The Flying Bum

by William Plomer (1903-73)


In the vegetarian guest-house
All was frolic, feast and fun,
Eager voices were enquiring
‘Are the nettle cutlets done?’
Peals of vegetarian laughter,
Husky wholesome wholemeal bread,
Will the evening finish with a
Rush of cocoa to the head?

Yes, you’ve guessed; it’s Minnie’s birthday,
Hence the frolic, hence the feast.
Are there calories in custard?
There are vitamins in yeast.
Kate is here and Tom her hubby,
Ex-commissioner for oaths,
She is mad on Christian Science,
Parsnip flan he simply loathes.

And Mr Croaker, call him Arthur,
Such a keen philatelist,
Making sheep’s-eyes at Louisa
(After dinner there’ll be whist) –
Come, sit down, the soup is coming,
All of docks and darnels made,
Drinks a health to dear old Minnie
In synthetic lemonade.

Dentures champing juicy lettuce,
Champing macerated bran,
Oh the imitation rissoles!
Oh the food untouched by man!
Look, an imitation sausage
Made of monkey-nuts and spice,
Prunes tonight and semolina,
Wrinkled prunes, unpolished rice.

Yards of guts absorbing jellies,
Bellies filling up with nuts,
Carbohydrates jostling proteins
Out of intestinal ruts;
Peristalsis calls for roughage,
Haulms and fibers, husks and grit,
Nature’s way to open bowels,
Maybe – let them practise it.

‘Hark, I hear an air-raid warning!’
‘Take no notice, let em come.’
‘Who’ll say grace?’ ‘Another walnut?’
‘Listen, what’s that distant hum?’
‘Bomb or no bomb,’ stated Minnie,
‘Lips unsoiled by beef or beer
We shall use to greet our Maker
When he sounds the Great All-Clear.’

When the flying bomb exploded
Minnie’s wig flew off her pate,
Half a curtain, like a tippet,
Wrapped itself round bony Kate,
Plaster landed on Louisa,
Tom fell headlong on the floor,
And a spurt of lukewarm custard
Lathered Mr Croaker’s jaw.

All were spared by glass and splinters
But, the loud explosion past,
Greater was the shock impending
Even than the shock of blast –
Blast we veterans know as freakish
Gave this feast its final course,
Planted bang upon the table
A lightly roasted rump of horse.

Nescopecks?

(Once again, inspired by the Trousered Ape!)


*


I now reside in Arlington,
Where every Sunday's full of sun
And writer's work is never done.
Please join me here in Arlington!


I used to work in Roxbury,
A place of tenement and tree
Where Carmelites have a nunnery.
Hail, blessed, wounded Roxbury!


I've never seen Hyannisport.
I wouldn't sell that small town short.
Some folks drink liquor by the quart
When they sail off Hyannisport.


I was baptized in Somerville:
Lived there two years, for good or ill.
I couldn't reach the windowsill
During my time in Somerville.


The Trappists live in Spencer, Mass.,
Where rabbits scamper through the grass.
Their church has wonderful stained glass!
I should revisit Spencer, Mass.

Fr Robert Barron

Christianity -- like baseball, painting, and philosophy -- is a world, a form of life. And like those other worlds, we first approach it because we perceive it as beautiful. A youngster walks onto the baseball diamond because he finds the game splendid, and a young artist begins to draw because she finds the artistic universe enchanting. [...] No kid will be drawn into the universe of baseball by hearing arguments about the infield-fly rule or disputes about the quality of umpiring in the National League. And none of us will be enchanted by the world of Christianity if all we hear are disputes about it.

via A Maryknoll Book of Inspiration (Orbis Books, 2010), reading for August 28, p. 257

André Louf, OCSO

For our heart is already in a state of prayer.  We receive prayer along with grace in our baptism.  The state of grace, as we call it, is, at the level of the heart, a state of prayer.  From then on, in the profoundest depths of the self, we have a continuing contact with God. The Holy Spirit takes our heart in tow and turns it toward God.  All the time, in fact, he is calling within us and he prays Abba-Father, with supplications and sighs that cannot be put into words, but never for a moment cease within our hearts.

This state of prayer within us is something we always carry about like a hidden treasure.  Somewhere our heart is going full pelt, but we do not feel it.  We are deaf to our praying heart, we fail to see the light in which we live.  For our heart, our true heart, is asleep and it has to be waked gradually -- through the course of a whole lifetime.

A. Louf, from Teach Us How to Pray.

Quoted by Miriam Pollard, OCSO, in her book The Laughter of God: At Ease with Prayer (Wilmington, Delaware: Michael Glazier, Inc.), 1986, pp. 25-26.

Assignment

(see Trousered Ape)


Write me a poem on
Parthenogenesis,
Using the word as a
Thrice-uttered rhyme.


Love to, I would, but I've
Places to go to, and
People to see, so I
Haven't the time.


*


Oh, well, maybe I do have the time --


O rare parthenogenesis!
You've happened once in history.
Without the flesh's intimate bliss
(O rare parthenogenesis!)
A child's born, perfect as a kiss,
And holy as a mystery.
O rare parthenogenesis,
You've happened once in history.

However

... the first moment of true prayer occurs in the experience and awareness of one's limitations. We do not know what our real needs are, and we must learn them all over again each day. In this sense, prayer has the value of pedagogy, it is the great pedagogy of God. While evasion and distractions draw us away from the road to real happiness, prayer brings us back to what is most authentic in man's quest for happiness. "The truth will set you free." Prayer makes us free; it preserves what is most fragile and most precious in us: the integrity of our desire, that desire which, in final analysis, is nothing but the need for God. This is what prayer preserves in us, and must teach us every day, this need for God, which is the distinctive, most profound trait that separates man from the animals. Man is the only being who turns to God to obtain what is lacking for his own fulfillment.

Bernard Bro, OP, via Magnificat magazine, meditation for the day, Tues. 23rd August 2011

Winehouse

"Maybe she couldn't think of a word that rhymed with Connery." ~ Roger Moore, on being mentioned in the lyrics of Amy Winehouse's "You Know I'm No Good"
*

Miss Winehouse, at the height of her brief fame,
Was searching for a famous proper name
(And one that rhymed quite easily, if it could)
To jazz up her song "You Know I'm No Good."

A recognizable actor, dashing, strong --
A metrosexual just wouldn't belong.
He'd have to be well-built and debonair;
He'd have to dress with style and speak with flair.

She didn't mention old Sean Connery
Although he's been an Oscar honoree,
And many ladies think he's simply heaven --
At least, he was, when he played 007.

She chose the next James Bond, also a codger,
To make her lyric vivid. Bravo, Roger!

5 Catholic facts

about Elvis Presley. From the blog of a British priest, 2007.

Two Marian poems

A poem from October 1995: Magnificat anima mea Dominum.

And a 2000 (?) poem called You have given life.

Magnificat

(trans. dylan/TD)

My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit exults in God my savior,
because he has regarded the humility of his handmaid.

For behold, henceforth all generations will call me blessed,
because he who is mighty has done for me great things,
and holy is his name:

and his mercy is upon the progeny of the progeny
of them that fear him.

He has shown the power of his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their heart:

he has deposed the mighty from their seat;
he has raised the humble to high places:

he has filled the hungry with good things;
he has sent the rich away empty.

He has helped Israel his servant;
he has been mindful of his mercy --
as he spoke to our forefathers --
to Abraham and to his seed for ever.