These are the days of Miracle & Wonder!

Redemption

I wrote this about five years ago, and yesterday re-found it whilst clearing through my old notebooks to see what to take with me to the States.  I used to write a lot of this sort of thing.

Redemption is the story of loss becoming gain;
Of slavery bought back;
Of liberty returned.
It is the dawn after a nightmare,
The postern door in an impenetrable wall,
The feast after the famine.

We have been crawling and are learning to walk.
We have been drowning and are learning to swim.
We have been given clothes but do not yet know
How to put them on.

My eyelids flutter;
Wanting at last to open,
Wanting at last to see,
Yet unaccustomed to anything save darkness.

My fingertips reach out to touch and to hold,
But my muscles are weak,
Unused,
Flimsy.

I cannot yet pluck a flower.

The new, fresh fragrances of spring are all around,
But my nose is blocked.
I cannot yet taste the festive spread I am being fed.
But redemption says I will. 

I Like Big Props and I Cannot Lie

[click the title below to listen]

Props

I like big props and I cannot lie
You rugger-lovers can't deny
That when you see the fat boys scrumming down
With a 'crouch-touch-pause-engage'
You feel chuffed
With a proud chest out-puffed
Cos you know those props look tough

Deep in the mud at Twickers
You'll find a dumb ox like Vickers
Or maybe, it's a swampy fixture
Like Fran Cotton in that picture

Some League fans tried to recruit me
But with scrums like that - please!
Someone shoot me!
Ooh, God Almighty
I like to see them feisty
So scrummage, boys, scrummage
Use that epic tonnage

We've all seen them playing
Stuck in, with no complaining
They sweat, threat, keep going in dry or wet

I tire of old Australia
With a front row that's a failure
It's an average team, easy to stop
If you don't believe in props

So fellas, fellas - does that front row make you proud?
Then praise them, raise them; sing their names out loud.
Rugby needs props

[eighteen stone with a face like coleslaw]

I like them round and big
Ugly like a pig
I would not love this game if the scrum was dropped
And we lost our props
Those cauliflower ears
Say no - double up - no fears
Not talking about half-breaks
When a prop sidesteps, the Earth shakes!

I like them real thick like a brick
Ruck over
If you want that ball quick
On my perfect rugby canvas
Is a front-row hand-off
In the face of a stand-off

With legs like Os du Randt
Big and wide like an African elephant
Solid in the rear
Like that Tongan, Soane Tonga'uiha

Why not?
A blood-clot mug-shot
Fat and squat like Gareth Chilcott
Pretty-boy face like Graham Roundtree
And harder than an iron foundry
Running wild in a strop
Like a triceritops
We need to love our props

So ladies, ladies - how d'you feel about having more babies?
If you feed them lard and beer by the yard
They'll be madder than dogs with rabies
Rugby needs props.

Step into the Road

 

It's a dangerous business going out of your door.
You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet,
there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.

BILBO

 

This is just an excuse to post the first poster for the Hobbit, AND to utilise one of the guiding quotes I endeavour to live in the light of.  Compare:

Thomas said, "Master, we have no idea where you're going.
How do you expect us to know the road?"
Jesus said, "I am the Road."

Crown Him with many, many Crowns

This Sunday, Maria & I (along with Paddy, our curly-haired percussive stick-wielder) are responsible for the music at church.  Fun fun fun.  We'll be finishing the service with one of The Great Hymns: Crown Him with many Crowns; a song so worth singing that it contains twelve verses in all - six written by a Catholic, and a further six by a Protestant, seeking to alter its theological tone.

Whatever the reason, you end up with a LOT of crowns - fittingly, I suppose, since the song is based on a verse in Revelation which says “...and on His head were many crowns.”

Last night, having been practising, I started singing 'Crown Him the Lord of Teeth ...' for no apparent reason, which started me off into thinking of other things that Jesus might legitimately be the Lord of (since, you know, He is Lord of all).  And thus were born the following verses:

CROWN HIM WITH MANY MORE CROWNS

Crown Him the Lord of Teeth, behold His pearly whites!
His smile, unhindered by decay, outshines the Heavenly lights
So brush we as He brushed:
Three times a day, then floss;
To crown our crowns and molars all with Jesus' dental gloss

Crown Him the Lord of Tyres, the vulcanising flame
Whose tread protects us in the wet, and keeps us on The Way
Down lane, down street, down road
He bears us on toward
Eternal days of dwelling in the Goodyear of the Lord

Crown Him the Lord of Toes; of flesh, tendon and bone:
The big one went to market and the little one stayed at home!
He varnishes the nails,
And makes the smell be sweet
The bringer of the Gospel, lo! How beautiful the feet.

Crown Him the Lord of Sleep, the Monarch of the Nap
The doze, the kip, the dreaming sloth stretched out upon His back
With thunderous tone of snore
His lie-ins have no end
Somnambulant in majesty from His own King-sized bed

[with apologies for heresy and all injury caused]

All Hail King Jimmy!

I sometimes wonder if we'd have any language at all if it wasn't for Shakespeare and the King James Version of the Bible.  For the former, see here, for the latter, listen on:

And for the full poem (including hyperlinks to each phrase's scripture passage) go here.

Unanswerable Questions of Pop

WHO?

WHAT?

WHERE?

WHEN?

WHY?

Commonplace Quotes

I have been reading A Commonplace Book - a compendium of quotations and commentaries collected by Alec Guinness (my favourite actor) in the last few years of his life.  Here are some favourite bits:

Man: Lord Duke, what in your years has been the most inane remark?
Wellington:  Once, before a battle in the Peninsular War, I heard a Portuguese general address his troops, saying, "Remember men, you are Portuguese."

Commenting on over-zealous conductors, one orchestral musician said, "All we need to be told is fast, slow, loud or quiet."

There should be in the soul halls of space, avenues of leisure and high porticos of silence, where God walks.  JEREMY TAYLOR

A fleshy old man, moving from room to room, apparently pausing to admire pictures and objects, but in fact quietly easing out a little gas at each stop so as not to startle the hushes tapestried world around him with a resounding fart.

Newspaper Headline: 'HEADLESS MAN FOUND IN TOPLESS BAR.'

I'd put our moral decline down to the disappearance of horse-drawn traffic on the London roads.  There was a nobility in the old dray horse, gazing with large moist eyes at pedestrians.

Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning.  Psalm 143:8

Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring.  Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvellous, intoxicating.  SIMONE WEIL

Dom Sebastian Moore of Downside Abbey maintains that his life of contemplative prayer began when he had the honesty to tell the Lord: "You bore me."  DAME PHILIPPA EDWARDS

my new favourite poet

Discovered by accident in an old hymn book while scouring for lyrics requiring new tunes, I'm now a confirmed fan of Jane Crewdson.

It helps that she was Cornish and a Quaker - a more refreshing combination to my mind than another public school Anglican - but really the thing that grabs me (as it does with William Cowper, who is a bit of a hero  in my eyes) is the honest engagement with things that are more easily put to one side.  Observe:

Lord, we know that Thou art near us,
Though Thou seem’st to hide Thy face;
And are sure that Thou dost hear us,
Though no answer we embrace.

Not one promise shall miscarry
Not one blessing come too late
Though the vision long may tarry
Give us patience, Lord to wait.

While withholding—Thou art giving
In Thine own appointed way
And while waiting we’re receiving
Blessings suited to our day.

O the wondrous loving-kindness
Planning, working out of sight,
Bearing with us in our blindness,
Out of darkness bringing light.

Weaving blessings out of trials,
Out of grief evolving bliss;
Answering prayer by wise denials
When Thy children ask amiss.

And when faith shall end in vision,
And when prayer is lost in praise,
Then shall love, in full fruition,
Justify Thy secret ways.

 

She's very good, isn't she?

Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas

by John Hegley - click to listen

Down in the Bible
Some of it's tribal
A tooth for a tooth
An eyeball for an eyeball

Some of it's truth
Some of it's Gospel
A man with a mission
A mission impossible

A man with a tan
A man who liked a parable
'Cast your seed onto land that is arable
- a stony field and the yield will be tarrible'

Born in a manger
Born into danger
Don't take gifts from any old stranger
Especially if it's gold
Especially if they say
"You've been specially selected!"

And they found your address by following a star
With a couple of mates
Who've got gifts as well
Unusual gifts
Just tell em "Thanks, but no ta."

He had a staff to help him with his walking
He had his staff to help him do the talking
He had his path - it never had a fork in
He made a lot of sandwiches and none of them had pork in.

If you had a party
He knew how to cater
He could feed a party
With the one potato

"Don't go thanking me mate – credit the creator"
"The wine's all gone son."
"Don't you worry mater,
Let me have that water for a moment would you waiter?"

Treated like a criminal
Flattened in a hymnal
What the men don't do
Maybe the women'll
do
A proper dad
He never really had one
It's not on file if the child was a glad one
No trial for whatever-it-was the lad done

If that's a Good Friday
I wouldn't want a bad one.

. 

In Memory of Granma

My Granma (my Mum's mum) died last week.  In many ways it's more a relief than a tragedy, since she's been nearly-gone since February (she was very much looking forward to our Wedding Celebration and kind of faded immediately afterwards), but nevertheless, she's gone - we'll never hear her singing Sospan Bach or asking for a nice cup of tea or offering us a Bounty bar again.

I got the chance to make friends with Granma over the last couple of summers; I was teaching English near her flat and would pop in and get her reminiscing about things I never knew about her (eg. life in a village in Wales, the chap whose marriage proposal she turned down etc.etc.).

We'd often read poetry together - usually with me saying the first line and her completing the verse out of long-lost childhood memory.  This is the beginning of one of her favourites:

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

.

How to be a Lord of the Rings Geek

Part IV. (c)

Report on the bits of Middle-Earth which Tolkien's characters failed to reach.

But seriously, have a look at this AWESOME map of the regions south of Gondor and Mordor, as imagined by a fan.  Each culture even retains distinct nomenclature:

[click for very impressive large version]

It all rather puts to shame my rather puny efforts to delve into the anthropology of Middle Earth's wisdom traditions.  I take my hat off to the fella.

to be pronounced: 'Cooper'

I am becoming increasingly fond of William Cowper, the poet, depressive and occasionally-insane writer of God Moves In A Mysterious Way.  The more I discover, the more my heart goes out to him, and the more his words get inside me.  I'm trying to find a good tune to make O For A Closer Walk With God singable.

Tonight I ended up reading a poem about him (or rather, his grave) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and I thought I'd share a bit:

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory,
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed,
He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted.

With quiet sadness and no gloom, I learn to think upon him,
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose Heaven hath won him,
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him,
But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him.

Song for World Cup - and now VIDEO!!

Song for the World Cup [temporary post]

Here is a mostly-complete version.  Now all I need is someone to make a cheap-but-amazing video.  Click to play.

01 Come on England 03Oct09

Whilst sitting in a foreign land, waiting to come home, this helps to put things in perspective

This is Stackridge, with North Street Grande.  Merry Christmas.

.

Three Songs

Now, I don't have time to tell you about who John Clare is and just why it's so important that he's recognised as one of the great English poets.  That's my Dad's job.  All I wanted to say is that since this summer, I have been writing tunes to carry his words.  Have a listen, and see what you think.

Download 03 Remember, Dear Mary

Download 04 Nutting

Download 09 Three Springs

There's a possibility that I may get to record some of these properly in the next year or so - I have about a dozen of decent quality.  I apologise to anyone who may be instinctively opposed to the singing of folk music.

One Hymn to the Tune of Another

As I mentioned a few months back, I've been working on fitting familiar, singable tunes to unsingable (but lyrically good) hymns.  Here are a few that won't land me with copyright issues!

So, click to listen, right-click to download.  They are AIF files, so quite big ...

Abide With Me

God Moves In A Mysterious Way

O Jesus I Have Promised

For Maria

Download Loves Like A Lily

from a song by John Clare (1793 – 1864)

Being Lebanese

One of the best things about getting married is that it affords the opportunity to become someone you never were.  I am a British, English, Cornish Yorkshireman, so (as of Oct 25) Maria will have the privilege of sharing in those marvellous things.  Lucky girl.

She, on the other hand, is Lebanese (Melchite-Phoenician-Arab) American (inc. Scots, Irish, and probably some Germanic/Scandinavian stuff), so I can be too!  What a magnificent, not to say attractive, combination we will make :)

And in celebration of being just about to become partly Lebanese-American, here are a few of Earth's more famous Lebanese-Americans, in whose great company I shall soon no longer feel ashamed:

 

God Save Our Team

So, I've written a song for England, for the World Cup next summer.  Here it is.

Download Come_on_England

Obviously, it's a rotten recording and all that, but hopefully you get the idea.

With any luck, one day you may get the chance to hear it properly, as it sounds in my head (with all the trumpets, wah-wah solos, and laddish group-vocals which that entails), but if not, I hope you like it anyway.  And if you work at the FA, get in touch!

Ska + Lollipops = Jamaican Music Taking Over

Right, first thing's first.  I heard this song the night before last for the first time since I was little, and having done so, proceeded to listen to it 7 or 8 more times.  I just couldn't stop!  I kid you not; this cheesy little pop song did something to me:

But, before you go thinking that this is just a nice combination of high-pitched vocals and cutesy sentiment, remember that great oaks from little acorns grow ...

Millie Small was 16 when she was brought from Jamaica to London to make that record.  She was the first international Jamaican pop star, and it sold 6 million copies worldwide.  Before her, Jamaican music only lived in Jamaica - no one had heard of ska or rocksteady or reggae.

It was a 25 year old called Chris Blackwell who brought her over to Britain.  He'd been brought up in Jamaica and wanted to showcase its culture to the world.  After Millie, Blackwell discovered Jimmy Cliff - one of the greatest of the greats.  Then, when Cliff walked out him, Blackwell signed Bob Marley & the Wailers, and the rest is history: Jamaican music now belongs to the world.

But Millie was the first.

One Hymn To The Tune Of Another

For the last couple of months, I've given myself a different sort of creative project: to find singable tunes for unsingable hymns.

You know as well as I do that 8 out of 10 hymns have beautiful lyrics but nigh-atrocious, horribly clunky music.  It's not just that the melodies are dated, it's that we no longer sing like that - when was the last time Fight The Good Fight or God Moves In A Mysterious Way turned up in church?  Exactly, because we can't sing them.

And it's a huge huge shame - these words are our heritage (not to mention being 20 times better than most modern worship songs), and are going to waste.  So here I come to save the day ...

A few years ago, I discovered by accident that Amazing Grace fits the tune for House of the Rising Sun beautifully, but I was also fascinated to notice how giving the lyrics different melodic emphases somehow brings out new depth of meaning (plus the original context of the tune - the song of a repentant alcoholic - is very appropriate).  So that's what I've tried to do: bring new life to old words by singing them anew.

Here are some of my favourites:

                                Abide With Me
                                        tune: O Come, O Come Emmanuel
                                Love Divine, All Loves Excelling
                                        tune: Summertime
                                How Great Thou Art
                                        tune: Danny Boy
                                My Song Is Love Unknown
                                        tune: Dock Of The Bay
                                Onward Christian Soldiers
                                        tune: All Along The Watchtower
                                Joyful, Joyful
                                        tune: I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free
                                O For A Thousand Tongues
                                        tune: Blowin In The Wind
                                God Moves In A Mysterious Way
                                        tune: Greensleeves
                                It Is Well With My Soul
                                        tune: When A Man Loves A Woman

    
There are a few more too, but I'm winding down in my search now.  I find that once I'm on one kind of creative project, I can't really do any others, and I've missed writing - I've not been able to do any of any substance for the last two months.  I'm trying to switch back now (working on my story about a school set up to support the children of superheroes) so I thought I'd mention my hymns before I wave goodbye to them ...

The Baffled Gardener

Last weekend was my birthday, and a really great one it was too - the kind of day that felt like it suited everyone involved and, in doing so, suited me.  Along the way I received quite a bundle of presents, cards and the like, but I wanted to give an honourable mention to our friends the Lockharts, from whom I received a jar of (home-made) Dandelion Tea, and this poem:

Marigolds, by Robert Graves [abridged slightly]

With a fork drive Nature out,
She will ever yet return;
Hedge the flowerbed all about,
Pull or stab or cut or burn.

Look, the constant marigold
Springs again from hidden roots.
Baffled gardener you behold
New beginning and new shoots
Spring again from hidden roots.

Pull or stab or cut or burn
Love must ever yet return.

Our Favourite Iranian Superstar

You poor Westerners may not have heard of this sprightly wee fella, but from now on there will be no excuse.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Prince of Persian Pop - Arash ...

Burnsing Bright

So, a canty 250th birthday tae ye, bonnie lad Rabbie, ye big pile o blethering, philandering tosh that ye are!

And happy Burns Night to the rest of you.  Apparently, far more Burns Suppers take place in England than in Scotland now - read here for the experience of a London-based Scot at a ceilidh attended almost exclusively by Sassenachs.  It's enough to make you smile.

And here's my contribution.  I'm not a big fan of Robert Burns as a person, but this is a really beautiful love song that I heard for the first time this week.  It's sung by an old wife to her faithful husband:

-

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw,
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo!

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