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Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Tag Archives: Herod

St John the Baptist, Cirencester

12 Tuesday Nov 2019

Posted by Candia in Bible, History, Personal, Photography, Poetry, Relationships, Religion, Writing

≈ 4 Comments

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.)

 IMG_7937

 

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.)

 

 

 

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Vox Populi

11 Friday Nov 2016

Posted by Candia in art, Bible, History, News, Poetry, Politics, Psychology, Satire, Social Comment, Writing

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Barabbas, Ecce Homo, Herod, Judea, Messiah, Paschal, Passover, Pontius Pilate, Prefecture, Procula, Sanhedrin

A sestina for our times:

 

Pilate stood before the Passover mob.

Besieged, he offered them a Paschal vote:

Barabbas over Jesus was a shock-

insurrectionist over a prophet?

The Governor washed his hands of their choice.

This ‘Messiah’ was no uncouth rebel.

 

The crowd chose Barabbas just to rebel

and, punishing themselves is what the mob

love to do.  They see it as their free choice;

their chance to demonstrate their power; to vote.

They prefer to crucify a prophet:

enjoy giving the powers-that-be a shock.

 

Pilate’s wife had had a nightmarish shock.

She said, I don’t want to usurp; rebel

against you, but I must say that this ‘prophet’-

although he’s stirred up hatred from the mob-

would get from me a Messianic vote,

though, clearly, he is not the High Priest’s choice.

 

She flounced out:  It’s up to you; it’s your choice.

To Pilate his wife’s comments were  a shock,

but, after all, she didn’t have a vote.

He’d never known Procula to rebel.

Let her go out and face a rabid mob…

You wouldn’t need to be a seer, prophet

 

to predict that outcome.  No prophet

is ever successful; his country’s choice

and it will be no different with this mob.

I couldn’t imagine the after-shock

if I released this man.  I’m no rebel.

Ecce homo!  I’ll put it to the vote.

 

The thing to do is with my feet to vote;

sit on the fence; let them judge the ‘Prophet.’

Even Herod said he was no rebel.

Judea would never have been my choice

and, getting the Prefecture, was a shock-

those Sanhedrin just as vile as that mob.

 

Why should I find the people’s choice a shock?

Give the mob an option and let them vote:

rebel will trump prophet any day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Crib Chibbed

12 Friday Dec 2014

Posted by Candia in Humour, Poetry, Religion, Social Comment, Writing

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Barrowland market, Celtic F C, City of Culture, Clydeside, Cumbernauld, Drumchapel, Frankincense, George Square, Giffnock, gold, Herod, Jack Glass, Mariolatry, Mungo, myrrh, QC sherry, Rangers F C, Tiny Tears

Another seasonal re-blog from a couple of years ago.

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?)

12-Piece Olive Wood Nativity Set

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?

Tiny Tears 04.jpg

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 QC 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.

* Barrowland market

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The Absolute Camel

15 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Family, Film, Humour, Literature, Philosophy, Religion, Romance, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Theatre, Travel, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

'Ern, Ali Baba basket, Berenice of Cilicia, Bosphorus, cakes and ale, Dadaism, Dickinson, dodecagon, Existentialism, fat, Garden of Remembrance, hairy legs, Herod, Iznik, Kristin Scott-Thomas, l'enfer c'est les autres, Metropolitan Archbishop, mince pies, Morecambe and Wise, mulled wine, Osman, ouzo, Play by Beckett, Pointless, Racine, Raymond Chandler, Samuel Beckett, short, Snodland, Snodland and Ash, Suetonius, Surrealism, The Absolute Camel, tribute act, urns, Who Do You Think You Are?, William the Conqueror

Samuel Beckett, Pic, 1.jpg

Great-Aunt Augusta was studying the newly photocopied programme

published by The Snodland Players, an amateur dramatic ensemble

who took their peripatetic programmes around nursing homes and

inflicted their rudely mechanical performances on captive audiences.

At least it is somewhat more challenging than one of those Primary

School variations on the nativity, combined with excruciatingly jolly

Yuletide ditties, opined the grumpy nonagenarian.

In actual fact, she had just asked to be wheeled out to the

recreation room as she could have sworn that she had smelled

mulled wine.

‘Play’ by Samuel Beckett, she read.  She liked Beckett.  What was

that play she had once seen with her sister?  Waiting for Ouzo?

Henry, I saw the film years ago.  It had that Kristin Scott-Thomas

woman in it.  You know, the one that Jeremy Fisher salivates over.

Jeremy Fisher? 

The one on that car programme.  Top Notch, or something.

Oh, Top Gear.  Clarkson.  Terrible man.

Kristin Scott Thomas Cannes.jpg

And Henry turned off his hearing aid and settled down to wait for

the hot toddy, given that his interest in hot totty had diminished

over the years, along with his driving skills.

I suppose they don’t need much scenery, Augusta commented to

another female resident.  And it’s only a one-act play, so there won’t

be an interval.

Pity, replied Madge. That’s the bit I  usually enjoy. Do you think there

will still be mince pies?

Oh, I doubt it.  We’re no longer virtuous, so they’ll probably cut back

on cakes and ale.

Matron was trying to be helpful with the logistics.  She scurried

around and came back with a trolley which bore three urns.

The Director picked one up.  Gosh, that’s really heavy.  I can see why

you needed the trolley.  Thanks, but I’m afraid they are too small and

they seem to be full of something rather weighty.

Yes, said Matron.  They are surprisingly heavy, considering that Ethel

was only about six stone and Oscar was about eight and a half…  Maybe

that’s why the rellies didn’t bother to pick them up to take them to The

Garden of Remembrance.  They probably thought that we would scatter

them, but some of the Eastern European staff are a bit superstitious about

that sort of thing, so we just put them on the shelves in Reception.  They

look pretty much like vases and the cleaning staff don’t knock them over

so easily.

Emmm, the Director was thinking rapidly on his feet, a thespian skill

which he tried to transmit to his rather slower colleagues.  Have you

got any of those Ali Baba laundry baskets?  They might do.

I’ll just have the girls wipe them down.  You never know what’s been

in them, Matron said helpfully.

Ta-da! she flourished some a few moments later.

Item image

The Director cut his introductory speech.  Some of the audience were

already asleep and it didn’t look as if anyone had a mobile phone on

them.

Augusta was waiting for the half-line about Snodland and Ash.  Apparently,

Beckett had once been in Kent, marrying one of the corners of his love

triangle.  Hence the references.  Ash/ urn…hmmm..

Something in the town had struck him, but when he had been asked

to explain its existential relevance, he had clearly taken the hump and

merely replied enigmatically: The Absolute Camel.

So, the choice of production was clearly topical.

One of the characters suddenly addressed the favoured coterie with

the philosophical question: Why am I dead?

Join the club, muttered Gerald, who was tired of waiting for the mulled

wine. He was also agitated at the thought of missing Pointless, which,

in his opinion was a cheerier form of Surrealism.

Madge interrupted with the following: I thought you said it had an ‘Ern in

it. I thought it was a tribute act to Morecambe and Wise.  But I don’t see

anyone with short, fat, hairy legs.

Augusta patted her knee.  No, darling.  I said ‘urns’.  Honestly, the

uncultivated company that she was obliged to keep nowadays!  L’enfer

was definitely les autres.  Didn’t they know that what they were watching

was Beckett’s response to a five-act play by Racine?  Furthermore, Racine

had swiped the concept from Suetonius’ scribblings about a love triangle

involving Berenice of Cilicia.

And the reason that she was aware of that was that her younger sister

was called Berenice and their mother had had love dodefayeds– nay,

dodecagons with various Oriental types, before she had settled down with

her erstwhile nomadic, but newly-domesticated rug-seller from The

Bosphorus.

Yes, both Berenice and her mother had been the types of blondes that

Raymond Chandler had said would have caused an Archbishop-

Metropolitan, or otherwise- to have kicked a hole in a stained glass

window.

Maybe it was the Herodian tendencies that had caused the members

of her family to be so ruthless in love.

So, life was somewhat surreal.  She granted that.  She’d never really

thought about her father.  She and her sister had the maternal surname:

Snodbury.  She supposed that her pater’s name must have been

something like Sirdar, or Osman.  But that rather sun-tanned antiques

quiz guy’s surname was Dickinson and, according to the telly programme

Who Do You Think You Are? he was of Iznik extraction and came from a

family of carpetbaggers- or was it ‘sellers‘?

At any rate, she was beginning to yawn.  That quiz programme would be

on tonight- the one they all liked with that rather aristocratic chap who

was related to William the Conqueror. (Weren’t we all?)

But she did find the other chap rather amusing.  What was his name?

Ah, yes: Osman.

Pointless.jpg

Wonder if he is any relation? 

If so, that would surely be Dadaism, not Surrealism, or Existentialism.

Dadaism would probably be a very low score under the Philosophy category.

Fill me up, dear!  At last- the mulled wine had arrived.  You can have two

glasses of that.  It’s not as strong as Dewlap Gin for the Discerning

Grandmother.  And, on cold nights like this, it’s the absolute camel!

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Crib Chibbed

04 Tuesday Dec 2012

Posted by Candia in Humour, Poetry, Religion, Social Comment

≈ Leave a 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?)

12-Piece Olive Wood Nativity Set

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?

Tiny Tears 04.jpg

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.

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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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