(okay, so this is a spoof — I don't write like this, but googling Max Gate should tell you who did. Then work out what the more familiar version of HD's story is called.)
I
I sat on the wall looking out -
Ah! Thirty years ago!
O'er man-unweeting worms which crawled
Through moss-marauded lawns, where sprawled
The sun-bespeckled shadows of an oak:
A giant, as yet time-unstunted tree.
Ah! Thirty years ago!
II
Well: while on that wall I sat out -
Ah! Thirty years ago!
Across the meads a soldier called
To comrades, who, Spring-merry, brawled
Or boozed. 'Oy! Who's that March-mad perching bloke
Atop yon weathered wall?' They turned to see,
Ah! Thirty years ago!
III
Surprised - as the soldier his shout
(Ah! Thirty years ago!)
He with unwoeworn wonder bawled -
I fell, grip-gone, fetching appalled
And pain-bewracked below. A lone cloud's cloak
Of grey soon hid the sun. Rain dripped on me.
Ah! Thirty years ago!
IV
The soldiers then gathered about,
Ah! Thirty years ago!
One, hope-bereft, head-shaking, drawled;
As cold rain fell from the cloud that shawled
The dying sun, he leaned against the oak,
And: 'Sorry mate. Can't help you,' said to me.
Ah! Thirty years ago!
V
With that the young soldiers went out -
Ah! Thirty years ago!
And still I haunt that garden walled,
By thirty Novembers mugged and mauled;
Cursing the worm-forsaken lawns which broke
My back, beneath the now storm-stunted tree,
Ah! Thirty years ago!
Max Gate, October 8, 1994
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
the nth dimension
i)
Our starting point: a cosy huddle
where Euclid's three friends commune with each other.
Wrapped up in themselves like a great ball of wool
soft and round, with nowhere to go.
Hearing and seeing and speaking no evil,
for evil needs time to hatch its plots
and time as yet still sleeps.
Three friends, and yet not three
but one, as yet undivided.
ii)
Who said Time is the fourth dimension?
Let's say time is the space in which they grow,
the abyss into which they fall.
iii)
It starts with an arrow, trailing a thread,
unravelling the ball, and piercing the heart
of darkness indivisible. How long, O Lord,
how long before the arrow finds a mark,
crossing the continents on a straight iron road,
light-speeding towards the stars?
The pioneer's arrow, a shot in the dark,
a radius implying a sphere.
But that must wait.
iv)
Add perpendicular height to width
and pictures form: our first fictions.
With flat-eyed models we fool ourselves,
imagining we've captured the world.
Hollow men scratched on a cave wall spear
a doomed and reering hollow beast.
Four crossed squares within a square,
and a triangle on top pretend a house
but with no creaking, peeling walls,
no hidden garden of delights,
no smell of bread or baby's wail –
the picture barely paints one word.
Or let the frame fall flat:
and boundaries are born.
The wagon train stops and looks around,
finds a plot of land to settle.
Fields are enclosed, hedged in with lines,
and we learn our first lessons in theft.
My property, my land. Look! the map cannot lie,
the map that lies flat and directs the ordnance,
the troops who chart and invade and conquer.
v)
Let the mind allow another right angle,
and the flat-bellied map grows big with child,
a globe that glows with life.
Deep waters hide a million forms
that swirl and sway in a million currents.
On land, a man stands tall, imagines
him master of all he surveys.
The swaying curve of a woman's hips,
the sinuous slalom of haughty cats,
movement, growth, decay -
all is beyond his foolish grasp, yet still
he charts and plots.
His eternal right-angles condemn him
to meet with other souls only at the corners,
the lonely interstices of
his barren, criss-crossing matrix.
vi)
What is the next dimension? Is it sound
and taste and smell, senses that cut
across the cold geometry of a plotting mind?
The smell of tar and lavender recalls
a morning walk along a quiet street.
A tune with dying fall restores to life
a gentler, playful, growing time.
Fanciful, unmathematical, I know,
yet reaching places where vectors cannot go.
vii)
And then the mathematicians' torment:
to turn another ninety mad degrees.
x, y and z: my head can get round that,
but what comes next? Try as I might
my alphabet gives out; I cannot twist
the space within my head a further turn.
And yet to chart the infinite mysteries
they add to space and time some seven more
existing nowhere, yet as real as love
or death. With arcane formulae they soar
beyond my feeble fancy's universe. I,
imagining myself at root elsewhere,
not real within their epic symphony
must seek an nth dimension.
viii)
Soul and body have bounds, even to lovers;
bounded by vicissitudes of life
that limit who we meet, and where, and when,
and ultimately bounded by a sleep.
Yet spirit soars away, refusing trails,
lofted by strains and scents of angels
glimpsed in time and space but dwelling elsewhere,
nowhere. The unbegun rumour spreads and taunts;
the shadow glimpsed in the mirror's reflection
teases the mind to turn again and seek
another direction, another home,
faire and farre beyond all telling.
18/2/2004
Our starting point: a cosy huddle
where Euclid's three friends commune with each other.
Wrapped up in themselves like a great ball of wool
soft and round, with nowhere to go.
Hearing and seeing and speaking no evil,
for evil needs time to hatch its plots
and time as yet still sleeps.
Three friends, and yet not three
but one, as yet undivided.
ii)
Who said Time is the fourth dimension?
Let's say time is the space in which they grow,
the abyss into which they fall.
iii)
It starts with an arrow, trailing a thread,
unravelling the ball, and piercing the heart
of darkness indivisible. How long, O Lord,
how long before the arrow finds a mark,
crossing the continents on a straight iron road,
light-speeding towards the stars?
The pioneer's arrow, a shot in the dark,
a radius implying a sphere.
But that must wait.
iv)
Add perpendicular height to width
and pictures form: our first fictions.
With flat-eyed models we fool ourselves,
imagining we've captured the world.
Hollow men scratched on a cave wall spear
a doomed and reering hollow beast.
Four crossed squares within a square,
and a triangle on top pretend a house
but with no creaking, peeling walls,
no hidden garden of delights,
no smell of bread or baby's wail –
the picture barely paints one word.
Or let the frame fall flat:
and boundaries are born.
The wagon train stops and looks around,
finds a plot of land to settle.
Fields are enclosed, hedged in with lines,
and we learn our first lessons in theft.
My property, my land. Look! the map cannot lie,
the map that lies flat and directs the ordnance,
the troops who chart and invade and conquer.
v)
Let the mind allow another right angle,
and the flat-bellied map grows big with child,
a globe that glows with life.
Deep waters hide a million forms
that swirl and sway in a million currents.
On land, a man stands tall, imagines
him master of all he surveys.
The swaying curve of a woman's hips,
the sinuous slalom of haughty cats,
movement, growth, decay -
all is beyond his foolish grasp, yet still
he charts and plots.
His eternal right-angles condemn him
to meet with other souls only at the corners,
the lonely interstices of
his barren, criss-crossing matrix.
vi)
What is the next dimension? Is it sound
and taste and smell, senses that cut
across the cold geometry of a plotting mind?
The smell of tar and lavender recalls
a morning walk along a quiet street.
A tune with dying fall restores to life
a gentler, playful, growing time.
Fanciful, unmathematical, I know,
yet reaching places where vectors cannot go.
vii)
And then the mathematicians' torment:
to turn another ninety mad degrees.
x, y and z: my head can get round that,
but what comes next? Try as I might
my alphabet gives out; I cannot twist
the space within my head a further turn.
And yet to chart the infinite mysteries
they add to space and time some seven more
existing nowhere, yet as real as love
or death. With arcane formulae they soar
beyond my feeble fancy's universe. I,
imagining myself at root elsewhere,
not real within their epic symphony
must seek an nth dimension.
viii)
Soul and body have bounds, even to lovers;
bounded by vicissitudes of life
that limit who we meet, and where, and when,
and ultimately bounded by a sleep.
Yet spirit soars away, refusing trails,
lofted by strains and scents of angels
glimpsed in time and space but dwelling elsewhere,
nowhere. The unbegun rumour spreads and taunts;
the shadow glimpsed in the mirror's reflection
teases the mind to turn again and seek
another direction, another home,
faire and farre beyond all telling.
18/2/2004
Passion
I brought them the kingdom, invited them in;
And some came along, and some chose to stay.
I preached and I healed and I freed them from sin,
But now it is time that I go on my way.
I must set my face for Jerusalem,
Though they still don't know who I really am.
O Peter: I called you, and you followed me,
So forward and brave, so honest and true,
But oh, will you wish you had stayed by the sea
When you find what my way has in store for you?
Peter - so sure that you're always right -
Just wait till the cock crows late in the night.
You said, 'You're the Christ,' but you wouldn't stop there;
You couldn't believe I must suffer and die.
I had to rebuke you, to show that I care:
I can't let you live with that comfortable lie.
So I'll walk to Jerusalem just for you;
I love you too much not to see it through.
O Mary, your demons tormented you so,
So I cast them away, and I healed your pain,
And now you are filled with love through and through -
Oh, how can I let you face torment again?
Yet I must make my way to Jerusalem,
And allow you to see who I really am.
You'll live through grief, and do what you must do -
While others flee, you will still bear the pain;
And the empty tomb will torment you anew,
Till a voice says, 'Mary,' and you live again.
But for now, to Jerusalem I must go
With no regrets, for I love you so.
O Father, why must I drink this cup?
Is there no other way that I could go?
To raise them to heaven, must they lift me up?
But if it's your will, then it will be so.
My God, must you forsake me too?
For love of them all I will see it through.
Their wrath, not yours, must run its course;
Your heart will break, but you'll let them be.
I'll drink till their pride has spent its force;
I'll drink bitter pain till my death sets them free.
My God, they forsake us, yet we stay true,
For love of them all we will see it through.
And some came along, and some chose to stay.
I preached and I healed and I freed them from sin,
But now it is time that I go on my way.
I must set my face for Jerusalem,
Though they still don't know who I really am.
O Peter: I called you, and you followed me,
So forward and brave, so honest and true,
But oh, will you wish you had stayed by the sea
When you find what my way has in store for you?
Peter - so sure that you're always right -
Just wait till the cock crows late in the night.
You said, 'You're the Christ,' but you wouldn't stop there;
You couldn't believe I must suffer and die.
I had to rebuke you, to show that I care:
I can't let you live with that comfortable lie.
So I'll walk to Jerusalem just for you;
I love you too much not to see it through.
O Mary, your demons tormented you so,
So I cast them away, and I healed your pain,
And now you are filled with love through and through -
Oh, how can I let you face torment again?
Yet I must make my way to Jerusalem,
And allow you to see who I really am.
You'll live through grief, and do what you must do -
While others flee, you will still bear the pain;
And the empty tomb will torment you anew,
Till a voice says, 'Mary,' and you live again.
But for now, to Jerusalem I must go
With no regrets, for I love you so.
O Father, why must I drink this cup?
Is there no other way that I could go?
To raise them to heaven, must they lift me up?
But if it's your will, then it will be so.
My God, must you forsake me too?
For love of them all I will see it through.
Their wrath, not yours, must run its course;
Your heart will break, but you'll let them be.
I'll drink till their pride has spent its force;
I'll drink bitter pain till my death sets them free.
My God, they forsake us, yet we stay true,
For love of them all we will see it through.
The dance
Sad reflections after watching some friends
Imagine us moving around in a dance,
a dance that could only be danced by us two:
a dance that is crafty and steady and slow,
where the aim is to torture without using force.
Manoeuvring slowly, attentive and sly,
observing each other a few feet apart,
not touching but watching, responding with hate:
my partner, my loved and my loathed enemy.
The dance-floor, the battlefield, scene of our pain:
I try to gain ground and to break your defence
and you try to outflank me, to block my advance,
so in horrible patterns the dancing goes on.
Afraid that to yield would mean being destroyed
we each keep pretending the other's to blame;
we want to break free, not to pace out our doom
like prisoners pointlessly circling the yard.
When neither will stop or will hold out a hand
and both claim they never put fuel on the fire
which burns up their time in a hell of despair,
then how can the hated dance come to an end?
Imagine us moving around in a dance,
a dance that could only be danced by us two:
a dance that is crafty and steady and slow,
where the aim is to torture without using force.
Manoeuvring slowly, attentive and sly,
observing each other a few feet apart,
not touching but watching, responding with hate:
my partner, my loved and my loathed enemy.
The dance-floor, the battlefield, scene of our pain:
I try to gain ground and to break your defence
and you try to outflank me, to block my advance,
so in horrible patterns the dancing goes on.
Afraid that to yield would mean being destroyed
we each keep pretending the other's to blame;
we want to break free, not to pace out our doom
like prisoners pointlessly circling the yard.
When neither will stop or will hold out a hand
and both claim they never put fuel on the fire
which burns up their time in a hell of despair,
then how can the hated dance come to an end?
But for you
For the country of my birth I'd give
two and a half wry cheers -
for castles comfortably retired from war,
welcoming England's grandchildren
with gap-toothed walls and safety rails,
with project sheets and glass displays,
while resting out their stony twilight days
in peaceful shires.
But for you
I'd give the slivered sunlight breaking through the boughs
of birch and oak and hawthorn on steep hills
that tower above and scramble headlong down
to catch the river's flash of white: its falling roar,
and seaward rush, rock-leaping splash
and dancing joy of silver green
where waters meet.
For my old school I'd give a grudging cheque
lukewarmed by memories of ties and caps,
the musty trains, tweaked ears and chattering;
the masters desperate to twist and fill
the indifferent back-row boys, who scratched
yet more unsightly insults on the desks;
the dusty rubber balls that smelled of smoke,
thwacked with slapping hands against brick walls;
the break time friends.
But for you, my love,
I'd give the songs whose key unlocks my soul.
Naive Rodolfo taking Mimi's hand,
their springtime love, the lily and the rose,
the voices, soaring, dying out: 'Amor.'
Or Dylan tearing folk apart, with gleeful scorn
then laying down the assassin's pen to show
the emptiness inside, or love-sick joy,
where pain meets ecstasy.
For one who hangs upon a tree I give
and give a yearning, puzzled quest for faith;
intense and barely comprehending thanks
for gifts, his staggering gifts of pilgrim friends -
I never knew my heart could hold such love -
and for his passion beyond flesh and world
and yet infusing all, from quantum glue
to soil and sweat and dew and stars and time
and lacerating nails.
But for you, my own, I give
my body's love.
My pulsing blood, encircling arms, delight
in hair and breast and hips and probing lips;
and tender hugs, and cups of tea, and all
my faltering, well-meant words and kindnesses;
my utter undeserving love,
where soul meets soul.
two and a half wry cheers -
for castles comfortably retired from war,
welcoming England's grandchildren
with gap-toothed walls and safety rails,
with project sheets and glass displays,
while resting out their stony twilight days
in peaceful shires.
But for you
I'd give the slivered sunlight breaking through the boughs
of birch and oak and hawthorn on steep hills
that tower above and scramble headlong down
to catch the river's flash of white: its falling roar,
and seaward rush, rock-leaping splash
and dancing joy of silver green
where waters meet.
For my old school I'd give a grudging cheque
lukewarmed by memories of ties and caps,
the musty trains, tweaked ears and chattering;
the masters desperate to twist and fill
the indifferent back-row boys, who scratched
yet more unsightly insults on the desks;
the dusty rubber balls that smelled of smoke,
thwacked with slapping hands against brick walls;
the break time friends.
But for you, my love,
I'd give the songs whose key unlocks my soul.
Naive Rodolfo taking Mimi's hand,
their springtime love, the lily and the rose,
the voices, soaring, dying out: 'Amor.'
Or Dylan tearing folk apart, with gleeful scorn
then laying down the assassin's pen to show
the emptiness inside, or love-sick joy,
where pain meets ecstasy.
For one who hangs upon a tree I give
and give a yearning, puzzled quest for faith;
intense and barely comprehending thanks
for gifts, his staggering gifts of pilgrim friends -
I never knew my heart could hold such love -
and for his passion beyond flesh and world
and yet infusing all, from quantum glue
to soil and sweat and dew and stars and time
and lacerating nails.
But for you, my own, I give
my body's love.
My pulsing blood, encircling arms, delight
in hair and breast and hips and probing lips;
and tender hugs, and cups of tea, and all
my faltering, well-meant words and kindnesses;
my utter undeserving love,
where soul meets soul.
Tomorrow's World
Procrastimonsters lie in wait
to prey on the unwary;
some are huge and fierce and bald
and some are small and hairy.
Fair Webgirl woke and stretched and yawned,
the sun shone on the bed:
'What is my first task for today?
Go back to sleep!' she said.
But as she dozed, procrastimon-
sters, gaining strength and health,
stuffed with sloth and guilt and dread,
grew fat with fungal stealth.
She rose and breakfasted, which set
monstrous antennae twitchin';
a cereal-killing ogre vowed
she'd not tidy the kitchen.
Teleprocrastipathic rays
from shelf and frigidaire,
sucked her good intentions down
the plug-hole of despair.
Ah, well, she thought, the day has come
to get that letter written.
No sooner had that thought arrived, than
oh! Webgirl was bitten!
A slimy, sly, procrastisnake
had settled by her ear;
she sensed its wily, whispered words:
'Yes, start that soon, my dear.
And sure, some soothing music too
will set the mood, you'll find,
and then some milky tea, you'll see,
will help to calm your mind.
Don't start to work, my dear, with prep-
arations incomplete;
first clear the room, and hoover round,
and make the desktop neat.'
The room was swept, the tea was made,
the music played, not loudly;
the desk was neat, the paper straight,
and Webgirl sat there proudly.
The snake, whose scheme was sinking fast,
called out for swift support:
a fierce procrastibogle sent
the girl a guilty thought.
'It's been too long, you can't write now,'
the goblin grim exclaimed.
'How could you let him down so long -
I trust you are ashamed!'
'Enough!' she sighed. 'No more!' she cried.
'Begone, you cretins you!
Be off and bother someone else,
this girl's got work to do.'
With that she lifted pen and wrote
a letter clear and polite,
and soon her tidy kitchen shone -
orderly, clean and bright.
The monsters gone, she danced for joy:
'I'll throw a party, too.
Let's see - today? Tomorrow? Hm -
I expect next week will do.'
Procrastimonsters lie in wait
to prey on the unwary;
but when you look them in the face,
they don't seem half so scary.
2001
to prey on the unwary;
some are huge and fierce and bald
and some are small and hairy.
Fair Webgirl woke and stretched and yawned,
the sun shone on the bed:
'What is my first task for today?
Go back to sleep!' she said.
But as she dozed, procrastimon-
sters, gaining strength and health,
stuffed with sloth and guilt and dread,
grew fat with fungal stealth.
She rose and breakfasted, which set
monstrous antennae twitchin';
a cereal-killing ogre vowed
she'd not tidy the kitchen.
Teleprocrastipathic rays
from shelf and frigidaire,
sucked her good intentions down
the plug-hole of despair.
Ah, well, she thought, the day has come
to get that letter written.
No sooner had that thought arrived, than
oh! Webgirl was bitten!
A slimy, sly, procrastisnake
had settled by her ear;
she sensed its wily, whispered words:
'Yes, start that soon, my dear.
And sure, some soothing music too
will set the mood, you'll find,
and then some milky tea, you'll see,
will help to calm your mind.
Don't start to work, my dear, with prep-
arations incomplete;
first clear the room, and hoover round,
and make the desktop neat.'
The room was swept, the tea was made,
the music played, not loudly;
the desk was neat, the paper straight,
and Webgirl sat there proudly.
The snake, whose scheme was sinking fast,
called out for swift support:
a fierce procrastibogle sent
the girl a guilty thought.
'It's been too long, you can't write now,'
the goblin grim exclaimed.
'How could you let him down so long -
I trust you are ashamed!'
'Enough!' she sighed. 'No more!' she cried.
'Begone, you cretins you!
Be off and bother someone else,
this girl's got work to do.'
With that she lifted pen and wrote
a letter clear and polite,
and soon her tidy kitchen shone -
orderly, clean and bright.
The monsters gone, she danced for joy:
'I'll throw a party, too.
Let's see - today? Tomorrow? Hm -
I expect next week will do.'
Procrastimonsters lie in wait
to prey on the unwary;
but when you look them in the face,
they don't seem half so scary.
2001
Prayer
Resting roads and silent skies of night
no less find me facing futility
than days of friends but no companion.
I can't help feeling I'm all alone,
that the prayer which is my silent ecstasy, rises
to non-existence, crushing,
bringing more hatred than all the world's cares,
more despair than all the world's hatred.
Written age approx 14
no less find me facing futility
than days of friends but no companion.
I can't help feeling I'm all alone,
that the prayer which is my silent ecstasy, rises
to non-existence, crushing,
bringing more hatred than all the world's cares,
more despair than all the world's hatred.
Written age approx 14
The jungle
Machete in hand, slashing at the undergrowth;
a titanic struggle to penetrate deeper,
fighting snakes and tigers on the way.
Craning the neck, straining to see ahead,
and always expecting the dark entangled maze
soon, in a moment, to open on the unknown clearing
which must be there, where the god must be found.
But there is no clearing in this jungle.
Above it is sky, beneath it the earth,
to the north, desert, to the west, sea;
so cease the struggle, leave the frantic fight
and recall that the unseen wind blows free
around you, behind and beyond, above;
and deeply breathe it in and be revived -
but don't regret its course on through the trees,
around you, and away, and out to sea.
1981
a titanic struggle to penetrate deeper,
fighting snakes and tigers on the way.
Craning the neck, straining to see ahead,
and always expecting the dark entangled maze
soon, in a moment, to open on the unknown clearing
which must be there, where the god must be found.
But there is no clearing in this jungle.
Above it is sky, beneath it the earth,
to the north, desert, to the west, sea;
so cease the struggle, leave the frantic fight
and recall that the unseen wind blows free
around you, behind and beyond, above;
and deeply breathe it in and be revived -
but don't regret its course on through the trees,
around you, and away, and out to sea.
1981
After R.S Thomas - poem for Elizabeth H
So where is God after
the holocaust of the spirit
that burnt up whole a
generation of theologies,
fuelled by a remorselessly
clear ideology of the visible?
What is left for us, what
fertile words to breed
a new language of mystery?
All were slaughtered in
the gas-chambers of
stifling coherence, all
the comfortable words which
salved the modern wound,
(infected with half-formed doubts)
but could not protect against
the deadly virus of reason,
given no more than free
access to the arteries of the mind.
Copyright Jay Whittaker
24.10.83
the holocaust of the spirit
that burnt up whole a
generation of theologies,
fuelled by a remorselessly
clear ideology of the visible?
What is left for us, what
fertile words to breed
a new language of mystery?
All were slaughtered in
the gas-chambers of
stifling coherence, all
the comfortable words which
salved the modern wound,
(infected with half-formed doubts)
but could not protect against
the deadly virus of reason,
given no more than free
access to the arteries of the mind.
Copyright Jay Whittaker
24.10.83
Pillar of salt
My fingertips have started to go numb.
The metamophosis begins:
flesh becomes salt, a soulless pillar.
As I look at myself, the image fogs;
my eyes, too, are turning to salt.
I have ceased to look ahead -
as I was not moving forward
I thought I needn't look ahead.
I looked around; the scenery enticed.
I saw my hometown warm with memories.
I took them for comfort, to store
like curling photos in an album -
just for once-in-a-while,
for the valley of tears,
a talisman against troubled times ahead.
So the salt slowly spreads.
I know that if I move again
sensation will return, sharp,
like needles stuck deep,
like fire, oh! fresh pain.
But it's hard to go on,
for the steel of my courage
has also turned to salt.
Copyright Jay Whittaker
19.7.83
Cf Genesis 19:26
The metamophosis begins:
flesh becomes salt, a soulless pillar.
As I look at myself, the image fogs;
my eyes, too, are turning to salt.
I have ceased to look ahead -
as I was not moving forward
I thought I needn't look ahead.
I looked around; the scenery enticed.
I saw my hometown warm with memories.
I took them for comfort, to store
like curling photos in an album -
just for once-in-a-while,
for the valley of tears,
a talisman against troubled times ahead.
So the salt slowly spreads.
I know that if I move again
sensation will return, sharp,
like needles stuck deep,
like fire, oh! fresh pain.
But it's hard to go on,
for the steel of my courage
has also turned to salt.
Copyright Jay Whittaker
19.7.83
Cf Genesis 19:26
Holy sonnets
Holy Sonnets, by Jay Whittaker (plus one by John Donne!)
Predestination
In past times proud King God sat on his throne,
Fearsome, holy, high, feasting on praise;
Foreseeing all, beyond the end of days,
And meting justice out to sinful man.
For each meek subject he ordained a plan,
A single, narrow pathway through life's maze.
The sole way out for wilful, headstrong strays
Was bowing, broken to his will alone.
Today the throne is mouldering in the dark,
And God, quite unconcerned with majesty
Now weaves, in threads of blue and golden fire,
From free untrammelled lives her tapestry;
And ponders, with delight and sharp desire
The perfect imperfection of her work.
God redresses the balance
Busy Professor Science with darting eyes
Explores and explains all creatures great and small;
Outgrown conceptual garb discarded lies
As he strides on, not minding me at all.
Once, long ago, he merely looked and named,
But quickly learned to cut, probe, poke about;
Looked closer, deeper, further, then he claimed
As his some places signposted, 'Keep out!'
His twin power tools, causality and number,
(This prompts some folk to pen my obituary)
Have ground to dust old gods of tribe and thunder;
Yet still I beg one simple courtesy:
Let me, like him discarding worn out gear,
Move on, dressed for today, not yesteryear.
Holy Sonnet XIV by John Donne
Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
Battered heart with chips (based on Donne's Holy Sonnet XIV)
Batter my heart, three-personed God, then please
Serve it with salt'n'vinegar and greasy chips.
That I may rise and stand, deep-fry my hips,
And set your microwave to boil my knees.
I, like a plastic tub of mushy peas,
Fear to be spooned between another's lips;
Reason, your sales assistant in me slips,
Distracted by bacon burgers with double cheese.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be eaten fain,
But have been paid for by your enemie:
Bop him, or barter, or buy me back again,
Eat me with ketchup, devour me, for I
Except you'engorge me, never full shall be,
Nor e'er replete, except you swallow me.
Predestination
In past times proud King God sat on his throne,
Fearsome, holy, high, feasting on praise;
Foreseeing all, beyond the end of days,
And meting justice out to sinful man.
For each meek subject he ordained a plan,
A single, narrow pathway through life's maze.
The sole way out for wilful, headstrong strays
Was bowing, broken to his will alone.
Today the throne is mouldering in the dark,
And God, quite unconcerned with majesty
Now weaves, in threads of blue and golden fire,
From free untrammelled lives her tapestry;
And ponders, with delight and sharp desire
The perfect imperfection of her work.
God redresses the balance
Busy Professor Science with darting eyes
Explores and explains all creatures great and small;
Outgrown conceptual garb discarded lies
As he strides on, not minding me at all.
Once, long ago, he merely looked and named,
But quickly learned to cut, probe, poke about;
Looked closer, deeper, further, then he claimed
As his some places signposted, 'Keep out!'
His twin power tools, causality and number,
(This prompts some folk to pen my obituary)
Have ground to dust old gods of tribe and thunder;
Yet still I beg one simple courtesy:
Let me, like him discarding worn out gear,
Move on, dressed for today, not yesteryear.
Holy Sonnet XIV by John Donne
Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
Battered heart with chips (based on Donne's Holy Sonnet XIV)
Batter my heart, three-personed God, then please
Serve it with salt'n'vinegar and greasy chips.
That I may rise and stand, deep-fry my hips,
And set your microwave to boil my knees.
I, like a plastic tub of mushy peas,
Fear to be spooned between another's lips;
Reason, your sales assistant in me slips,
Distracted by bacon burgers with double cheese.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be eaten fain,
But have been paid for by your enemie:
Bop him, or barter, or buy me back again,
Eat me with ketchup, devour me, for I
Except you'engorge me, never full shall be,
Nor e'er replete, except you swallow me.
They say that
They say that
'Mind and brain are the results of neurons - and nothing else.' (Times Leader, 9.5.94)
'Awareness is merely a feature of the complexity of an algorithm.' (view cited, though not agreed with, by Roger Penrose in 'The Emperor's New Mind')
They say the human mind is nothing more
than logic, just a neuron-fired machine.
Is that what sparks my soul, makes spirits soar?
When Billie sang the blues, with soul so raw
synapses firing edged her voice so keen:
they say the human mind is nothing more.
I, heart-gripped, saw a girl across the floor;
but first-sight love is just the Selfish Gene -
is that what sparks my soul, makes spirits soar?
Pythagoras's mind, not just his law
is just a complex logical routine:
they say the human mind is nothing more.
The ecstasy of soul-rapt prayer: what for?
So much is logged, so little left unseen:
is that what sparks my soul, makes spirits soar?
Should I then cry for grief, or laugh with awe,
or dare to challenge dogmas cold and mean?
They say the human mind is nothing more:
Is that what sparks my soul, makes spirits soar?
Jay Whittaker
May 1994
'Mind and brain are the results of neurons - and nothing else.' (Times Leader, 9.5.94)
'Awareness is merely a feature of the complexity of an algorithm.' (view cited, though not agreed with, by Roger Penrose in 'The Emperor's New Mind')
They say the human mind is nothing more
than logic, just a neuron-fired machine.
Is that what sparks my soul, makes spirits soar?
When Billie sang the blues, with soul so raw
synapses firing edged her voice so keen:
they say the human mind is nothing more.
I, heart-gripped, saw a girl across the floor;
but first-sight love is just the Selfish Gene -
is that what sparks my soul, makes spirits soar?
Pythagoras's mind, not just his law
is just a complex logical routine:
they say the human mind is nothing more.
The ecstasy of soul-rapt prayer: what for?
So much is logged, so little left unseen:
is that what sparks my soul, makes spirits soar?
Should I then cry for grief, or laugh with awe,
or dare to challenge dogmas cold and mean?
They say the human mind is nothing more:
Is that what sparks my soul, makes spirits soar?
Jay Whittaker
May 1994
Masters
Three lifetimes devoted to astrological lore. Why?
For what far-off famine gather these stores of wisdom,
for what great battle shape and sharpen these swords?
No miserly hoards of mental treasure here,
no galleries to put the mind's fine art on proud display;
for these old masters of science are servants of truth,
and when the celestial logic compels, they leave their fields;
their science revealed as guide, not goal, the Magi yield:
submit to the greater Master and follow the star.
Herod, that dangerous madman, fears for his kingdom.
Master of men, and slave to his mastery, bound to fail,
what can he do? Palace-imprisoned, throne-thrall Herod rages,
but his inept and futile, blind and brutal savagery misses its mark,
and dozens of innocent voices scream in stark
and tragic terror. Thousands of voices scream and die.
Their lives of learning now complete the Magi come
to the frightened mother, the tiny child. What mastery his?
His thirty years' reprieve brief time to recreate humanity.
Where will he go? What do? His fresh-formed fist the Magi know,
clenched and raised from the tiny threshing body, is
the hand of God poised to rewrite the world.
Jay Whittaker
c. 1982
For what far-off famine gather these stores of wisdom,
for what great battle shape and sharpen these swords?
No miserly hoards of mental treasure here,
no galleries to put the mind's fine art on proud display;
for these old masters of science are servants of truth,
and when the celestial logic compels, they leave their fields;
their science revealed as guide, not goal, the Magi yield:
submit to the greater Master and follow the star.
Herod, that dangerous madman, fears for his kingdom.
Master of men, and slave to his mastery, bound to fail,
what can he do? Palace-imprisoned, throne-thrall Herod rages,
but his inept and futile, blind and brutal savagery misses its mark,
and dozens of innocent voices scream in stark
and tragic terror. Thousands of voices scream and die.
Their lives of learning now complete the Magi come
to the frightened mother, the tiny child. What mastery his?
His thirty years' reprieve brief time to recreate humanity.
Where will he go? What do? His fresh-formed fist the Magi know,
clenched and raised from the tiny threshing body, is
the hand of God poised to rewrite the world.
Jay Whittaker
c. 1982
My son's first glimpse of the sea at Southbourne
The Sea
A little boy chugs down a zig-zag slope,
obliquely nearing sea, and sand, and shells;
crosses the promenade. His sister's yells
fade out, time stops. Eyes open, mouth agape -
half raised arms half reaching out. Stock still.
Movement, thought, suspended: he drinks the sight
of sand, three shades of yellow, sun-washed, bright
as stone; of waves which roar and hiss. Until
his busy sister bustles past, intent
on sand-castles and shells. He gains the shore,
the spell washed out. But does a trace remain
in his, as in his father's mind? A stone
half-buried, half-remembered, to transmute
his future pains with tinge of golden awe?
Copyright Jay Whittaker
completed 6.6.2000 (though the experience was several years earlier)
A little boy chugs down a zig-zag slope,
obliquely nearing sea, and sand, and shells;
crosses the promenade. His sister's yells
fade out, time stops. Eyes open, mouth agape -
half raised arms half reaching out. Stock still.
Movement, thought, suspended: he drinks the sight
of sand, three shades of yellow, sun-washed, bright
as stone; of waves which roar and hiss. Until
his busy sister bustles past, intent
on sand-castles and shells. He gains the shore,
the spell washed out. But does a trace remain
in his, as in his father's mind? A stone
half-buried, half-remembered, to transmute
his future pains with tinge of golden awe?
Copyright Jay Whittaker
completed 6.6.2000 (though the experience was several years earlier)
Unnoticed
A farmer snores, and his tired wife,
brushes the day's last dust from her door,
glances up at the bright new star, and
shuts it out, her mind on tomorrow.
Two lovers steal to a secret bank, where
locked in each other's limbs and eyes,
they miss the nearby birth of Love
as they rush for the flesh's release.
Harassed innkeepers unwittingly
send the star guest empty away, thus
wasting their shot at eternal fame,
and a blue plaque on history's wall.
Yet the signs are there, and some take note:
the new star lightens the Gentiles' way
and a scholarly scramble in Jerusalem
wakens King Herod's sly rage.
No palace walls or fretful cares
block the shepherds' view this night:
flawed, but blessed with pure, open hearts;
the first pilgrims to gaze on God.
The sign is there; all may take note -
the new-risen star shines on in the dark,
guiding pilgrims intent on God
through death to the tree of Life.
Jay Whittaker 23.12.2003
brushes the day's last dust from her door,
glances up at the bright new star, and
shuts it out, her mind on tomorrow.
Two lovers steal to a secret bank, where
locked in each other's limbs and eyes,
they miss the nearby birth of Love
as they rush for the flesh's release.
Harassed innkeepers unwittingly
send the star guest empty away, thus
wasting their shot at eternal fame,
and a blue plaque on history's wall.
Yet the signs are there, and some take note:
the new star lightens the Gentiles' way
and a scholarly scramble in Jerusalem
wakens King Herod's sly rage.
No palace walls or fretful cares
block the shepherds' view this night:
flawed, but blessed with pure, open hearts;
the first pilgrims to gaze on God.
The sign is there; all may take note -
the new-risen star shines on in the dark,
guiding pilgrims intent on God
through death to the tree of Life.
Jay Whittaker 23.12.2003
Sir Yellalot
Sir Yellalot - for Ian, Julie and Eliot
He's kept his parents on their toes
With scales and drips and Special Care.
What soft blond hair!
What tiny nose!
What yellow face and yellow bot!
Oh saffron-skinned Sir Yellalot!
And just so they don't slack at all,
He gives them gifts by day and night,
For their delight
Of nappies full,
Which naturally smellalot,
Oh stinkety Sir Yellalot.
And if perchance his mum should creep
Out of the room to get some rest -
(Hope for the best
That he's asleep)
His cries and yells will tell her not,
Cacophonous Sir Yellalot.
But when he's winded and changed and fed,
Pampered and Johnsoned and smelling sweet
Quizzically gazing,
Little hands raising,
Little eyes closing,
Peacefully dozing
Making the family so complete;
Then at last it can be said
Said most truly
Of Ian and Julie
Their hearts with joy will swellalot,
Oh perfect boy Sir Yellalot!
Jay Whittaker, 21/12/2002
He's kept his parents on their toes
With scales and drips and Special Care.
What soft blond hair!
What tiny nose!
What yellow face and yellow bot!
Oh saffron-skinned Sir Yellalot!
And just so they don't slack at all,
He gives them gifts by day and night,
For their delight
Of nappies full,
Which naturally smellalot,
Oh stinkety Sir Yellalot.
And if perchance his mum should creep
Out of the room to get some rest -
(Hope for the best
That he's asleep)
His cries and yells will tell her not,
Cacophonous Sir Yellalot.
But when he's winded and changed and fed,
Pampered and Johnsoned and smelling sweet
Quizzically gazing,
Little hands raising,
Little eyes closing,
Peacefully dozing
Making the family so complete;
Then at last it can be said
Said most truly
Of Ian and Julie
Their hearts with joy will swellalot,
Oh perfect boy Sir Yellalot!
Jay Whittaker, 21/12/2002
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