Plenty of religious zealots have been styled "The Hound Of God" for their unrelenting pursuit of "heretics." With that in mind I wrote this piece of Doggerel to chronicle the efforts of those Anglican or Episcopalian zealots whose campaigns against the ordination of women and gay men has brought the Anglican communion to the brink of a schism.
Schismism.
There is bound to be a schism
whenever fundamentalism
confronts progressive thinking in the church.
The problem with Theism
when it passes through the prism
of reason is it splits, distorts the object of the search.
When first the gentle Arians
found their views at variance
with the more aggressive Church of Rome
bones were broken blood was shed.
They did not pray but fought instead,
for the right to claim the Christian message as their own.
A child conceived from Divine Jizzum
by a Virgin? Tritheism?
That issue split split Orthodox from Catholic creed.
The centuries later Lutherism
questioned if the Christ was risen
or should communicants eat unleavened bread.
The Protestant condemnation
of transubstantiation
led Neitsche to conclude that God was dead
but the Evanelical revival
gave the established church a rival.
Through internicine conflict faith was saved.
Now the Anglican communion
falls into disunion.
The split? Can gays and women serve The Lord?
And they're about to have a schism,
it's a Christian tradition.
Lust for power screams out louder than the word.
In America there are so many religious dominations that schisms are ten - a - penny. In Europe however people tend to stick with the four main congregations, Catholic, Lutheran, Orthodox and Anglican. Thus a schism only comes alonce once every few generations. Therefore the current split over the ordination of gay men and women in the Anglican Church is something to treasure. People living through it are never likely to see another schism in their lifetime. This piece of whimsical wordsmithery commemorates in rhyme the Schism of 2008.
recommend this
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 35
Tell me where and I'll tell you how I muck about with stresses to keep on the beat. A very essential performance poet's trick. If I get round to recording this soon (with visuals) you'll be able to hear what I mean.
The beauty of English as a vehicle for comic verse lies in its being a time-stressed rather than a syllable stressed language so we can get ourselves out of a hole on stage by shifting where the stress falls.
Oh....and having an English accent helps. Words are stressed very differently on your side of the pond ;-)
If I'd been fishing for comments with this one I'd have to say "Cod be with you, Brother."
Thanks,
As I said to Steph its often down to the way different way words are stressed by speakers of American English and English English so if your're used to English speech rhythms or even some parts of the US, you would perhaps sub-vocalise it more or less as I do. But Steph was not being critical, just saying how she found the poem. And I'm happy if it raises a smile. Its a rare poem that does not have one or two sticky patches in the rhythm.
How funny!
How naughty!
But Chaucer was also naughty.
Again, Ian -- funny.
In Chaucer's day they were a lot naughtier than we would ever dare be now. Even in the seventeenth century the fashion was bawdiness. I cant find you any of John Wilmot's rude stuff now but I will locate some. Meanwhile try this, "The Lady's Dessing Room" by Jonathan Swift - best know for Gulliver's Travels.
The Lady's Dressing Room
Jonathan Swift
Five hours, (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace, brocades, and tissues.
Strephon, who found the room was void
And Betty otherwise employed,
Stole in and took a strict survey
Of all the litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.
And first a dirty smock appeared,
Beneath the arm-pits well besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide
And turned it round on every side.
On such a point few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
And swears how damnably the men lie
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces
The various combs for various uses,
Filled up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt.
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead and hair;
A forehead cloth with oil upon't
To smooth the wrinkles on her front.
Here alum flower to stop the steams
Exhaled from sour unsavory streams;
There night-gloves made of Tripsy's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripsy when she died,
With puppy water, beauty's help,
Distilled from Tripsy's darling whelp;
Here gallypots and vials placed,
Some filled with washes, some with paste,
Some with pomatum, paints and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,
Fouled with the scouring of her hands;
The basin takes whatever comes,
The scrapings of her teeth and gums,
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and smelt the towels,
Begummed, besmattered, and beslimed
With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grimed.
No object Strephon's eye escapes:
Here petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot
All varnished o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings, why should I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next he found
To pluck her brows in arches round,
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.
The virtues we must not let pass,
Of Celia's magnifying glass.
When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't
It shewed the visage of a giant.
A glass that can to sight disclose
The smallest worm in Celia's nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
To squeeze it out from head to tail;
(For catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out alive or dead.)
Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the chest?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in sight
For you to exercise your spite.
In vain, the workman shewed his wit
With rings and hinges counterfeit
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
For Strephon ventured to look in,
Resolved to go through thick and thin;
He lifts the lid, there needs no more:
He smelt it all the time before.
As from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus oped the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of humane evils upwards flew,
He still was comforted to find
That Hope at last remained behind;
So Strephon lifting up the lid
To view what in the chest was hid,
The vapours flew from out the vent.
But Strephon cautious never meant
The bottom of the pan to grope
And foul his hands in search of Hope.
O never may such vile machine
Be once in Celia's chamber seen!
O may she better learn to keep
"Those secrets of the hoary deep"!
As mutton cutlets, prime of meat,
Which, though with art you salt and beat
As laws of cookery require
And toast them at the clearest fire,
If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon the cinder drops,
To stinking smoke it turns the flame
Poisoning the flesh from whence it came;
And up exhales a greasy stench
For which you curse the careless wench;
So things which must not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental smell
To taint the parts from whence they fell,
The petticoats and gown perfume,
Which waft a stink round every room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!
I cut off the poem there, it's quite a bit longer. All that happens though is this poor lad has put his lady on such a pedestal, the discovery she is so very human renders him impotent, he can't get it up for her. Lesson, if you are going to delude yourself your lover is a goddess, don't go rooting through her dirty laundry :-)
In Cod We Trust - its an obvious pun. A lot of fish and chip shops use it over here. Although an unparket seafood restaurant had the name Sole Food.
Shizz - m - ism. This is what I was saying to Steph. The English elide lots of vowels and consonants, Americans tend to pronounce anything. Over here it used to be a class thing. th' m'r vwls one elided, the m'r clss one h'd :-)
Shisms should be treasured like state funerals where we all get to dance on a certain person's grave. heh heh heh.
Pray for atheism? I'll say Amen to that.
Too rigid? There's a joke there but I'm not going to do it.
Only one Monarch but we have old Queens, Screaming Queens, Drag Queens, Drama Queens and even a few who still insist on the spelling Quean.
I think the term "pond" for the Atlantic Ocean originated on your side of the pond.
And thanks for the phonetically slow assistance with the title. I am practicing saying it...I think I'll get it in about an hour or so.
My friends are checking their tackety bits, even as we speak!
Americans certainly do elide Or the President does at least. His elisions are where I get pseudo-Bushisms like this from:
"freeman moxy",
"pepl of Evelyn Tent" ,
"sewer side bummers",
"shukkanor",
" 'slamic funny mentalists"
etc. I'd best translate for people who don't know me. From the top:
Freedom and democracy
people of evil intent
scuicide bombers
shock and awe
Islamic fundamentalists.
I'll be glad when he's gone but in some ways he'll be missed. Still Obama is shaping up to be an even better feed for comedy. Even as I type I am contemplating a parody of Bill Hicks' Goat Boy routine.
It will be the biggest party in living memory for most of us. You have to be my Dear Old Mum's are to remember VE day.
Long time no see. Your poetry rocksI I love your commentary at the end. And The Chive would have loved this, too. :-(
Ha! Now, that is definitely something only a Brit would interpret that way since I don't think there are actually any Americans named "Ee-velyn" (male version pronounciation?). The only "Ee-velyn" I've ever heard of is Evelyn Waugh. Of course, there are female "eh-ve-lin"s, but that wouldn't work in your context.
It's a universal problem that Swift confronts. Men tend to place the object of their affections on a pedestal during courtship. The crumbling of said pedestal causes many an early divorce, I suspect. I would guess that women don't have the same problem, but I am willing to hear arguments to the contrary.
Personally, I don't think couples should be allowed to marry until they have lived together long enough for him to see her in the morning when she wakens, and for her to forget to flush the toilet a few times.
If they are already gone you're welcome to copy the post and mail it on. I did see your message that they were leaving (University is over I guess) and mailed them an invite to contact me and become part of my Greenteeth Multi Media site which I'm not quite ready to put online yet (typicial of the iniquities of the net, a very clever CSS widget I made was working well every time I tested parts of the site for twelve months but had suddenly stopped working since the last bout of tinkering by the browser providers)
I don't know if anyone replied, I am a bit behind with my messages.
Anyway thanks for the comment. I have not been around Gather much myself since the upgrade back in spring removed the only two features I liked.
My Dear Old Mum is an Evelyn, nee Redfern. It was quite a common name until the 1930's then dropped off the scale. But I'm sure some well known Americans were named Evelyn and simply changed it later. After all John Wayne was named Marion.
I love joke names though. The equestrianist Hugh Jarse is my favourite followed by that well known faith healer Dr. Charlotte Ann. And we must not forget joke brands, like that apple liquor, one drink of which is guaranteed to get you laid, Dickin Cider.
Oo-er.
It has been said a relationship begins when the man the man farts in the presence of the woman, and the relationship becomes permanent when the woman farts in the presence of the man.
The whole of Accrington will be turning out, mainly to make sure she's dead.