In The Church of The Holy Sepulchre
Kneeling’s quite the thing,
that Slab is not a replica
it was bled on by a King.
The grovelling and the weeping
the wailing at the wall
is well within the keeping
of doing bugger all…
for the dead whose numbers rising
are stacked against the sea
their leaders compromising
definitions of the free.
Pilgrimage and worship
tourism and tat,
their thorny jagged crowns slip
at calvary’s thunderclap.
No miracle of deliverance
no parting of the Sea
just continued cruel indifference
to whatever there must be.
Good evening
I’ve read and listened to your poem and your thoughts surrounding it.
As a newbie to all this, I was just interested in your pathway to this poem.
Have you thought long and hard about the subject matter and thought to yourself I must write a poem to get your views and thoughts across in a succinct, poetical way.
I would imagine this is the case.
And I assume,as with many people you have been touched (angered) by it.
As I’ve only just started to put pen to paper I’ve no idea what I’m going to write or say until it happens. It sort of hits me when it happens. As with the poem you liked of mine, life in a cardboard box. I had just collected my wife’s ashes and was a bit taken aback by the fact they were in a cardboard box in an almost plain carrier bag. At least it was made of paper.
If I try and think about something then it doesn’t work.
The tin of paint was when I asked the chap in the paint mixing section of the anonymous decorating store to mix it by hand. He’d never heard of such a thing, it seemed. etc
Anyway makes it easier this way not having to think I suppose. Although this last one seems to have drawn a little bit of attention, so maybe need to put a bit of thought into it.
All the best
Andrew
Ps I’m 66, so you would think I’d know a bit about this life thing by now.