21 Sunday Oct 2018
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.
05 Friday Jan 2018
10 Wednesday Dec 2014
Posted in Family, Humour, Poetry, Religion, Social Comment, Suttonford, Theatre, Writing
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.
10 Saturday Aug 2013
Posted in Humour, Philosophy, Politics, Psychology, Religion, Suttonford, Writing
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.
04 Tuesday Dec 2012
Posted in Humour, Poetry, Religion, Social Comment
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.
20 Tuesday Nov 2012
Posted in Humour, Poetry, Suttonford
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.
07 Wednesday Nov 2012
Posted in Humour, Music, Politics, Suttonford, television
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!
23 Tuesday Oct 2012
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?
