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I make no claims for the following as poetry: it is simply angry verse, and the first line and metre are an imitation of A. C. Swinburne's poem Hymn to Proserpine ("Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean"), regretting the triumph of Christianity, and the decay of paganism. The words are said to have been spoken by the Julian the Apostate on his death-bed.
Please note the older pronunciation of 'victuals' as 'vittles', and you will get the reference.
Thou hast conquered, O pasty-faced *******!
The Church has grown weak, suffers scorn.
Our Faith that was manlier victuals
Has dwindled to muesli and quorn.
Of our Church Catholics once lived for, died for,
Now little's left here but the name.
The Light that your flock yearn and cry for,
Starved of fuel, is a weak, guttering flame.
You offer Our Lady's due: flowers
On altars to strange heathen gods,
Fudge Doctrine, misusing your powers,
To affirm pagans, heretics, S**s.
It was seven o'clock on a cold, dark, rainy autumn night. The Gladsome family, Treesgood, the father, Boudicca, the mother, and the six-month old twins were having an ecologically friendly vegan high tea.
Boudicca, sick of tofu, had just gone out to the kitchen for a quick bite at a dolphin steak she had hidden in the refrigerator, when the doorbell rang.
Treesgood answered it, leaving the twins in their high-chairs.
He returned, preceded by a heavily built man brandishing a meat-cleaver.
"Kids!" he bellowed. "Kids! Two kids! Too many kids! Don't think about the environment and all those poor little pandas, dolphins and grizzly bears, do you? Don't you know there are too many people? You need educating!"
"Sorry," murmered Treesgood, "I didn't think...."
"You lot never do! Read this, and you'll understand why it's my public duty to terminate one of your kids."
He handed a pamphlet to Treesgood, who hastily started reading.
At that moment, Boudicca returned from the kitchen, carrying her beloved shotgun.
She fired, blowing half the man's head off. He fell to the floor, still clutching the meat-cleaver.
"My dear," said Treesgood, "I'm sure we could have resolved this in a reasonable fashion without resorting to violence. The man was entitled to his point of view which is shared by many ecolog... I think I'm going to be sick."
Did I mention that I love ad hominem attacks, as it seems did St Thomas More, whose diatribes against Luther are a joy to read? Gladstone and Churchill were also masters of this now unfashionable weapon.
Targets must be fair game.
But I won't print any which might land me in court, or which are directed against good people, living or dead.
All over Poland this week, and especially at the weekend, whole families have been toiling in Catholic cemeteries, scrubbing headstones, planting flowers, and making everything tidy and ready for All Souls'.
Every shop and supermarket sells cheap, beautifully-coloured glass lamps, lit by a candle, to be placed on family graves.
As I drove home in the dark tonight, in village after village, the graveyards were twinkling with brightly coloured lights.
A couple of years ago, when I asked a matura (like 'A' level) class where they had been on All Souls' night, they told me "The Cemetery. At midnight."
"Why?" I asked, fearing halloweenism.
Pityingly, those teenagers smiled at me. "To pray and sing hymns, of course. Are you really a Catholic, or only in Poland?"
Tonight, I have been to Benediction (packed), Mass (packed) and left my lamps burning.
Psalm 130
Out of the depths I cry to Thee, O Lord, Lord, hear my voice! O let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.
If Thou, O Lord, shouldst mark our guilt, Lord, who would endure it? But with Thee is found forgiveness: for this we revere Thee.
My soul is waiting for the Lord, I count on His word. My soul is longing for the Lord more than watchman for daybreak. Let the watchman count on daybreak and Israel on the Lord.
Because with the Lord there is mercy and fullness of redemption; Israel indeed He will redeem from all its iniquity.
Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord,
And let perpetual light shine on them
May they rest in peace.
Amen.
May the souls of the faithful departed, throught the Mercy of God, rest in peace + Amen.
Don't waste your time reading the spasmodocally half-intelligent outpourings of insecure, intolerant, Catholic bigots like me. Go to Francis Davis's blog here , and read the deep and tolerant thoughts of a true Olympian, above the vulgar strife of anti-abortionistas and anti-condomistas.
He seems to like flexible Catholicism, so I guess he's got class.
I wish I could get some!
My apologies for the lack both of activity here and of replies to comments. I have had a bad toothache for three days, and have existed on three hours sleep a night.
Off to the doctor for antibiotics, and dentist on Thursday (I hope).
A very disturbing story unfolds on Sceptical Thoughts Blog about the way the Catholic Church in England and Wales is said to deal with sexual offences against children.
I cannot take sides, because I know nothing of the facts.
"Rats and roaches live by competition under the laws of supply and demand. It is the privilege of human beings to live under the laws of justice and mercy." - Wendell Berry
Sir 22:13 Talk not much with a fool, and go not to him that hath no understanding: beware of him, lest thou have trouble, and thou shalt never be defiled with his fooleries: depart from him, and thou shalt find rest, and never be disquieted with madness.
Sir 22:14 What is heavier than lead? and what is the name thereof, but a fool?
Sir 22:15 Sand, and salt, and a mass of iron, is easier to bear, than a man* without understanding.
* or woman
I claim no poetic merit for these verses which I posted nearly a year ago, but am re-posting them only as a tailpiece to my last post, and because St Nicholas's heart, (and fist) were in the right place.
Saint Nicholas was my kind of Saint,
If sometimes short of temper.
Though pacifism was not his bent;
He was fidelis semper.
When Arius denied his Lord's
Divinity, Nick felt sore;
Decided acts speak more than words,
Felled Arius to the floor.
His kind of knock-down plagologue*
Is now not to our taste.
We value courteous dialogue
Above such wordless haste.
And yet there is a time, one feels
To strike and not to speak.
When Reason with Unreason deals,
It's reason which is weak.
For who can mould a brain of mud
With philosophic lore?
Better to thump the stupid crud.
His place is on the floor.
Note: Plagologue = arguing or reasoning with blows. This word does not appear in any dictionary. It is my own coinage, being derived from Latin 'plagus' = a blow, 'plagosus' = full of blows, violent, cognate with Greek 'plegein = to beat, and logos = reason.
