The Burning Bush

Tags

acacia, Adonai, auto-combustion, boscage, Brexit, burning bush, Church Green, Cotswolds, Crateagus, David Cameron Witney, Desolation, Dieric Bouts, hawthorn, Highgrove, I Am Who I Am, Israelites, kohl, Michael Portillo, Midian, Milton, Mindfulness, Moses, pastures new, pillar of fire, Prince Charles, Renaissance Man, SamCam, sestina, Shekinah, Sir Philip Sidney, smoking flax, St Catherine's Monastery, St George and Dragon Dragon Hill, U A Fanthorpe, UKIP, Waitrose

 

Dear Brassica,

Hope you are not inundated in the South.  Read about all the flooding,

power cuts and trees coming down.

Yes, I like being in The Cotswolds.  Might bump into David

Cameron in Waitrose at Witney.  Recognised Church Green the other

day as his backdrop, when he was telling the world that he was giving

up as an MP.

Remembered the shock (some years ago) of seeing a photo in The

Financial Times of Michael Portillo, posing on the bridge at the end of

my garden in Suttonford.  I think he must have been visiting his

associate, George, who lived nearby.

Well, I needn’t fret: I am evidently still at the centre of global events.

Mind you, sometimes taking early retirement and leaving your old pals

for pastures new (ghastly euphemism pinched and abused from Milton,

who employed it freshly) can be a bit daunting.  That’s why it was

wonderful to come across a veritable burning bush of hawthorn berries

above Dragon Hill – you know, where St George allegedly slew the dragon.

I kept thinking of U. A. Fanthorpe and her witty, GCSE anthology-

endorsed poem on that subject.

I was compelled to approach this crimson phenomenon as it was so

vibrant and it reminded me of Moses and his encounter with verbal,

auto-combustible branches of boscage.

I wondered what it might say to me and checked on the original tale.

So, Moses was over 40 years old and no longer a bigwig.  Instead he was

caring for his father-in-law’s sheep, which did not exactly utilise his

expensive Midian education.  (I suppose he might have been having a

crisis, like David Cameron after loss of power.  But I don’t think SamCam

would like Dave taking to pastoral studies unless she got a discount on

wool for her new fashion line.)

I wonder if Moses’ wife still wore her kohl in the backside of the desert?

Or had she already been yummy-mummified by then?

However, the encouraging thing is that, in a moment of paying

attention – I’m not going to say ‘mindfulness‘ – Moses was called to

a new commission, namely to be leader of the Israelites, as they were

to be delivered from slavery.

So, Brassie, what do you think I did?

No, I didn’t apply for leadership of UKIP, or any other party,

hoping to take my people through the wasteland of Brexit…

No, I wrote another sestina on the epiphanal moment when I

realised that I am not past it.  I mean, I knew it, but I had not felt it

in recent days.

My friends who were staying with me had just been to Highgrove,

where it has been suggested Prince Charles talks to plants, so people

may accept, that, in a way, a bush spoke to me yesterday. and said

something like, Fool, look in thy heart and write!

(Okay, so I know I am appropriating Philip Sidney, but it was a poetic

moment and who better to prompt you to get on and do something with

your life than the original Renaissance Man?)

It was in the news yesterday that trees communicate with one another

and, in Fanthorpe’s poem, the dragon speaks, so, suspend your disbelief,

dear Brassie.

Here’s the poem inspired by a communicative Crataegus, namely the

humble hawthorn, except that it was an acacia in the case of Moses

and they have the original (they allege) at St Catherine’s Monastery:

 

The Burning Bush Speaks

So, how was I to get his attention?

Ah yes, an acacia bush on fire-

though plenty self-ignite and are destroyed,

he’ll notice that I actually sustain

and it is not consumed.  Thus I will speak:

that ought to alert him to my presence.

 

He feels that he no longer has presence.

The world has ceased to pay him attention

as he minds in-laws’ sheep, over a fire

on Desolation Mountain, so to speak.

It’s not an activity to sustain

a man’s confidence, which has been destroyed.

 

A Midian education, doubt-destroyed;

his eyes blinded to Shekinah presence-

he has to be convinced that I sustain.

He is not paying me due attention;

the smoking flax is no longer on fire.

Moses!  Can he believe a bush will speak?

 

He cautiously approaches tongues of fire.

Confidence that had been all but destroyed

re-ignites, as I re-assure him, speak

my name:  I Am Who I Am  (The Presence)

and creator of all hope.  I sustain

 

the universe.  The Egyptians I sustain.

The Israelites I will refine with fire

and, in order to gain his attention,

I’ll speak to him from something not destroyed

by elemental powers.  My presence

is going to give him confidence to speak.

 

I have a message; words for him to speak

and laws which I will give him to sustain

my people.  He will convey my presence;

cause them to follow my pillar of fire;

ensure that other gods are all destroyed.

Now, Moses, I need your full attention:

 

Speak! For the Egyptians will be destroyed.

Sustain your attention.  Heed my presence.

The fire of Adonai will burn in you.

 

(Image: Dieric Bouts)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Pajama Game

Tags

deshabille, Doris Day, embonpoint, Gladys Hotchkiss, jim-jams, Lloyd Webber, negligee, Noah, ognon, onesie, pajamas, plein-air, Shirley Maclaine, subjunctive, The Pyjama Game, Waitrose

(original Broadway windowcard: Wikipaedia)

 

Oh look!  Here comes Peabrain Minor’s mater, alias Head of The Grievance

Committee, expostulated Virginia Fisher-Gyles, PA to The Headmaster of

St Birinus Middle School.

Late again, commented Mr Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master, on his way

to Registration via his partner’s office.

The aforementioned parent hopped out of her 4×4, still in a onesie, or

her pyjamas.

Gives a new aspect to the adjective ‘deshabille’, he added. Mind you, I

wouldn’t mind if you turned up for work in that rather fetching negligee

which the saleswoman persuaded me was entirely appropriate as a Christmas

gift for a friend.  I think you would make a better understudy for Shirley

Maclaine than Mrs P does.

Let’s be professional. Virginia stood on her principles- as well as her

four inch stilettos.

Oh, the subjunctive- and so early in the morning, quipped Snod.

You say ‘pyjamas’ and I say ‘pajamas’, countered Virginia, closing the

conversation and starting to hum ‘I’m not at all in Love.’

The Carry On Teaching vision with choreography by Fosse faded from

his magisterial brain, but not before he had noted the similarity

between Virginia’s embonpoint and that of a certain fictional Gladys

Hotchkiss.  Yes, they no longer produced the great musicals of

yesteryear. That Lloyd Webber character…  Sigh.

(Does anyone out there recognise the etymology of ‘magisterial’ ??

Are we all going to adjust our spelling to ‘ognon‘?)  The Editor.

There was a peremptory rap at the door.

Enter! boomed Virginia.

Peabrain Minor’s mother appeared in her usual matitutinal

fluster.

I’ve just brought a bag with a change of clothes for Noah, if I could

leave it in The Office for him, she announced.

Oh, we are a Left Luggage Establishment now, Snod thought, but

didn’t remark aloud.  That was a forbearance that he had learned

from Virginia, in the course of their relationship.

I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, said Virginia.

Well, it’s just for the lesson after break.  Noah doesn’t respond well

to formal learning strategies and, if Mr Snodbury doesn’t mind, my

son would be more comfortable in his jim-jams.  Oh, Mr Snodbury!

She had just noticed the schoolmaster lurking behind the door.

Ah, his namesake was quite comfortable with appearing in a

Post-Diluvian Apocalyptic public space au naturel, Mrs P, Snod

pontificated. But, unfortunately, even the members of the patriarch’s

family took exception to his informal, nay  casual,  plein-air approach.

I take it that that’s a ‘no’ then, Sir?

She left, with the Waitrose bag of clothing, looking rather

chastened.

Not exactly Doris Day, said Snod in his habitual report-speak.

But more intelligent than you’d think.

 

 

 

Consider the Lilies

Tags

Badger Farm, pyramid orchid, Red Admirals, Sainsbury's, Shawford church, St Catherine's Hill, Waitrose, white campion

You know, Carrie, it is great living in Suttonford as you can get everything

you need without having to drive to supermarkets.  You might pay more in

the Express store, but you save on fuel, I commented to my friend, as we sat

outside Costamuchamoulah cafe in some sun.

What about when you lived in Wintoncester?  Did you go to Sainsbury’s

before Waitrose arrived?

I did go to Sainsbury’s, but as a walk from a friend’s house.  I’ll describe it

to you by letting you read this poem that I re-discovered in my cellar when

I was clearing out this week.

COMPTON DOWN

There is a way to go to Sainsbury’s

at Badger Farm. I must not take my car;

should study pyramid orchids, flurries

of paired Red Admirals; look afar

to St. Catherine’s Hill and ignore the gash

in the chalk. Shawford Church spire and village

stand like decoupage. I am not to dash,

but idly tramp under green foliaged

tunnels of gnarled branches, whose russet floors

will mute motorway hum. The sharp wheet

of nightingales and sweet skylark song pours

from the dense trees and herding bullocks greet

me with nonchalance, while a pink dog rose

profusely spreads its blooms against a sky

of madonna blue. The barley crop grows

silken tassels below thyme slopes which try

to outpurple hollyhocks. I choose jars

of such herbs from the supermarket shelf.

Normally, I’d buy in bulk; load my car

and not have time to walk and still myself.

Today white campion has more import

than stockpiling stuff I don’t really need.

I turn my back on the tarmac forecourt,

enjoy my walk and mortify my greed.

Don’t eat the Figs!

Tags

Augustus, Caligula, Claudius, figgy pudding, Heston Blumenthal, Livia Drusilla, parable of fig tree, Pucine, Suetonius, The Sunday Times, Tiberius, Waitrose, We Wish You A Merry Xmas!

Livia Drusilla, standing marble sculpture as Ops, with wheat sheaf and cornucopia. Marble, Roman artwork, 1st century CE. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Clammie’s mother, Livia, was joining them a few days before Christmas- the same as usual.  She always insisted on helping in the kitchen, and Tristram disliked any interference in what he deemed to be his exclusive sphere.  He wanted to keep her out of his fast-receding hair.

She would arrive with The Right Way and The Only Way to do everything.  Her stuffing was superior and Tristram had to stifle phrases involving injunctions on that theme.  Her countdown was as regulated as NASA’s had been and her tinselled timetable was as efficiency conscious as Mussolini’s railways.

She was also excessively interested in the regulation of familial bowel habits and arrived with various packets of Fig Rolls.  Tristram preferred to remain slightly constipated than to partake of these suspicious little ridged sweetmeats.

He knew that he was being paranoid, but ever since he had been deeply impressed by a Classics lesson in Transitus, he had carried an aversion to, and a fear of, anyone called Livia.  Hadn’t the Empress thus called been responsible for the death of her husband, Augustus?  Hadn’t she cleverly smeared the ripe figs on the tree with a deadly poison?  He wasn’t taking any risks and even eschewed the boxes of Egyptian dates that she brought into the house.

He had remonstrated with Clammie when she had wanted to call Scheherezade ‘Julia Augusta’.  He felt that it had been a signal of impending terror.  Hadn’t that been Livia Drusilla’s adopted name when she was taken into the Julian family in AD 14?

Come to think of it, there was a master at the boys’ school nicknamed Caligula.  Could he conceivably be related?

Once, for their anniversary, she had sent a fig tree for their garden.  He tried to appear grateful, but inwardly vowed never to let its fruit pass his lips and he wouldn’t eat any of the conserves, or preserves, that Clammie made from its bounty.  Suetonius had recorded that Augustus might have snuffed it after kissing his wife, so Tristram indulged in a lot of mwah-mwah charades with his mother-in-law.

The original Livia had initiated herself as a priestess in a new cult and so, when Carrie’s mother announced that she had become a lay-reader, albeit in an Anglican diocese, he felt even more uneasy.  It was treasonous to speak against the Empress, and Tristram felt that he could not breathe a word to his wife regarding his discomfiture in her mother’s presence.

He went back to his school texts.  Tiberius, spawn of the Empress, used to resent being addressed as Son of Livia, or Son of Julia; Tristram hated being introduced as Livia’s son-in-law.

At five minutes past four, on the 20^th December, she telephoned from the station, and he felt as if he was being asked to pick her up on an elephant-drawn chariot.

Once he had her installed in the family sitting room with Clammie, he produced a bottle that he had bought from Pop My Cork! (a local wine merchant.)  He felt smug, as he had managed to find Pucine– a red wine labelled : grown on a hilly promontory between Aquilea and Tergeste, near the slopes of Mount Timavus, on the Adriatic.  This had been the daily tipple of the Empress herself.  It was what she had been drinking on the day she died, aged 86.  He knew that, like Tiberius, he would probably have to probate her will, but he would, like the aforementioned, veto her deification whenever he could.

The only way to survive her visit was to adopt the behaviour of Claudius: ie/ stammer and play the role of a half-wit.

So, there she was, in HIS kitchen, stirring some cranberry sauce which she had made from first principles, when she looked out of the French windows and suddenly came out with:

I don’t see that tree I bought you for your anniversary.

Ehhh, no…

What happened to it?

Tristram’s mind whirled around.  Suddenly recalling her lay-readership, he embellished a New Testament  story:

Oh, it wasn’t producing any fruit, so we took Jesus’ advice and dug it up.

Hmmm, well, it’s a pity you didn’t follow His advice on tares, she riposted, casting a critical eye on the weeds they hadn’t had time to address in the Autumn.

Livia: 1; Tristram: 0

What was the point in engagement?  She was a sheep; he was a goat.  They’d be separated on The Last Day.

Well, she continued, we don’t need any figs, as I was just going to make the pudding on Stir-Up Sunday, when I saw an article in The Sunday Times that said the must-have dessert this year is Heston’s Figgy Pudding, so I went out and bought one in Waitrose before they flew out of the stores.  She indicated the box lying on the granite worktop.

Tristram could feel his stomach beginning to knot.  He would have to check the seals.

Suddenly, at the back door, they could hear a clanging noise, which was evidently hand bells.  The some treble voices from St Birinus ‘Middle School, no doubt, trilled Sleeping in Heavenly Rest.

My favourite! smiled Livia, turning off the gas and exiting the kitchen to look for her purse.

The ensemble started up We Wish You A Merry Xmas with some gusto, aware that it was more of a money spinner and suddenly Tristram had an epiphany.  He opened the back door widely and thrust the Waitrose box into the gloved hand of the conductor, Mr Geoffrey Poskett, the red-nosed choirmaster, just as they reached the line:

We all like some figgy pudding, so bring some out here!

Oh, they’ve gone! said Livia, putting her pound coin back into her purse.

Don’t worry!  I gave them something from you, said Tristram, playing the part of the dutiful son-in-law.  Here!  Have another glass of Pucine.

The distraction worked.  He would pick up another box tomorrow on the school run and she’d never know the difference.  He’d lived another day.