Asthall – till Epiphany

Tags

altar, Asthall, Christmas tree, Cotswolds, epiphany, Oxfordshire, St Nicholas' church

tree still up till 6th January, by tradition.

Photo by Candia Dixon- Stuart

The Deerhurst Angel

Tags

angel, apse, Deerhurst angel, epiphany, Gloucestershire, Odda's Chapel, Sculpture

We tried to see it at Odda’s Chapel.

Was that a wing, a halo, or just damp?

Our epiphany was not forthcoming,

for all our straining interpretation.

We went to St Mary’s adjacent church.

A child on the path pointed out a sign:

‘To the Angel’ – it wasn’t evident.

Then we walked across an apse’s ruins;

squinted upwards; craned our necks.

The elusive angel was always there.

Epiphany- after Durer

Tags

Durer, epiphany, Hares, Holy Family

Epiphany (O Mega Town of Basingstoke!)

Tags

Away in a Manger, Bambi, Basingstoke, Beanie Baby, Christmas Houses by Hartley, Damien HIrst, epiphany, Gloria in Excelsis!, Harris Manning, Last Supper, Loom Bands, Magi, Mary and Joseph, Mcdonalds, Pax Hominibus, Pooh Bear, Rudolph, Tesco, The Anvil, Toys R Us, Yuletide log

Another re-blog, but plus ca change!

The Christmas lights have just appeared in Suttonford, so we will

be pleasantly decorated in time for Santa’s arrival in the town.

Basingstoke will also be ablaze, but in a more gaudy fashion.

Here’s a tribute to its display in a former year.

EPIPHANY

O mega-town of Basingstoke,

how shrill we see you lie!

Above your phosphorescent glow

the silent stars go by.

Yet in your dark streets shineth

the Wondrous Light that draws some from the motorway,

yet fails to signpost Magi through your roundabouts’ array.

(Praise Him in the filament, anyway.)

In Toys R Us they’ll buy a Beanie Baby for the King;

from Mcdonald’s, a children’s meal

with a collectable key ring.

(Those Loom Bands are maybe not His sort of thing.)

Mary and Joseph, Rudolph and Pooh Bear

watch o’er the child beloved and fair.

All is calm.  Sleeping in heavenly rest.

Most take taxis to avoid the breath test.

Mixed iconography screams houses into shrines:

iced Yuletide logs in lurid neon signs.

What shall I give Him, poor as I am?-

I’ll nick a Tesco trolley and use it as a pram.

Blest be that apple near the wheelie bin-

someone’s Last Supper on the lawn close to us:

the turkey carcase an oblation for sin?

A Damien Hirst Pax Hominibus?

 

God rest ye merry, Basingstoke,

you’ve always got The Anvil,

but it’s closed on Xmas Day

when the kids can be a handful.

While housewives wash sports socks by night,

men get their flexes convoluted

and for the love of flashing Bambis

prepare to be electrocuted.

Away in a Manger, no crib for a bed,

the little Lord Jesus flashes green and then red.

The stars in the night sky have nothing on this-

Basingstoke’s Gloria in Excelsis.

 

• The Anvil is Basingtoke’s Theatre.
• 
• Hartley, Harris , Manning: authors of above book.

 

 

 

 

Transfiguration

Tags

Balaam, Birinus, Bradford on Avon, compassion, Damascene, David Cameron, epiphany, Feast of the Transfiguration, Financial Times, Fleury Abbey, lax, Loiret, Paul Gilbert, Snodbury, St Paul, Sully sur Loire, The Carpenters, The Longs Arms, The Shrink and The Sage, Weekend Magazine

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk, prematurely retired ‘Lax‘ Mistress from St Vitus’ School

For The Academically-Gifted Girl, had been trying to read The Weekend

Magazine from The Financial Times while she was being transported around the

Loiret by her local coach firm from Bradford-on-Avon.  She was staying in a 2*

hotel near Sully-sur-Loire, along with other members of her town’s Twinning

Association.

She had been allowed to bring along a ‘friend‘ and her daughter, since two

people had dropped out at the last minute and there had been seats left

vacant.

Behind Diana was her erstwhile lover, Augustus Snodbury, who was still in

educational harness, so to speak, at St Birinus Middle School.  Their daughter

Drusilla had closed her eyes, but this did not shut out the low, burring sound

which emanated from her father’s rather hairy nostrils.

And what exactly is a Lax Mistress? I hear you question, Dear Reader.

It was a trainer for a particularly vicious outdoor team game played by

innocent-looking maidens, armed with strong lobster nets on poles.

Innocent-looking, in general, but the goalies were of a different, scary

order.

Diana was trying to concentrate on her favourite The Shrink and the

Sage article.

This guide to modern dilemmas by a psychotherapist and philosopher

duo fascinated her.  Diana was looking forward to being a member of the

congregation at The Feast of the Transfiguration in Fleury Abbey and the

rhetorical question which headed the columns struck her with a force as

convincing as the Damascene beam of light which had struck St Paul and

floored him.

It read: Are we compassionate enough?

Diana had been seeking a spiritually significant experience by venturing

on this trip.  Nothing less than an epiphany would satisfy her.  She had

opened her mind and heart to receive any messages that might be

forthcoming.  But could the divine voice speak through The Financial

Times?  She then remembered Balaam’s ass and thought that all things

might be possible.

A psychologist called Paul Gilbert was being quoted as having stressed that

one must be kind to oneself, as well as to others.  He warned against two

evolution-shaped drives-firstly, the detection and subsequent escape from

danger and, secondly, the drive to acquire things we want, such as food

and sexual partners.

The article recommended a David Cameron-like state of sensing that we are

all..on this journey together.

Here Snod’s snoring seemed to rise in volume and objection.  Already she

was in danger of lapsing into compassion fatigue.

When we are irritated by others, Gilbert said, we should remember that

they are mere humans, like ourselves, who cannot help getting things

wrong sometimes.

But she didn’t snore, did she?  She would check with Drusilla later on,

since they were sharing a room.  Come to think of it, she remembered Dru

buying some ear plugs in Boots, before they set off.

Gilbert mentioned something called compassion under the duvet, which

fortunately was only a practice of reminding ourselves to be kind to others

before we climbed out of bed in the morning.

Suddenly, the scales fell from Diana’s eyes and she realised that she could

now forgive Gus for his appalling ineptitude, if not for his snoring.

He had been clumsy at their attempted reunion at The Longs Arms, but maybe

it had been down to nerves and possibly they could travel hopefully together

and arrive at the same destination one day- so long as it did not involve any

sharing of duvets, other than of the moral variety.

The Sage explained the etymology of the abstract noun, compassion.  It came

from com and pati, meaning to suffer together.

Having both taught for a number of years, they could empathise with each

others’ pain.  She determined to avail herself of any lessons that she might

be offered during the service, but she could sense that her transformation

had only just begun.  Pity that it sounded like a song from The Carpenters.

Crib Chibbed

Tags

Celtic, City of Culture, Drumchapel, epiphany, Frankincense, George Square Glasgow, Glasgow Coat Arms, Herod, Jack Glass, nativity crib, QC sherry, Rangers, Tiny Tears

This poem in Glaswegian dialect was inspired by the blasphemous theft of the baby Jesus out of the crib in George Square in 1995.  I mean, how low can you get?

(Wonder if this one is for Scots’ eyes only?)

Fell aff the back ae a camel ye say?

It’s no’ exactly Tiny Tears, is it?

Ideal stocking filler fur Christmas Day?

But it disnae wet its nappy, does it?

Ra polis’ll be roon at the Barras

tae see who it was that oot-Heroded

Herod, and made a’ the fowk as faur as

Drumchapel fair scunnered by whit some scum did.

 

No’ a town greatly given tae mangers,

nostalgia, pathos, Christianity;

more interested in Celtic, Rangers….

(their religion); used tae profanity.

But takin’ Christ fae innocent weans!

Whit-in-the-name kinda humanity

wi’d take away oor right tae be merry;

skedaddle wi’ it up their jooks, calmly?

Probably scruffs on the Q.C. Sherry;

sacrilege done tae the Holy Family!

Nae crib furra bed; nae Jesus either!

Glesca’s coat o’ arms wi’ Mungo’s motto

isnae respected nooadays neither.

They took the babe fur lead….oot the grotto;

wurnae bringin’ Gold, Myrhh, Frankincense.

Mind you, it could hae been Pastor Jack Glass-

he didnae like Catholic idolatry.

But naebdy’d spray-painted ‘The Pope Ya Bass’

on George Square’s shrine tae Mariolatary.

So jist suppose they didnae know where He’s laid-

mebbe the Almighty, wi’ indignation,

emptied the crib ‘cos they didnae deserve

epiphanies on Clydeside. A nation

apostate?  Mayhap He’s no goin’ tae serve

ony mair, but is coming back tae judge

The City of Culture….once so-called,

because they widnae gi’ up their ways, budge

an inch…frae posh Giffnock, tae Cumbernauld.

Epiphany (O Mega-town of Basingstoke)

Tags

Basingstoke, Basingstoke roundabouts, Beanie Baby, Damien HIrst, epiphany, Mcdonalds, Safeway, Teletubbies, Toys R Us

The Christmas lights have not yet appeared in Suttonford, but soon we will be pleasantly decorated in time for Santa’s arrival in the town.  Basingstoke will also be ablaze, but in a more gaudy fashion.  Here’s a tribute to a display in a former year.

EPIPHANY

O mega-town of Basingstoke,

how shrill we see you lie!

Above your phosphorescent glow

the silent stars go by.

Yet in your dark streets shineth

the Wondrous Light that draws some from the motorway,

yet fails to signpost Magi through your roundabouts’ array.

(Praise Him in the filament, anyway.)

In Toys R Us they’ll buy a Beanie Baby for the King;

from Mcdonald’s, a children’s meal

with a collectable key ring.

(Teletubbies are maybe not His sort of thing.)

Mary and Joseph, Rudolph and Pooh Bear

Watch o’er the child beloved and fair.

All is calm.  Sleeping in heavenly rest.

Most take taxis to avoid the breath test.

Mixed iconography screams houses into shrines:

iced Yuletide logs in lurid neon signs.

What shall I give Him, poor as I am?-

I’ll nick a Safeway trolley and use it as a pram.

Blest be that apple near the wheelie bin-

someone’s Last Supper on the lawn close to us:

the turkey carcase an oblation for sin?

A Damien Hirst Pax Hominibus?

 

God rest ye merry, Basingstoke,

you’ve always got The Anvil,

but it’s closed on Xmas Day

when the kids can be a handful.

While housewives wash male socks by night,

men get their flexes convoluted

and for the love of flashing Bambis

prepare to be electrocuted.

Away in a Manger, no crib for a bed,

the little Lord Jesus flashes green and then red.

The stars in the night sky have nothing on this-

Basingstoke’s Gloria in Excelsis.

 

• The Anvil is Basingtoke’s Theatre.
• 
• Hartley, Harris , Manning: authors of above book.

 

 

 

 

His Master’s Voice

Tags

1812 Overture, Bang& Olufsen, Birinus, Christmas, chronos, David Cameron, Downton Abbey, epiphany, Gary, Hyde Park Corner, Jack Russell, kairos, Lord Soper, O Little Town of Bethlehem, Silent Night, Tony Benn

At primary school Gary had been overlooked by all and was never picked by his year group for sports teams.

His parents once forgot that he was strapped into a high chair in a pub and were half way home, in Cameron style, before they realised that he was not in their car.

It’s a problem, Janet, his father had said.  It’s not that we mean to ignore him, but he’s just so boring.

Gary’s mum and dad used to play vinyls on their teak Bang& Olufsen radiogram in the Seventies.  Gary was fascinated by the record labels and hinted that he would like a Jack Russell dog.  They indulged him as they felt guilty that he had a deeply soporific effect on them.

Then, one evening, he asked, What is that thing beside the dog?

His father looked down, having thought that the pup had committed a misdemeanour on their new swirly carpet, but it was the illustration of the hypnotic gramophone on the record label to which Gary was referring. (Note that I did not end my sentence with a preposition.  Atta-girl!)

Well, Gary had, at least been successful in acquiring half of the logo and he called the perky little pup Nipper, after the original, but his parents did not give him a gramophone. They had forgotten his stupid, boring requests and ignored them.  He started trumpet lessons instead, so that he could blow his own.  His parents gave him a mute that Christmas.

When he was in the upper school, he took History and Politics and used to go up to Hyde Park corner, stand on an upended orange box and pretend to be Tony Benn or Lord Soper.  No one took the slightest notice of him until he vented his rhetoric via a megaphone.  Oh, the power!

Highclere Castle (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He was passed over for promotion at work and his wife told me that she preferred watching Downton Abbey to having any interface with him at the weekend.  There is nothing unusual about that, I hear you say, dear reader.  But she didn’t know what she would do when the series ended- maybe buy the boxed set?

However, as the clocks changed in the Autumn, Gary’s time arrived.  You see, Gary became the Man with the Megaphone at all municipal events, whether it be firework displays or Pre-Christmas celebrations of Santa coming to town with late night shopping in the pedestrianised streets.  No one knew who had appointed him to stage-manage and control crowds, but he was in his element, as no one in Suttonford could fail to notice him.

He gave a running commentary, stating the proverbial obvious and self-evident, all at top pitch.  He scared toddlers sleeping in their buggies and banished all avian wildlife from the local rivulets.

In good voice then, Gary? joked one of his more charitable peers.

Yes, I like to control everyone, Gary confided, but forgot that his megaphone was on maximum volume and so his wife had to shout at him to turn it down a notch.  It then emitted an ear-splitting screech like a teacher’s nail being drawn down a blackboard in the old days.

Looks like you’ve married a control freak, so that makes two of you, quipped a man standing half a mile away, but Gary’s voice was practically drowned out by the eruption of some sparkly, whizzy things that screeched like banshees. Obviously leftovers from November 5th. Then The 1812 Overture started up in a tinny sort of way and Gary was moved to exclaim:  Isn’t it exciting, kids? at a million decibels.  However, he was obliterated vocally by the cannon.

Then Santa’s reindeer arrived, wearing ear muffs and Gary took amplification revenge on the choristers from St Birinus who angelically sang Silent Night and the verse from O little Town of Bethlehem : How Silently the Wondrous Gift is Given, by bellowing for everyone to join in.

Everyone had had enough.  All the mothers shushed him in a huge stream of : Schhhhh!

And, in that magical moment when chronos time stood still and kairos time encapsulated the moment into an eternal present, Gary had an epiphany. He heard, from a distance the delicate sound of sleigh bells and he laid down his megaphone, which was immediately crushed under a reindeer hoof, and he announced, quietly and with reverence: Santa’s here!

 

Pintor del Rey

Tags

Emmaus experience, epiphany, Pintor del rey, Seman Santa, Seville, Velasquez

You might as well have a few more poems by Candia, now

that I am getting out all my old compositions. Here’s one on

Velasquez:

His enigmas of dark bodegas where

every week is Semana Santa and

humble figures poach eggs, serve their fellows;

wait for a sharp sunbeam epiphany;

show more intensity than a brazen gleam

from mortars, or a water droplet’s sheen.

Dim Seville interiors, shaft-denied,

divulge a dignified resignation

to the present; trust that significance

may dawn. Unspoken communication

resonates with diverse shared agendas.

Glaucous fish eyes uncomprehendingly

stare in Martha’s kitchen, but through the hatch

is glimpsed the divine. That young mulatto

girl, washing up, is suddenly aware

of a moment of grace in her tavern:

an Emmaus experience. The boy

who so anxiously clutches a trussed melon

quadranted by a knotted, twisted cord

seems to sense he cradles a wounded world,

whose riches are bound up and can’t be shared –

yet.

As he receives cool water, a man’s face,

mystery-shrouded, looks on silently.

Is he the fourth man, the one from the den?

Is he aware that the same boy’s destiny

will be to attend the Adoration

and possibly witness the death of God?

In the event of a resurrection

will someone dare to open the shutters

and let the sun tear through the curtained shroud?