, or annunciation?
A call to build a New Jerusalem
amid these grim industrial wastelands?
A pinhead would not hold many of these.
This is no iridescent dragonfly,
but a harbinger, whose rusty steel frame
and non-encompassing bi-plane wingspan
strikes Virgin train travellers as awesome;
and overwhelms drivers on the A1.
Idling engines don’t speak Magnificats.
He wouldn’t grace a furnace, or lions’ den-.
feet grounded in Vulcan collieries.
He prevents no patriarch at knifepoint
and has no nimbus seal of immanence.
No Moebius strip with a Gothick script
in Gutenberg Germanic Latin type
streams from his non-existent mouth,
to say, Behold, I bring you glad tidings,
or, Even so shall it be unto you.
From brass heavens he signifies nothing:
no Logos for a world of trite logos.
This is for Thomases -his tangible
body, too solid to admit fingers.
His design brief has a fall prevention
factor, but proud buffetings brought to Earth
once shimmering forms who’d vaunted aloud;
now racked in deep despair. And fall they did.
What is his pronouncement over estates
whose lintels bear not a smear of lamb’s blood?
Perhaps he is nothing to those who drive by,
or who trusted in their own welded ships.
Maybe he’s a monument to Nothing
and, though fatigue may erode him one day,
somehow he commands and is riveting.