Roman Nights
Nothing's changed in Rome
Despite two thousand years.
I could write a tome
On what assails my ears
Throughout the Roman night.
It turns out that the fears
Of Juvenal are right -
It all ends in sleepless tears.
Carts of rubbish, cars with horns,
Carousers freed of chains;
Wind has changed so sky is torn
With damn aeroplanes.
Police race by their sirens blazing
A couple has a row,
And who the bloody hell is raising
Shopfront shutters now?
Builders bring their lorries through
The narrow echoing streets in
Building scaffolds simply just to
Make more noise and din.
Juvenal, millennia back,
Got how Rome can kill:
If the traffic doesn't crack you
Night-time noise sure will.
Thalia
Take my humour and seize my
Heaving shoulders. Take my humour
And ensure everyone sees my
Laughter. Take my humour - who more
Is able to open the comedic seas? My
Aching face is hurt by whom? Aw...
It's Thalia!
Envoy: Thalia isn't the Indian lunch tray;
She will not bring tragedy today.
Antigone
Hawk-like of nose,
Grey and swept of hair,
Wary of eye,
She buries her brother.
Love has made her wary,
Like the she-wolf
Or the mother hawk;
Duty is stronger than fear.
A cry stifled in her throat -
She doesn't do this to boast -
But because if she doesn't honour
The other point of view, who will?
Tension breeds violence,
And violence is proved to be right,
But right is not left
For those who are vanquished are not left.
Curled into a ball of personal pain
She weeps as she scatters petals.
To be condemned for loving
And for doing what is right
Is the human condition.
All else is animal savagery.
Epitropheon
Sing, O Muse, and sing again the song
Which millions lately chanted: that they have brought,
Exultant at the victory, the trophy of the long-
Embattled goddess home. For this they fought,
Though often it did seem in vain, and sought -
Could ever such a seeking seem to mean
As much? - in wave-on-wave attack, with short-
Run jabs and long-passed lobs, to bring a keen
Of uninhibited delight, divine, foreseen.
Laud that brazen warrior, wounded yet
Inspired; laud that heroic boot, whose final blow
Now let the long-held breath explode, and set
Elation loose; sing, too, how one did show
Elimination-saving gauntlets to a foe
Unused to such deep-seated will and drive.
Roll on, sweet chant, roll on, and dare to go
On rolling still - and teach them, teach that if you strive
Such will win out, and keep a people's dreams alive.
Sede Vacante
Morning Prayer was floating on its
Self-propelling wings towards heaven
When it suddenly got upended.
The buzz of news from the Seven
Live Streams of the Revelation
Resounded, as its rolling content
Rushed by: "His elevation
Has taken us by unwanted surprise.
His soul has left our world and heads
Towards the tango-dancing lights
Of God's heavenly city." He sheds
His pure white garments on the way,
And swaps them for the rags and tatters
Of favela and of slum. No longer
Will he care for non-vital matters,
But the migrant, the hungry, the lost, the weak
Will be his concern; he can eat, once again,
Meagre food with the poor, touch their wounds, wash their feet.
He can be by the side of those he loves most
Not pay them lip-service while he meets the elite.
No more politics for him,
No media to navigate;
Just Peter to talk to, and Paul to debate
How all of the world, which of late
Was his parish, needs guiding to peace.
The ease of this paradise, where pressures are shared,
Where he will now live with the holy and blessed,
Will seem to him beauteous and peaceful and calm -
For even God's workers will one day need rest.
But now, as the breeze from the angels' wings
Takes the heat off, and a simple meal
Satisfies his soul, things
Down below can be left - for a moment - to those
Who continue the work of the one, who - just yesterday - rose.
Spring in Winter
In a manger, laid on hay,
Is come to us on Christmas Day
The one whose birth enlights the way,
The one true Son, our winter's May.
A fount of love this babe will bring -
A well of water, purest spring -
The spirit of a bird on wing -
Held on the song the angels sing.
Their song brings warmth to winter cold,
And heals the soul from hurts of old;
It brings the verdant season's hold,
All warmth and peace and shimmering gold.
So in the hay he lies, asleep,
The Child of Spring. And here we keep
Our watch, and let the summer seep
Into our souls, its glories reap.
The Man on the Road
Round the corner of the little road
I saw a man who carried his great load
With grace and courage. When, with glinting eyes,
He turned his head to look in mine, wise
Was his look and full of life-won trouble -
As of one who has at length walked through the rubble
Which this earth spews out on us. His back
carried the burden; the world he bore must lack
All joy. Full it was of sin and error;
For there, inside that sack, all fear and terror
Were arrayed; he carried them for us;
He carried, in that sack, the Devil's pus.
For in that burden was our freedom's prize,
The debris that had blocked the gate to paradise.
And in his heart, I knew as I looked on
Was joy and peace, which he for us had won.
Birthday
How could it be so many years have passed,
And here we are with twenty-four in hand?
Plenteous joys those many years have cast,
Pain as well, we know. So understand,
Yes, understand, those soul-rich times we've known
Betoken just the start. There's more to come.
In muezzins' calls, cathedrals carved of stone,
Repasts of food so spicy we succumb
To needing more to quench our appetite;
High music sung; low humour shared; all tales
Delightful - never mind the gossip, right? -
And in whatever else life's playful gales
Yield in the years to come I must impart
To You - that twenty-four is just the start.
