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THE LOWLY BISHOP
When once against the odds made priest
His course was set. He never ceased
To prove his calling was not feigned,
The odds against it not ordained.
He proved exceedingly religious
At seeking only posts prestigious,
Wherein to posture, strut and swank.
Each posting sought was but a plank
To something higher, more desired
And so more self than God-inspired.
No slum or mission priest was he,
A bishopric his destiny.
In jumping no one was his match,
He leapt from warm to warmer patch.
Not unlike the common flea,
So lowly too! Ironically.
SAYS HE
Persistence of belief in God,
So inexplicable and odd,
Turns Dawkins atheism’s traitor,
For he himself becomes Creator.
So filled with hubris, it would seem,
He Godlike cries, “Let there be Meme!”
A word that hardly needs dissecting,
Revealing all in mere bisecting.
When cut in two it reads: “Me, me!”
“ God is me, is me!” Says he!
EMILY WAS WRONG
Lowly Church’s mitred royalty
Admire in priests, above all,“loyalty”
A word that means, or so they fancy,
Deferential sycophancy.
Tell them truth that isn’t slant
(Emily was wrong!) not cant,
Tell them truth that’s plain and blunt,
And speedily they take affront!
To treat them simply as your equal
Carries an inevitable sequel,
You’re shafted, shelved, ignored, unheard
Tattling toadies are preferred.
THE SEXUAL REVOLUTION
Blest are you among our women, whores,
For selling that which after all is yours,
Unlike the virtuous rest who fornicate
For nothing, thoughtlessly and at a rate
That shows they hold in almost no esteem
A virtue women used to hold supreme.
Thus ancient virtues once held dear subside,
And chastity’s faint vestiges reside
In brothels of all places, and prostitution.
How paradoxical this revolution!
THERE’S MORE
A bee, aerodynamically,
So science tells us, cannot fly.
And yet, of course, it can. Why?
There’s more to science, than aerodynamics,
And so it flies, and brilliantly.
God, materialistically,
So Dawkins rightly says, can’t be,
And yet he is, at least to me.
Why ? There’s more to existence than matter,
And so God Is, intoxicatingly.
FOR MARGARET AT FIFTY
What, my dear, is fifty years of life?
Nothing much! For I've had even more.
But over half those years you've been my wife!
That is something that I can't ignore!
For over half a century's half you've stuck
To me as faithful lover, wife and friend,
Sacrificing much that's you (with pluck)
And will continue to, until the end.
Pooh, pooh and pooh to fifty years of life!
I celebrate and honour you for far, far more,
For half of half a life, my dear, as wife,
That's something that I can't and won't ignore!
ON LETTERS AFTER PEOPLE'S NAMES
What, I wonder, is the game
Of those who place behind their name
Letters marking some degree
Achieved at university?
This practice, in a man of God,
Appears to me especially odd,
For he, as well as being holy,
Should also humble be and lowly!
An acronymic-suffixed minister,
Appears to me a little sinister.
Did God, to Moses, from the flame,
When asked identity and name,
Reply with pride "I AM (M.A.)"
To hasten Moses on his way?
Shrivelling him with more than flame,
With burning, low-achieving shame?
A priest who into Evensong
Processes snobbishly along
Draped in academic hood
I've never, ever, understood.
(Perhaps, though, I'm inclined to frown
As mine's a hood of dismal brown,
Without the flashy ermine trim
That might an Oxbridge genius hymn!)
More puzzling though are colleagues who
Mark off themselves from me and you,
By adding to their priestly name
(With some unfathomable aim)
The letters "S" and "S" and "C"!
Distinctly strange this seems to me.
What do these letters signify?
Saintly? Sinful? Low Church? High?
Who knows? Though all, don’t want, I’m told,
Women priests within the fold.
They seem to be exclusive too,
And blackball liberal priests, a few
Of whom remain and really matter
In the See of Wangaratta.
This exclusivity is comical
For being almost free-masonical!
I need an honest explanation
To ease me of my perturbation!
(Fr Andrew Neaum,B.A (HONS), P.C.E., Dip. Th., etc.)
THE MELANCHOLY BALLAD OF ST UNCUMBER
[St Uncumber, or Wilgefortis, so the legend goes, was required by her father,
the king of Portugal, to marry the king of Sicily. Unfortunately she had made a
vow of virginity. Her prayers for help in this predicament were answered when
a beard grew upon her face. The king of Sicily withdrew his suit and her
indignant father had her crucified. She was accordingly represented as a bearded
woman hanging on a cross. It is in England that she is known as Uncumber)
A Sicillian king set sail due West
To find himself a wife.
Between the Pillars of Hercules
His galley was a knife;
Then to the North he ventured forth,
The Atlantic waves were wild,
And so was passion in his breast
For a Portuguese king's child.
He'd set his heart on Uncumber,
A maiden most devout,
Who'd vowed to die a virgin maid,
All men to do without.
Her father thought (naive old king)
That girls their dads obey,
And so virginity for him
She'd gladly cast away.
But this proved not to be the case.
Her swarthy Mafia king,
For all his wealth and gifts and looks,
To her meant not a thing.
And so she turned the man down flat,
"And that," she said, "is that."
Her father, thwarted, face distorted,
Was madder than a cat.
Enraged, he roared, "You'll marry him,
For if you don't you'll die.
We'll nail you to two slabs of wood.
By God, we'll crucify!"
Uncumber to the chapel fled,
Her prayers with tears were mingled.
Her eyes were red, her face was flushed,
Her pretty chin, it tingled.
She stroked that chin. Her heart gave in!
She thought, "Now here is trouble."
Her sweet, her soft, her dimpled chin
Was covered with coarse stubble!
For God had heard her fervent prayers
And sent a beard to frighten
Her mafia suitor out of love
And so her prospects brighten!
A bearded Queen is rarely seen
Except in a gay king's court!
She stroked her beard, no more afeared,
Her worries brought to nought.
She showed herself to her two kings
And both were quite revolted.
Her father gasped in disbelief,
Her suitor simply bolted.
For a king with heart even extra large
Would never press his suit
Upon a maid whose sweet visage
Is frizzily hirsute!
And so her father raging mad
Had her crucified.
His will she'd thwarted, plans aborted,
And so, poor girl, she died.
And even now, in Portugal,
Can sometimes still be found
Bearded, female Christ figures
On crosses lying round.
They really lift the feminist heart
Which longs for beards on girls
And wants to Christine Christ as well
And perm his hair to curls.
So what a patron saint she makes
For feminist accusers
Of men as brutes and beasts and boors
And child and wife abusers!
BALLAD WRITTEN FOR THE OPENING OF
THE DAWN RICHARDSON MEMORIAL CENTRE
Adjacent to St John’s, unique,
unlike any other,
This Centre, like a baby whale
slip-streams next to mother.
St John’s now has her miniature,
an echo, shadow, clone,
Her architectural love child! She
no longer swims alone.
A parish confident enough
to self finance like this,
A project of such magnitude in
a rural diocese,
In days like these, when Mother Church
is so much out of fashion,
Its leaders shame-faced, running scared
and lacking fire and passion,
Cocks a snook at crucifiers
of Hollingworth and such,
Waves a flag for God and Christ
and all we love so much!
It says to half-baked journalists,
finger-pointing twerps,
Begone you scribes and pharisees,
belch on your hollow burps!
The work of God and good prevails!
Hate and crucifixion
Ineluctably give place
to love and resurrection!
The Richardsons, to start with, gave us
impetus and spark
To take the plunge, think big and get
this project off the mark
For Dawn’s great love of God and Parish,
her Christian animation,
Her fire, intelligence and wit,
provided inspiration
For many years to all the parish,
and so how well deserved
That in a Centre such as this
her name should be preserved,
But every single parish member,
without exception, all
Have done their bit, contributed
in some way big or small.
Hard work, donations, sound advice,
prayers and good ideas
Have played their part, have given heart,
dispelling footling fears.
Able, canny David Gillard
forsook his home and wife,
To give us months and month and months
from a full and busy life,
And every day, all day, each day
the expert Rob Mcrae
Likewise gave us months and months
in his unassuming way.
Our Parish Council and the Wardens,
and Hugh, Lorraine and me,
Worried, dreamed, disputed, schemed,
agreed to disagree,
But never to the point of conflict,
we always worked things through,
And so today this Centre stands here
crisp and bright and new.
Because we still owe money on it
it’s not without regret,
I go as priest to Shepparton
and leave St John’s in debt!
I do so, though, in confidence.
In no way it’s remiss
To leave behind a challenge for
a Church as good as this.
St John’s will meet the challenge and
in doing so grow stronger,
No parish in the diocese
can match St John’s Wodonga!
So all rejoice, be glad, give thanks,
lift up your hearts in praise
For Dawn and all the Richardsons,
the Gillards and McCraes,
For Bishop David, Councillors,
our Wardens, all of you,
Every single one who’s ever
occupied a pew.
Adjacent to St John’s, unique,
unlike any other,
This Centre, like a baby whale,
slip-streams next to mother.
St John’s now has her miniature,
an echo, shadow, clone,
Her architectural love child! She
no longer swims alone.
But nor does anyone of us!
All slip-stream next to God,
Not a single baby whale,
but millions, we’re a pod!
This Centre then’s a simile
that shows our true relation
To God and Church and hence today
this happy celebration.
VAINGLORY
Why wear cassocks on retreat
When pewed, not in the driving seat?
Do all of us officiate?
Does everyone con-celebrate?
Not at all! It’s my suspicion
That this putative “tradition”
Is only there for two Archdeacons,
Who far from being sartorial beacons
(Being too expansive in their girth),
Yet flaunt their eminence and worth,
In red-piped cassocks dearly bought.
A strange investment I’d have thought.
For fickle bishops, over night,
Can de-archdeacon with delight,
Whereupon the perks abundant
And red-piped skirts become redundant.
THE PHARISEE
AND THE PUBLICAN
Two men one day went up to pray
To twist the arm and plead
Their case before Australia’s God,
Both men in need, indeed.
In the foyer of the temple,
The city’s major bank,
Queues of fervent, faithful folk
Were lined up, rank on rank,
Handing electronic angels
Prayers on cards of plastic.
They’d press the keys and then with ease
They’d cash in hand. Fantastic!
The two this day who went to pray
Had bigger prayers to pray
Than any electronic angel
Would grant them yea or nay.
The Manager they had to see,
A person rarely sighted,
Enthroned as Bishop of Finance,
By mighty Mammon mitred.
The first man was a well-off man,
One like you and me,
A middle-class and law-abiding,
Thorough pharisee.
He wanted cash to build himself
A home beside the sea.
A comfy place in which to face
Old age with grace and glee.
“You’ll see,” he said, “my record’s clean,
As all I’ve ever owed
Was only planned to minimise
The heavy tax-man’s load.”
“It seems to me a G.S.T.
Is what this country needs.
You can’t deny, we’re taxed too high,
And all know where that leads.”
“To grudging, idleness and bludging
Among the unemployed,
Who loaf and lounge at our expense
No wonder I’m annoyed!”
“Thank God that unlike other folk
I’ve led a decent life,
Have never dealt a dirty trick
Or pinched another’s wife!”
“A hundred thousand dollar loan
I argue for and plead
Confident you won’t refuse me
All the cash I need.”
“That I’m profoundly credit-worthy
Is very, very clear,
So I should have two lovely homes
I hope, this time next year.”
The other man was unemployed,
Humble, down and out.
Commission-housed, with little joy
To boast or shout about.
He asked for several thousand dollars
To build a modest shed
In which to do some carpentry,
“To make ends meet,” he said.
“Although financially I’m strapped,
And have some debts,” he said,
“If you won’t lend me what I ask,
I might as well be dead.”
I ask you then, of these two men,
In the land of Mammon,
Of scallops, truffles, cray-fish tails,
And smoked Atlantic salmon,
The land where market forces rule,
Where dunder-heads and dolts
Must pay full price and sink or swim
For all their stupid faults,
Who’s the one who gets the loan?
The one who’s unemployed,
Or is it just the pharisee
Who’ll go home overjoyed?
In the land where Mammon rules
The pharisee is king.
The down and out just loses out,
The poor pathetic thing.
In the land where Mammon rules
The pharisee’s a god.
He gets the lot, the other not,
The poor, pathetic sod!
But in the land of Jesus Christ
The rich man comes off worst
For in the kingdom of the Lord
That’s were the last are first.
EARLY MORNING IN LATE WINTER
IN HOLY TRINITY CHURCH ARARAT
On bitter cold and wintry mornings,
Under Mary's eye,
Black-becassocked, hunched and cloaked,
A priest at prayer am I.
Outside the bluestone sweats cold rain,
The wind through tiles sifts
And inside, round the empty church,
It coldly curls and drifts.
In a pool of bright bulb-light,
Shocking in its starkness,
I hunch befuddled, gloomy, black,
In league with outer darkness.
The brightness in the little chapel
Is challenged by my night.
For I'm a fragment of the dark
That's strayed into the light.
The light divine might shine, but surely
Never light a soul
Which in a chapel's universe
Appears a dense black hole.
Outside though, in a dripping bush,
With arrogant disdain,
A sex-crazed blackbird bursts to song
For all the wind and rain.
A rumour, hint at, hope of dawn,
Beyond the distant hill,
Is all that's been required to open
Wide its golden bill.
Lovely, limpid, liquid notes
Tremble on the air
And shower, fall all over me
Darkly sitting there.
They permeate and penetrate
The blackness in my heart
Which slowly warms, responds and melts.
Sadness falls apart.
My lips begin to murmur praise,
That's almost loving, fond,
As God within me sings his love
To God outside, beyond.
Behind me, through the great east windows,
The dawn explodes its light,
And floods the church in ambient red,
To halo my delight.
The blackbird and black-cassocked priest
Have acknowledged God's good light!
Perhaps two wrongs have made a right,
Two blacks have made a white!
SPEECH AT MY OWN INDUCTION
The Rector, just made, of this parish, Wodonga
Is delighted at last to be here,
And humbled to think he's been offered the place
For he has many faults I fear.
For a start he's deficient in masculine beauty,
His head is as bald as an egg!
His beard's as tatty as the back-door mat.
He's gangly and spindly of leg.
But worse, he's an arrogant pommie lad,
Given to composing bad verse.
And while heretically soft on the merry in sin
The miserable sinner he'll curse!
Moaning and maudlin and miserable Christians
Get up his bespectacled nose.
If heaven's not ringing with laughter and singing
Then it's hell that's for him, well he knows.
Never as yet has he filled a church
By the power of his eloquent preaching,
And most atheists taught have remained uncaught
By the power of his elegant teaching.
Although he delights in his Mozart and Bach,
In Telemann, Beethoven, Gibbons,
His voice is as harsh as a frog's in the marsh,
And shreds tender eardrums to ribbons.
His kids are as wild as a cage full of monkeys
They bubble and fizz with life.
He is only kept sane, on track, in lane,
By his polished and well-spoken wife.
So what can be said in this duffer priest's favour?
Well, his bark is much worse than his bite,
And he loves his Lord and he says his prayers,
Which is good in a priest, and right.
And he loves a beer and a chat and good cheer
And to visit his parish flock.
He's a sociable thing, with a thickish skin,
So can take a critical knock.
And he brings with him Dad, whose a splendid old lad
Full of wisdom, good sermons and charm,
With him as his mentor, adviser and guide,
Your Rector can come to no harm.
He's a passionate lover of Anglicanism,
Inspite of its crack-pot ways.
Lambeth's his home, not Geneva, nor Rome.
He'll be Canterbury's all of his days.
The parish priest's job he considers the best
Of all jobs that the world has to give.
He basks in its favour, variety, flavour,
A rectory's the best place to live.
So in spite of his weaknesses, failings and faults,
Your new Rector is usually contented
You'll have to be swine to persuade him to whine,
Or to whinge, tear his beard, go demented.
And thank you to all, from both near and far,
Who have come to pray for us here.
We're enchanted & charmed, put at ease, & disarmed,
And hold you exceptionally dear.
And so after this service, these speeches, the supper,
And what's worse this inadequate verse,
There's a drink at the Rectory for all not averse,
To champagne somewhat better than worse.
Do come along (if so you're inclined)
To toast us all in effervescently,
For now is the time for the bubble and sparkle
The grind of hard work will come presently.
But enough of this verse from the man just inducted
As Rector of lovely Wodonga,
You'll sack him for sure as a long-winded bore,
If he carries on very much longer.
RETURNING THE COMPLIMENT
It's very rarely in my work among the middle classes
That ever I encounter anything at all that passes
For wife abuse. But here and there and now and then
I come across those hunted, haunted, hopeless looking men
Who're henpecked, nagged, oppressed, belittled, tyrannised, demeaned,
Downtrodden by a monstrous, marriage-metamorphosed fiend.
We need, therefore, to be discerning, thoughtful, quizzical.
Abuse, like love, is more than what is crudely physical.
That it's the male's failing's feministic propaganda.
In truth, of course, the goose is no less guilty than the gander!
The female, with her beak, can cut, emasculate, abuse,
And wounded males, like feminists, can stand up to accuse!
TYNDALE, WYCLIFFE, COVERDALE AND CO
The ancient scholars had it right, you know,
Tyndale, Wycliffe, Coverdale and Co.,
Revering every word that they translated
As holy, sacrosanct, divinely stated.
Which meant, of course, an image crudely primitive,
Obscurities, a flawed or faulty narrative
With gaps in meaning, all, if they occurred,
They passed on to us simply as God's word.
Which means that in their old despised translations
We jump right back a hundred generations.
By reverent authenticity we're hurled
To a virile, vibrant, bright and actual world.
Today's translators have it wrong, of course.
The text they tinker with, manipulate and force
To fit the mould of current taste and fashion,
The word of modern man, not God, their passion.
So out go all the crude anachronisms
And also vivid patriarchal barbarisms.
The male who proudly "pissed against the wall",
Is hardly now allowed to be a man at all.
Who wants to travel back two thousand years
To find that nineteen ninety two appears
With God belonging to the bourgeoisie
'Politically correct' and 'gender free'?
I don't! Because to me the real God is found
In well mucked, well ploughed, real and dirty ground.
In blood and guts, love, hate and slaughter,
Not gutless twentieth century milk and water!
ADVICE TO MYSELF
Don't waste your time to shake your fist
You arrogant polemicist
At trendy bishop, modernist,
Inclusivist, neologist,
Tradition scorning liturgist,
At bolshevist and anarchist,
Fanatic foolish feminist,
At socialist and nihilist,
Empiricist, behaviourist,
At Calvinist and literalist,
At fearful fundamentalist,
At ritualist and Romanist,
At satanist and sodomist,
Reductionist and dogmatist,
At self-indulgent hedonist,
And self-obsessive egotist!
You waste your time. Resist, desist,
You paranoid polemicist.
Become instead a lyricist,
A melodist and rhapsodist.
There's one lie only needs the fist,
The lie that God does not exist.
A dangerous lie we must resist.
And spread abroad, shout out, insist,
He meets us in the Eucharist.
LIBERALS AND FUNDAMENTALISTS
A RECONCILIATION OF SORTS
Liberal scholars, one and all,
Fundamentalists appal,
By shooting down in flames with glee
Every miracle they see.
It's not (as you perhaps perceive)
Because in God they don't believe.
There's something subtler going on
Which I'll explain anon, anon.
Fundamentalists appal
Liberal scholars one and all
By claiming miracles to be
Everywhere, for all to see.
It's not (as you perhaps believe)
Because they're stupidly naive.
There's something subtler going on
Which I'll explain anon, anon.
Both fundamentalist and liberal
Desire to walk in pathways scriptural.
Thus both admit the need to be
At home in 32 AD.
If the mind of Jesus is
To chime with ours and ours with his,
Then 1998 must be
Designed like 32 AD.
Fundamentalists therefore
Scatter miracles galore
Over me and over you
Today, in 1992.
Whereas the liberals disallow
All miracles both then and now,
So making now, our age, to chime
With what was once upon a time.
Thus both, into the world of Jesus,
Attempt, from different ends, to ease us.
And both extremes are not contemptible,
They simply try to make compatible
Two very different worlds, to please us,
So both, at best, are friends of Jesus.
And shouldn’t be at loggerheads
At worst they're just fanatic fools,
Who in mutual hatred break love's rules.
THE GREAT MAY DAY HIJACK
[Since the time of Pius X11, the first of May, May Day, has been designated
"St Joseph the Worker's Day". This was an attempt to "baptize" a secular day
to the Church's benefit, to jump on the May Day band waggon, to steal a
march on the Communists, or from the Communists! Although the attempt
manifestly failed, May Day remains "St Joseph the Worker's Day" on the
Calendar of the Church of Rome and on the Calendars of some parts of
the Anglican Communion as well.]
Plebeian Tom and Dick and Harry,
And proletarianism,
The working masses, hoi polloi,
Egalitarianism,
Remain today, in certain circles,
Very much in fashion!
In parts of Mother Church they seem
A veritable passion.
And so because by many workers
She's very much derided.
Mother Church, to hi-jack May Day,
Some years ago decided.
To turn May Day, the "Workers' Day",
To Holy Day she planned.
And all she needed, she conceded,
Was a saint with calloused hands!
And one of stature and prestige,
And biblical as well,
For workers, just a footling saint,
Would send pell-mell to hell!
But workers, so most wise employers
Emphatically declare
Are usually unholy clods,
So worker saints are rare.
The twelve disciples, to a man,
Were from the bourgeoisie,
Fish-boat owners, tax collectors,
Men like you and me.
Not Labour men, not Working men,
Not Union men at all!
So where to find a worker Saint
Who workers won't appall?
Easy! Dredge the Bible! Ditch all
Scholarly restraint!
And even if there isn't one,
You'll find a worker saint!
After much debate and worry
They settled on St Joe,
A carpenter from Nazareth
Whom no one doesn't know.
To bully bosses May Day’s still
A bloody Red Rag day.
To workers its a Saint’s Day now
As well as Red Flag day
But this is nasty deviousness,
A Churchy double-cross.
For Joseph owned his wood-work shop!
So Joseph was a boss!
THE END OF TERM AT ARARAT WEST
No more Howman, no more White
Forcing me to read and write.
No more Whitehead or Gemmola
To fizz and pop like Coca Cola.
No more Hedgeland, no more Murray
Forcing me to work and worry
No more Shearer, no more Quick
To grumble, rumble, growl or pick.
No more teacher shouts and bellows,
No more bilious greens and yellows.
No more boys who're loud and stinky,
No more stupid games like minkey.
No more stuck-up gangly girls,
Giggling as they toss their curls.
No more insults, no more punches,
No more lousy sandwich lunches.
No more Adam, no more Beren,
No more Laura, no more Erin.
School is finished, school is done,
The lazy holidays have come.
Hurray hurray! hip hip hurray!
I never thought I'd see the day!
Thank you God for no more school,
Because the holidays are cool!
CAUSE AND EFFECT
Professor Serge Diaghilef
(The Russian surname rhymes with Geoff),
A widely famed and skilled logician,
Taught his students with precision
And startling visual-aids galore
Which brought them flocking back for more.
One day, to help his students think
And demonstrate the vital link
Between effect and prior cause
(Which no one but a fool ignores),
He introduced for all to see
A tiny, brown and shiny flea.
He put it down and shouted "Jump!"
It gave its tiny limbs a pump
And jump it did, a few feet high,
As if to try to reach the sky.
He then cut off the creature's legs,
Leaving useless little pegs
Protruding from its shiny rump,
And shouted loudly, once more, "Jump!"
The flea ignored the loud command
And wouldn't jump upon demand!
The point was made for all to see!
"You take the legs from off a flea,"
Remarked, with pride, Diaghilef
"And render it completely deaf."
LIFE THE BITCH
Accept, my witch, along with me
That life's a bitch. With me agree
That hopes are rarely realised,
That goals, though very highly prized,
When once achieved bring little pleasure,
Little joy to hold or treasure.
That lives of quiet desperation
Are lived in every generation
By nearly all. That even those
Who're animated, you suppose,
By joy and laughter, if you scratch
Beneath the surface you'll soon catch
A glimpse of sadness, hurt and sorrow
Of fear and dread of what tomorrow
Is bound to bring along with it.
A B flat minor song with it.
A dire dirge to drone and moan.
Its only joy; "We're not alone,
For misery we share with all."
A joy like that's no joy at all!
Accept, my witch, along with me
That life's a bitch, and with me be,
Upon the mongrel bitch, a flea.
There side by side with me agree
To suck life's bright, red, bloody juice
And so together we'll induce
That itch, my witch, which will enrich
A bit, with laughter, life the bitch.