ecce homo, imperator Americae

Tomorrow a Man

Tomorrow a man will stand and vow
Alone in the centre, there he will command
All that all survey; nations will bow
Before his accession to the largest land
On the next, triumphal, day.

Tomorrow a man will stand and vow
And he will inspire through his face
And his land; and people, cheering, wonder how
They felt it meant something, someone’s place
And the suffering will leave us like sand.

Tomorrow a man will stand and vow
But if you will cut him, red blood will pour out
From a man, not a moral. And although looking now
Shows a triumph of truth, the crowds as they shout
Enclose a real person, fast eroding, like coral.

Tomorrow a man will stand and vow
Only one in six billion will be there that day
But give time! For the life of a man is a bough
Of a tree that will grow; if it’s good, past the play-
Acting here, past the mime,

If our children still love him when it’s no longer now –
But tomorrow, a man will stand and vow.

Merry Christmas

On Choosing To Be a Thinker

I sit by my radio tonight
And listen to people consume
The transfigured body of their god
And speak and sing of myteries
Beyond my meagre ken; of hope, true hope
And love and faith and light.

And I know that they are deluding
Themselves, that truly there is nothing more;
And still more; that that is the beauty of it:
That what exists is mystery enough
But still, somewhere, somehow, within
My frame resides a longing which
Responds to the call of the bells,
Of the still small trumpet, the massed
Breath, crescendo of feeling.

And I push it back, this impulse.
Back where it belongs, and go and read
A book, that I can comprehend. For what
Am I without denial, without rejection of
The urge, without self-construction?
I choose reason and thought; these are my truths.
So I close my mind to the bells,
Do not join in the choir.

Epitaph

Somehow I’m finding it quite hard
To feel bad for the latest one,
This one, it seems, will die quite soon.

She was well-known; fat, plump, perhaps
Not clever, but everyone turned
To her at times: she had her use

From most – not quality, all knew,
But cheap and cheerful, close to home
For if you needed something quick.

Old, she was, too. I think that’s why
Some feel it more than others. Life’s
Constants, they say, should never let

You down, when you need them. But here
We are, she has, and soon will be
No more. The bells, I think, won’t ring.

But still a change will come into
The air, as subtly our faith
That what’s endured will never fail

Is broken; it’s a faith we should
Have never had. Now, countless souls
Stand limp, their bedrock tilled, and torn

Away. It’s no use telling them
The cause; even if they could know
The truth: that greed burns even th’ old.

That still would not their problems fix
Nor ease the sorrow at death’s tricks –
For where now is their Pic-n-mix?

versum adest

High-street churches

When days grow short, and chill has filled the air –
When red-cloaked man is readying his sleigh,
I watch the people running here and there
To countless temples, offerings to pay.
First, here’s the man who leaves his girl and boy
Each day to go to work, to get ahead:
He’ll fob them off with some expensive toy;
They’d rather he were home with them instead.
Next up, a mum, her family close by:
A new computer each; no need for talk.
Some singers sweetly sing of stars and sky;
Grab purses of th’ unwary: run, don’t walk
En route to the next altar: chip and pin!
– our national religion calls us in.