Poetry

Apocalypse 12

Back then two hundred thousand years I saw

A field of feet protruding from the ice

The bodies of the people were below

And just the shins of legs and those five toes

Were poking up like spring plants from the snow.

I looked around and saw these human trees

Were planted mile on mile. I touched a foot

It did not move, though I had tickled it.

‘They’re gone. They’re dead. And buried upside down

They do not turn again the right way up.

Preferring body to the soul alone.’

And I, moving among them step by step

Examined how the ice had pulled them in

And said aloud: ‘Should I pretend to weep?’

And he: ‘To you, the lot were mannequins

Attractive, lovely, honourable clowns.’

‘Do not pretend to being sorry, then.

My Father has disposed things as you see.’

And I: ‘My thoughts come on like tears amain,

I want my thoughts to leave and let me be.

How many people now are dead and gone?’

My Master, then: ‘The great majority.

Those characterised by neither faith nor doubt

Who did not love and did not trouble God.

‘They sat adown and gave in to the cold

And numbness made death free of any trauma.’

And we began to walk, unreconciled.

‘These feet belong to that Sir Keir Starma

Whose numb and frozen lying you beheld

When he was opposition in the Chamber.

Back then he was an empty plastic clown

He is happy now, aimless with his head down.

‘So don’t resent the way that justice works.’

And I: ‘It is my fault to pity them.’

Now here and there among the frozen legs

There was a larger space and there was room.

And waiting as it seemed were three more nags,

A red, a black, a pale, each with a groom

Who waited patiently while we came near.

I saw them waiting, three of them, I swear.

‘My angels, yes, my workers, my work horses!

Come on boys, to your work now, the end comes!’

My lord ejaculated to his forces

‘Let’s get to work, my friends, the end of times!

Renewing agents, horsemen, take your places

Go on now, lads, go on, fulfil my aims.’

My master spoke like this, shouting in joy

Then turned to me and then began to say:

‘This one, the red, commands the appetite

Desire, suggestion, love, longing, the heart

And he will push my people, set them right.

This one, the black, will sift out every wrath

All shift and force in every human wight

He knows the will of every psychopath

And knows by contrast how such passion can

Be chained to God’s will working in a man.

‘And him, my last one, pale and creamy white

Whose power is over intellect and death.

Go lads, now, ride, go to your tasks, move out!’

The three heard what he said and knew the truth,

And with his blessing, that is what they did.

They rode out like three things of ancient myth

Trampling the ground, indifferent to the limbs

That had been planted there in previous times.

‘They go to sift out those who have a soul

Amongst those who survive. Neanderthals

Those heavy men who were half animal

Contribute one per cent to human cells,

Now they survived the ice by force and skill.

So, those men who will now face my angels

Are one percent of all the men who lived.

I wish it had been more that had survived.’

And so my leader became calm again.

While I was thinking that the great Plato

Had understood the human soul more than

His pupil Aristotle. But for now

I tell you what I saw occurring then

With eyes of body, not of cogito.

For, moving by himself across the plain

I saw dressed as an English priest someone.

His head was down and he was walking fast

Like someone trying to get out of the rain

And yet he stopped sometimes as if oppressed,

Remorseful, by some agenbite within.

My lord and I made way through that forest

Of finished souls and hailed the single man.

‘Stranger! Hold on, and let us talk a while,’

I said, and he: ‘I will, we’ll walk a mile.’

‘I was the bishop of Chichester once,

And know that I am responsible for this.

The English Church could have given a chance

For many lying here to win this race.

By ritual and beauty to convince

The people to do right and to be wise.

And know that what seems least is what is first

And what is quiet can be the greatest force.’

‘You are,’ I said, ‘George Bell of Christ’s Church college.

My son and I saw the memorial there.

You, more or less alone, gave out the knowledge

That bombing German towns during the war

And exercising a victor’s privilege

Were things contrary to the Christian law.

But no one heard, we know this.’ Then he said:

‘The marxist, nazi, and the liberal state

‘Displaced the Church, and this is the result.’

He gestured to the wasteland all before us.

‘These bodies harvested by the white colt.

And though I blame myself, it became far worse

As years went on, til it was difficult

To find a trace of truth in temporal powers.

I mean, that by the era of Johnson

The Church had no impact on anyone.

‘For from the first, in England, they were kings

Who first converted and turned to the light.

See what Bede wrote about these ancient things.

So, when the king or rulers were no guide

Then people fell; for, on their rulers, hangs

The sustenance and life force of the crowd.

That’s how it is. The last days the Great Whore

Was ruling widely over rich and poor.

‘Her offspring are these roots and flowers here.’

He ended. Then, I seemed to see in mind

As if it were a transparent over-layer

Events in my past life and in my land

My England under governance of a whore

Whose beauty from the front and the behind

Had made a judge in Chester believe lies

And gave inhuman codes to the police.

How else did English men think it was right

To call a woman man, a man woman?

Or lock themselves indoors and not go out

And make me slave in my own country then?

And ultimately, finally, to start

To persecute the instincts of all men

And make me exile in my own country.

The Whore was in our homes and beds, that’s why.

‘These flabby flat feet here, which went about,

Belonged,’ he said and pointed to some toes,

‘To Jenkins, that MP who made it right

To separate a family in divorce,

And kill the unborn with the help of state.

All from above, by moulding of the laws,

He introduced a demon to each soul

The whore in England ruling over all.’