The worm in the eye

The god of Evolution could be
just
an artwork, that became a map
grew a capital G, and then
became a textbook, then a relic.

Could a God of evolution be
just?
We blossomed from the rich mulch
of competition and colonisation,
of grabbing for food and land and
stuff the rest. Is there justice
in the survival of the fleetest,
the fiercest, the fattest?

If the God of Evolution is
just,
it is a justice beyond homo sapiens sapiens.
It is a justice that relishes
the worm that burrows in the eye
as much as the wondrous hummingbird
or arrogant human. It is the justice
of radical freedom to (let?) be.

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Easter morning at St Martha's 2011

Thirty humans greet the sun
by a church, on a hill.
'Thine be the glory', they sing,
as squadrons of birds shout
their raucous dawn challenges
from commanding positions on high.
Mist shrouds layers of hills
in this North Downs bowl,
sea-green grey in the mid distance,
breeze-block grey at the edge
of our sight; O what a morning
to be alive, to be greeting the son...

But if the mist lifted
from our souls' perception,
would terror of the blazing god
blind our hearts and crack our minds,
or would a joy too rich to speak
raise us far beyond this English hill?



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After WH Auden: Watergate Bay 18.4.11

Garish kites invade the sky,
parachute and dragonfly.
Bright-striped plastic windbreaks sprout,
ripple with each sea-breeze, flout
Nature's muted seascape tones.

Near a beach-stream strewn with stones
four girls stand and plan, while one
smaller brother digs for fun.
Thus the children colonise
one small patch of sand that lies
unclaimed in the beach's vast
runway long expanse. At last
feeder trench and pool are done.

Spindrift flashes in the sun
where the surfboards peak and drop.
Seagulls chase their shadows, stop,
perch on flinty cliffs, await
crab from pool, or roll from plate.

Now a ragged dog strolls by
tired beneath the drowsy sky.


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Location: Watergate Bay, Newquay, United Kingdom

When I had knees

When I had knees, I could leap high
into my serve, and dash in to the net,
and bend for the low return, and spring
right or left to dominate the point.

When I had knees, I ran
six miles in forty minutes, and
stroked my college eight (no pun intended)
to four bumps in Eights Week, and
chased a frisbee in the quad till dusk.

If I had knees I'd learn to surf,
paddle to catch the wave, then up I'd pop,
a cool dude Jack-on-the-board,
riding the ocean's water horses home.

But cartilages tear, arthritis grates,
and constant pain is hard to bear,
and age foregrounds mortality
in every future that I dare to dream.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location: Godolphin Way, Newquay, United Kingdom

Sunset at Watergate Bay

A quilt of dog blue clouds is stretched
not quite to the horizon, where
fading salmon skies meet
the sharp, dark rim of the sea.
On the beach, in the gloaming,
dozens of children play; tip-and-run,
football, French cricket, straining to see
the ball, each other, while the damp
fringe of the shore
shines in the last orange glow
of the dying day.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location: Arundel Way, Newquay, United Kingdom

Those buggers at the BBC: RIP Radio 7

Those buggers at the BBC
Just can't leave well alone.
They've taken what was radio heaven —
I mean of course dear Radio 7 —
And cut out much of what was best
For reasons of their own.

Of course it's true it's much the same
Despite its sad '4 extra' name,
But so is human DNA
A lot like chimpanzees', they say,
And yet a chimp is not a man,
And I'm afraid I'm not a fan
Of this unnecessary change.

The great, anarchic Alex Riley
Replaced with Arthur ruddy Smith,
With worthy, safe old Arthur Smith.
And sexy, breathy Michaela S —
Oh, how I miss her alto tones.
And clipped, exact Miss Helen Ait-ken
The t and k precise, distinct —
The crime and thrillers aren't the same
Since they replaced you with a drone.

Farewell the greatest show on earth!
Hello to mediocrity.

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Through a glass, opaquely

Take a clear sheet of glass. A barrier of sorts, but one
that lets us see the world beyond, plants and fields,
and flying ducks that sometimes hit the glass,
and do a double take, and back away.

But put a layer of silver at the back, and then we have
a mirror. Now we see ourselves. A room of rows
of tables, gentle guests with tea or juice or coffee,
rapt in our conversations and our food.

Take a book that tells of God. A barrier of words, but one
that lets us glimpse the mystery beyond, of love and death,
and those who wrestle fiercesomely with God,
in hope to lose, that they may rise and stand.

But put a layer of worship on the book, and then we have
a mirror. Now we see ourselves alone. The magic words
become a wall of sound to drown out truth, and we
are rapt in contemplation of ourselves.


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Barriers

No rood screen keeps us from the holy things;
The altar stands in clear view, raised only
By a few steps. If God meets man in bread and wine
He does so in a cosy, cheery way. The 'Word' is read,
And we are told he speaks to us through it,
And it is all so plain, a simple, gentle deal. But

Why am I afraid that something's hidden?
Something that cosy human clubs protect against.
That cheering ourselves up erects a screen
Far more impenetrable than any wood.
That treating human writings as his 'Word'
Deafens us to any still, small voice? When

Will we find the courage to face ourselves,
And trek towards our ancient thunder god
Who spoke in storm clouds to Moses on the mountain?
Or swim in an open sea with Leviathan, letting
Job's god who would not tell a cosy lie
Drown us and save us in waves millennia high?




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