Triggered by a poem I read in a magazine. I modestly thought I could make a more imaginative treatment of the themes it raised. I got carried away. Published in Fire magazine.
Seven Traducements of a Stolen Poem
(1)
for Ryan Robbins
Teacher don’t know our word for praise.
She thinks it’s wicked.
She says the world began with a dude called Christ.
Our mam says he was just a man, there is no God.
Ahmed says God is Al-Lar-Blessed-Be-His-Name.
Bharat prays to an elephant.
Ahmed’s a bookworm.
Bharat is bomb. I’ve given him my blade.
School is pants.
One day, I’ll join a crew, push gear,
go large in Gap and Rockport, my wheels a TVR,
Eminem and Britney my sounds. Phat life.
(2)
Brother Rawson
Greetings from our benighted capital. Your exile as Assistant Secretary to His Majesty’s Representative to Vanuatu will soon be over. The Minister’s Inspectorate have…inspected…reported…and leaked before She could suppress or massage. The mole has long since tunnelled away. Illiteracy, innumeracy, truancy – all the indicators are dire and, oh dear, few have heard of Jesus Christ, fewer believe in God. So much for Her policies. Only the Lottery, drink, drugs and football mean anything to the mass. The Archbishop and cardinal are as respectively purple as their robe and red as their cap, their Palaces houses of mourning.. Meanwhile, the temples, synagogues and mosques overbrim. No, my dear Rawson, our Lesbian Icon will not spin Her way out of this one. She meets the PM tomorrow: our man has already been tipped the wink. Your former station, your mistresses and…other interests, await their resumption. No doubt we will read in Her memoirs how we conspired to bring Her down. We will, no doubt, be the only ones who do. They come and go. We remain. Little has really changed. Has it ever?
fraternally yours
Devere
(3)
The word has come to me, Albion,
you abomination,
you who have shrivelled to an island,
you to whom the alien is now the leaven,
strong in his strange gods inimical
to the One
you have estranged, who once strode with you.
How long since your crimson armies dyed
the globe,
your navies civilised its seas,
your clerics sowed His Word?
When did you mistake the act
for the vision?
Once you knew you had lost the Way:
now you have lost even that knowledge,
now you riot in carnality, covet gold,
and do not know you starve.
You gorge on husks and think
you are full.
Instead of the Word, you have merely
words like hills
of termites.
You are the foam the wave leaves
on the shore,
that the next wave effaces.
(4)
I oscillate between ignorance and error.
What is the right thing to know, to teach?
Come down from your Cross, Lord,
re-acquaint us with Him.
The merchants and rentiers disdain You,
the plebeians disdain all things,
the civil servants undermine the polity.
We lack a Quest.
Instead, we conjugate the pillowbooks,
crowd the gaming halls and markets.
Our expeditions sail for El Dorado, Atlantis, all the fabled
treasure lands.
We will leave no shadow on History.
Our librarians sleep all day.
Our scholars mumble at walls.
(5)
Ma punters? Theys wee jobbies, wan an all.
Ah huv a regular, a guidie, full o’ gripes.
Ah cannae wait tae gi um the heave
wanst he’s had his gam or parked, or baith.
Ah cannae staun they cunts wannae yabber.
Whit a Dublin!
He says he’s frae Embra,
thinks he’s the kippers knickers, um wae his jooks
an kegs mockit roond his ankles, his bahookie
aw scuddy, his walloper pamped. Ah cannae quote um.
Ah pity the poor weans he teaches at the Maggie May.
‘They no heird o’ Jeez-oh’ he says ‘let aloan believe
in Goad. Son o’ William, dochter o’ Wilma,
Tim Malloy – s’ainly a label. We’ve nae
a scooby doo. Their is nae Goad, nae Heaven,
nae Bad Fire, intit no? This society’s tea’s oot,
its aw aboot Gene Tunney an podgerin.
All oor books is tanned. Who’ll mind us?
Nae wan’
Ah tell ya, yid wannae o.d.
on yoor skag or Spider’s eggs. Wheesht! I think,
away an pap peas at ya Granny….
(6)
How he hated himself,
was hostile to what we thought
-or knew – which was not much.
Nothing greened his drought.
There’s neither good nor evil
he’d say, despising the Lord,
denying Jesus ever lived.
Suffering, death, void
- that’s all there is, he’d sneer.
So many women he had
with never a word of love.
So many books he read.
What did they say to him?
How little we know, how wrong
even that is, that’s all
he’d reply. Why was he born
to die so young? Silence,
answer me, please. I’m waiting.
(7)
for Johanne Robbins
Lard,
me bin here tree month. Me already weary.
A what dis at all? Me a tink pan sudden
dis islan no koo de pa dey. It a gorner,
a foo true.
De pickney hab no respeck
for you, Lard, dey buse you, dey forget Jesus,
dey rabben.
All dis people wahn is
fix me up nice Dey motto Stone under water,
no feel the heat of day A wah mek
dey so nuff? Dey one hand no wash
the other.
Dey play Warri with you, Lard,
dey forgotten according to you act
you get wok and you kill me dog
me kill you cat.
Tupsh! Me no wahn um,
me must learn to see and no see.
But me weary, Lard, me long fee see you,
me long fee see you
Paul Lee
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