Of Kings: Three? Or two? Or one?

(For Brett, who asked for Epiphany poems beyond Eliot) Why do you look for poems About us? Kings? Oh, you are generous, Friend; words are elastic, Yes, but that one will not stretch to Us. Say we are governors, courtiers, Retainers, perhaps. Not Prince Hamlet, but Attendant lords. Honoured enough in our own land (Though careful of those above us) We found ourselves strangers, outsiders, Aliens, perhaps When we reached the place we sought. There a king (or, at least, A man on a throne) Summoned us, instructed us, and Dismissed us. No welcome there; we were wrong—our Faces, clothes, accents, our Diets, our customs, our Assumptions. There is honesty in the streets ‘Ere, Mister! You look Funny—you sound funny— You dress funny—Mister, You smell funny!’ In the halls of the Palace … courteous Lies to our faces; behind Our backs? Careful cuts, Plausibly deniable; Perspicuous; Deadly. ‘Good chaps, of course … but … Not the right sort. Not Clubbable, if you know what I Mean? Something I can’t Put my finger on is Wrong…’ If you asked, you could put your finger on My skin. Discover That it feels as yours, if A different shade. But to Ask would be to Admit. They sighed, no doubt, in Relief when we left for The town we were told of. ‘Satisfactory’? Perhaps For those expecting … less Than we had once known. But we had discovered our Disqualifications. Gentiles (Persians!). Pagans. Sorcerers By calling. Uncircumcised. Unchosen. Uncalled. Unwanted. Travel will Teach you such Truths if you let it. Like the refugee Brain surgeon who Mops your floors, friend, We left our status behind. But we knew when to kneel. Gifts given, we chose (Aided by an angel) To confirm their suspicions And disobey their ‘king’. ‘I told you, unreliable, not The right sort. Should never have Trusted. Left with a Mess.’ ‘Send the army to deal, Quietly of course.’ While we Return east, to places, That know us, places We no longer Belong. And the family flees west, To a land strange to them As theirs was to us. But all lands are his. But no land will ever Welcome...

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The Preacher as Antichrist: a sonnet

The Preacher as Antichrist To seize the flesh and make it word instead, Dissecting lived perfection to display Cold concepts, or trite lessons—mere cliche— I block th’ incarnate Word in printer’s lead, Make husk and dry chaff of the living bread, Turn laughter, tears, and blood, to an essay— Mere cleverness—affront to those who pray. To those who come, desiring to be fed And given hope, is all that can be said A worthless, weak, and cheap call to obey? Alliterated numbered points convey A dreary discourse, dull as it is dead. I look up to the Spirit that me owns, And ask, can life be given to these dry bones?   (Certainly not a theorised criticism of preaching; more a confession that, too often, this is what it feels like I am...

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U.A. Fanthorpe, Not the Millennium

Wise men are busy being computer-literate. There should be a law against confusing Religion with mathematics. There was a baby. Born where? And when? The sources mention Massacres, prophecies, stars; They tell a good story, but they don’t agree. So we celebrate at the wrong midnight. Does it matter? Only dull science expects An accurate audit. The economy of heaven Looks for fiestas and fireworks every day, Every day. Be realistic, says heaven: Expect a miracle. From U.A. Fanthorpe, Christmas Poems (Enitharmon Press, 2002), p. 61

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Stigmatic: a poem for Good Friday

[Years ago I read an account of someone—at this distance I don’t even remember who—receiving the stigmata. The detail that has stayed with me ever since was that the wounds did not come all at once, but gradually developed over several months.]   You pierced me slowly, Lord. An itch at first. Mere irritation. Then four sores. Blood seeping, Staining sock and shirt. Skin scraped away as if by Sandpaper. Why not the quick urgent thrust of a lover Breaking my virgin skin with rush of blood? Penetration completed in a moment. As swift as when nails impaled you. Your mining as ponderous and painstaking As an archeological dig. Pits Excavated in my extremities With excruciating exactness. Pressing imperceptibly deeper Precise, damaging no bones. At last you break the further skin and It is finished, your languid lancing. Four fleshy tunnels oozing gore. Flies find passage through me. Strange and sluggish God, Lord of the fords of Jabbok, Why is it that You wound all those you love? A rough wooing, yours, that Leaves us scarred and limping. And the exquisite extension of your Infliction of injury! You could shatter my hip in a second But you wait till the night-wrestle is done. What did you discover As you dug into me? What did you uncover Between muscle fibres Behind bones Beneath veins? You are the God who sees; What did you want to show when You laid me more than bare? Or are the hurts my own? My Malignant mind, my agonistic soul So fixed on the pains that were yours that I have etched them into my flesh, Deeper and sorer than any tattoo? Is it our malformed love for you that cripples us, O God of Jacob? Is there so much pain in your penumbra that To draw near is to suffer? Is it our own distortions that Break us in your light? Your glory has Gored me. Your beauty has Broken me. Your grace has Gutted me. Is it masochism that drives me to seek you still? ‘Through death you have trampled down Death’. ‘Your wounds in Beauty glorified.’ Through this long Good Friday I choose To wait For a mountain Moved. For an answer Unimagined. For the repeal of An execution. For a vivified Corpse. You have tunnelled through my body. You have undermined my soul. Distorted. Partial. Broken. I see a displaced stone. I see discarded rags. I see an empty cave. I put my hope in absence. I cannot see you. I cannot not...

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Irregular Hope: Seven Stanzas for Christmas

Irregular Hope: Seven Stanzas for Christmas   1. Epiphany Thrice fourteen men and Just three women named Between Ur and Nazareth. The men are rapists, murderers, Incestuous, adulterers, and the rest. We read and note the female lives To be irregular.   2. Benedictus Pretending to have Dreamt. Straining to Forget. Then the blood Fails to flow. Young enough Still to be irregular She tries to hope For two weeks more.   3. Annunciation His voice controlled. Effort Etched into his neck. He searches for civility. ‘But how? It all seems … Most irregular.’ She fails to hope Until he dreams her reality.   4. Quickening Her belly soon begins to Swell. Straining to contain the One who fills time, space. One day she prays. Between Her kidneys prayer is heard. Omnipotence awakes; She feels it kick.   5. Nunc Dimittis An unremitting sun and A dusty track and A troubled fiancé add To the weight that Hangs from the Front of her torso. At least the donkey’s gait is regular.   6. Nativity Of course, where Animals live the Straining of females and the Crying of newborns is All quite regular. New life brings new hope And blood-sodden straw.   7. Advent Mucus gives way. Waters descend. Sweat dilutes urine. On this moment the world balances. The Spasms that pull her apart Become more regular. She subsides. Here is hope: The Word which spoke light is heard again.  ...

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