Peelin Orange
Page 5
and weary with the chase.
I picked him up and cuddled him
in my warm arms, my newest baby boy.
The hounds were yelping louder,
nuzzling the hedge. And then
(but why? but why?) you snatched
the poor thing from my arms,
and with ‘We must not interfere,
my love, the dogs demand their prey,’
you tossed their quarry over
the prickly hedge. The ravenous pack
were through him in an instant,
ravaging the body.
That moment, in my dream,
our sweet love died; that afternoon
I sat alone, playing with thorns.
At length, I turned to you
to plead forgiveness.
You offered that, and love;
but, broken in simple grief,
I could not take your proffered
bread and wine.
PILATE
And then I tried to pass the buck;
but Herod, with astute aplomb,
politely, sent him back.
I tried to move the people
to accept he might be freed
this feast of The Passover.
‘Kill him! Kill him! Nail him
to the cross!’ They clamoured for
Barabbas, insurrectionist, a bandit
who’s attacked imperial rule.
‘Try Jesus for yourselves,’ I told the mob;
‘You judge him by your law.’
‘Kill him!’ they hollered louder,
‘Nail him to the cross!’
Then slimy priests, those holy rogues
of politics, began to turn the screws:
‘You must not fail to sentence Christ,
soi-disant King of Jews.
Your masters wouldn’t like it much
if we should let them know
we caught a man supplanting Rome
and you have let him go.’
My basic job is keeping peace
and reverence for Rome. The man
was bad for both. I had to yield.
‘I find no fault in him,’ I cried,
and ordered water brought;
and, public gesture of defeat
(sound politics, I thought),
I washed these loving
histrionic hands.
The crowd surprised me, seized
the guilt of their demands.
You know
I am not weak. I could, I would
stand up for Jesus if I thought
that were the thing to do. Now
he is dead. He didn’t seem to care,
so why should you? How is your head,
my sweet?
PETER
O Jesus, you were right:
I have denied you, Lord; in spite
of protestation, failed
the test.
When that girl hailed
me, Lord, I should have hollered loud,
‘He’s God I follow!’, Lord, and faced the crowd.
For all my talk, somehow
I couldn’t then; it’s too late now:
the deed is done, and twice the cock has crowed.
O Lord, more than this worthless life I owed
to you who made the world make sense!
Though hard on overconfidence,
you taught that fear is lack of faith, is sin;
yet I denied you, Lord, to save my skin.
These bitter tears won’t wash away the stain.
But o my Jesus, let me try again:
make me, as promised, your foundation rock;
forgive me, Lord, and I will feed your flock.
SOLDIERS
Hey! Boy! If you are God
then say who spit on you!
Say who, you bloody fraud!
We’re gonna nail you, Lord!
SIMON OF CYRENE
Why me? It’s
just my luck.
Another great
procession
coming through,
some carpenter
called Christ.
Women weeping,
people jeering,
and the Roman
soldiers hard
and cold, ‘Hey, you!
Not me? ‘Hey! You!’
I didn’t figure.
‘Take this cross!’
Orders is orders
from a Roman guard.
I’m strong enough,
and this man Christ
is weary, bleeding,
scourged so deep.
Wicked heavy
heavy load,
the cross I bore
for Jesus. ‘King
of Jews’ the sign said.
Rubbish. Wonder what
he’d done?
A WOMAN NAMED MARY
We get a good view here.
I know that man.
It’s Jesus! I’ve anointed him –
in Bethany, I think: at Simon’s house.
A lovely piece of man; real sweet.
Those hands. That mouth. Those feet.
Some stingy bastard tried to say
the money spent on nard was waste,
and should have gone to help the poor!
Jesus spoke up for me.
JESUS ON THE ROAD
Weep not for me but for yourselves
and all the world to come. For some
shall bless their barren luck
that they have never given suck;
and they shall pray the mountain fall
and hide them from the sky.
Such evil, and the tree is green;
much more when it is dry.
MALEFACTOR (LEFT)
So you is God?
Den teck wi down! Tiefin doan bad
like crucifyin!
Wha do you, man?
Save all a wi from dyin!
MALEFACTOR (RIGHT)
Doan bodder widdim, Master; him
must die;
but when you kingdom come, remember I.
When you sail across de sea,
O God of Judah, carry I wit dee.
CENTURION
I’ve seen it often:
when the pain gets harsh,
the fellow up there on the cross
will often cry for mercy. Usually
if he is lucid he will curse.
Sometimes when the pain gets harsh
the victim stop proclaiming
he is innocent,
and swears revenge.
But this man’s different: he forgave
the people who enjoyed his pain!
Never nailed a man like this before.
Surely this man was God.
MARY (MOTHER)
To see him
strung up there
between two robbers,
scorned, abused!
I still remember when
an angel, as they say,
predicted him;
and Joseph; and those
tough uncomfortable
miles to Bethlehem;
and bedding in a stable,
for the inn was full;
and giving birth.
O God, the pain!
To hear him cry! To see
the head fall slack!
The wounded hands! The spear-slit
in his side!
JOHN
I fished; but he was deep.
The perfect man. Divine.
His love
was everlastingly benign.
Stripped there,
broken on the cross:
perfection sacrificed!
O help us to endure our loss,
blessed body of Christ.
JOSEPH OF ARIMATHAEA
Sometimes, avoiding trouble, we accept defeat.
(Painful sometimes, being discreet.)
Soon Sabbath now. The corpse of Christ
ought to come
down by then.
Which means pulling strings again.
I think I’ll bury him where I
had planned to have my own bones lie.
Thank God there’s something I can do.
Forgive me, Lord, for not proclaiming you.
MARY MAGDALENE
Me, crying; just outside the tomb.
This fellow asks me why I’m crying.
I ask him where the body is.
‘Mary,’ the man says quietly.
I turn.
The voice is His.
THOMAS
Sure, I’m lacking faith. It’s just
I am not gullible like some.
Better to be wrong than dumb.
There is no doubt
I loved the King of Men.
But if he seem to come again
some simple test must be applied:
I’ll plunge these fingers in his riven side
to know, first-hand, that what I see
is him that died.
Doubt’s my creed:
till time breeds proof
sand seems more honest than rock.
If my Lord lives, he’ll meet the need
of those who question, those who mock;
of us who, wanting faith, will stand aloof.
IV TIME COME
A CONFERENCE HYMN
for Anglican Consultative
Council Meeting, May 2009
Lord of our diversity,
unite us all, we pray;
welcome us to fellowship
in your inclusive way.
Teach us all to have respect;
to love, and not deride.
Save us from the challenges
of selfishness and pride.
Sanctify our listening
and help us get the sense
of each perplexing argument
before we take offence.
Teach us that opinions which
at first may seem quite strange
may reflect the glory of
your great creative range.
May the Holy Spirit now
show us the way preferred.
May we follow the commands
of your authentic Word.
RECREATION
He didn’t spend six whole days on the world,
he made it in a single night
when things were not going well and, having hurled
some earnest failures into the abyss,
he poured himself some nectar and created this,
a funny thing he figured was all right.
HOMILY
He seemed forever full of fun –
witty, audacious Anglican
who hardly ever met a pun
he wouldn’t entertain.
Shared laughter is the main
thing I recall, but now and then
he could turn serious, like when
‘I’m sorry if I seem to be accusing you,’
he said, ‘of not discriminating as you should;
but sometimes when the Devil is amusing
you seem to be forgetting he’s no good.
Remember: goodness matters.’
A message from his pastoral core.
Beyond the grace of humour
there is more.
TRANSITIONS
for Alli & Joyce
In church triumphant
only months ago
he gave away the prize
but now at Eastertide
the father of the bride
is dead
bequeathing us
perpetual open house
a family of friends
and willing us to rise
above our sorrows
and terrestrial ends
AT CHURCH
the old man
stumbles in
a grisly sermon
DEATH
THE ULTIMATE
EXAM stop writing time
beyond him
stained glass
morning sun
the risen Christ
and two or three
apostles
PRAISE THE LORD
full tabernacle
shouting to the shimmy of
wicked tambourines
COMMUNION
eyes no longer
altar-focused
light upon
a ragged stranger
peering through
a window at the side
and monitor
what we perceive
as a potential threat
a robber maybe
or a man unhinged
who probably
will crash the service
and disturb the peace
unless he is
an angel
EVE
the garden
seemed
a proper
paradise
until
she buck up
on a serpent
talking nice
IN THE GARDEN
Until the fascinating snake
she didn’t know, she didn’t want to know.
But when the serpent, tired of being eyed,
unwreathed himself to go,
Eve yielded. ‘No,’ she cried,
‘I’ll have a taste.’ And so …
MOTHER OF JUDAS, MOTHER OF GOD
for Sheila Barnett & the NDTC
Curtain.
Kettledrum.
Two women meet
in an empty place.
The traitor’s mother, jittery,
darting behind her grief,
explores
the calm authority of love.
She understands, she knows,
an inner voice
advises. Give.
And gradually
vibrations, bond
of blood, the shawl
transfigured,
canopy.
The women grieve together
now, acknowledging
the sanguine promise
of the cross.
Crescendo.
Fade.
A rope hangs
from the tree.
BOARDING SCHOOL
Saturday is pictures evening,
chairs are carried to the gym;
happy little boys enquire
‘Who is in it?’ ‘What’s the flim?’
‘What’s the flim? And who is in it?
Rita Hayworth? Doris Day?’
With a whirr the old projector
wafts excited boys away.
Do not let that tricky bastard
touch your treasure, you damn fool!
Spurn the dawg! Humiliate him!
Tie a tin can to his tool!
Come with me instead, I beg you;
trust me, I will treat you right.
Sexy-body, Nice-gal, Sweetness,
climb the stairs with me tonight.
Sunday morning: to the chapel
after breakfast off we go,
dressed to kill in suit and tie
(we’re extras in the Sunday show),
to pray and otherwise perform
as reverential prodigies,
sing the hymns and look fulfilled,
no matter what the message is.
Can the preacher counteract
the awesome power of Hollywood?
Has he seen Delilah dancing?
Does he know her legs are good?
Who’s he talking to, I wonder.
Does he know the flesh is sweet?
Does he know that wine’s for drinking?
Does he know that bread’s to eat?
HOUSEMASTER AT WORK
Bend, boy, bend: a dog’s
obey’d in office. Bend.
Empty your pockets, please,
and touch your toes.
I am the system, boy: authority:
the master, guardian of roles.
Behave, or suffer.
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Bend now, bend.
Other routines obscure
this fundamental.
Prayers, classes,
lunchtime, tea,
house matches, prep,
a beer, an argument
about the team,
the piles of books
we have to mark,
distract us from the stark
brutality of our regime.
Robes and furr’d gowns hide all.
TO A CRIPPLED SCHOOLMASTER
Your study doubled as a Common Room,
with billiards, laughter, loud debate;
and if some little cretin went too far
your magisterial wit would set him straight.
I still recall your dragging up the stairs,
allowing travel time before each bell;
I liked your funny classes (though in truth
I really cannot claim you taught us well).
We watched you crawl from bad to worse,