WORLD'S END

A deepening hue, packaging crisp and dry,

Telescoping skies, hard bitten with dust

A sly moon, scarred and half-lit.

It didn’t end with a whimper

After all,

But brightly and loudly like a celebration.

It was proud of its going.

Colour spawned from a devil’s jaw, not

A god’s dull reason. Fire everywhere,

Referencing volcanic insinuations, the afterbirth of a planet.

The last man standing

Was burnt to a crisp.

A Religion of Peace?

After the recent shootings in Tunisia, a man with a modern gun mowing down unarmed people in yet another instance of wild cowardice, the British PM avowed yet again that Islam is a peaceful religion and murdering fanatics distort holy writ. There is no evidence for this in the present or past. It spread through armies, and, everywhere in the modern world, Islamic run states are intolerant and barbaric. (Well, so can the USA be, but unlike most advanced nations it too tends towards religious observance). No, Islam is violent. The only major religion that employs violence. Regularly, its narrow minded Imams call for the deaths of others.

Of course, the above does not mean that there aren't millions upon millions of generous, kindly, peaceful Moslems. There are! But this is a case of human nature overcoming the essentially nasty aspects of most religions, and evolving despite prophets, churches, imams and priests. Religion remains the darkness in the human soul.

Moses and Exodus. It ain't necessarily so!

What if many of the narratives in the Bible and Koran are not true? What if they are the equivalent of modern fiction?


There is no archaeological or historical evidence, for example, for Moses and the Exodus. Archaeological research has not uncovered evidence in Sinai, Palestine or Egypt, and the search has been going on for a considerable length of time. Those cities, such as Jericho and Ai, where great victories were apparently acheived did not exist during the 13th and 12th centuries BCE. In fact, they had thrived almost 700 years prior to the Exodus narrative. During the 13th and 12th centuries the conquest-area, as described in Exodus, consisted of small villages without large urban sites.

Archaeologists suggest, given available evidence, that the Isrealites were an indiginous Canaanite group, highly likely as Hebrew appears to have been a Canaanite dialect, supplimented by outcast groups from Ugarit and Egypt. William D. Dever (Archaeology: A Biblical Interpretation) suggests that the roots of the  Exodus' narrative, if anything of the kind occurred,  are similar to that of the Pilgrim Fathers, a small group who came to ideologically represent many other immigration or settled groups. If Moses did not exist as the Moses of Exodus, perhaps others too did not exist. Mohammed is not mentioned until 200 years after he was said to have lived, and may too have been largely an ideological construct created for narrative purposes.

Rabbi Sachs, Moses, et al

Re. a new work by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks on taming religious zealotry. According to Oliver Kramm, Sachs in Not in God's Name suggests synthesizing the three Abrahamic faiths through scholarly work insisting that the authentic message of scripture is that 'our common humanity precedes our religious differences'. Emblematic episodes should be restructured to reflect this.

I agree with Kramm that this is not true. Scripture insists on discord and violence, the belief that it concerns shared humanity is a consequence of secularism. Of some interest I think is that before the thoughts of a group of poorly educated priests were written down, previous laws and moral injunctions had avoided violent punishments for misdemeanours. The rulers of Sumerian cities, often councils, were far more civilised than the raging psychotics and thieves of early biblical narratives.

Kramm points to Numbers 31. After defeating the Midianite army, Moses was appalled that his men had spared the Midianite women. He ordered that they be killed, apart from virgins who were given as sex slaves to his men.

Remind you of anything?

I assert again how dreadful the emergence of Abrahamic faiths has been, bringing violence into intimate areas of human life. Although briefly in the 1st century Christian era they showed signs of maturing, the rise of fundamentalist Christianity in the 4th century, due to Christian assumption of power in the Roman Empire, squashed all that.

Poem-AWAY AND HOME-stephen francis

Away and Home

They walk and stare and walk and stare

Like I am some alien, not meant to be there.

I ask for help, they smile and nod

And then they simply walk off.

Is it me I ask? Is it me?

Should this place me free

Of one so clearly of another breed?

No, surely not.

That can’t be right.

I ask again, I beg, I plead.

Yet one by one they ignore me

As if I were a rotten seed

Planted by a foreign hand.

It is me. It is me.

They want this place free

Of one so clearly of another breed.

Funny that.

I leave.

I return.

With warmth and smiles I am greeted.

Refinement it may lack

Without a doubt that’s a fact.

But at least it has its humanity intact.

Parakeets 2

At first they were a wonder

Soaring above our skies

Nesting in our trees

Impacting on our lives.

But soon they multiplied.

Clearly they had lied.

The invasion, it began

Undermining us was their plan.

They took and took and took

Like a simple common crook.

With no remorse they watch

From their perches high above.

They gaze with unnerving eyes

Impacting on our lives.

Soon we’ll be the wonder

Driven away from our skies.

Don’t believe me?

Fly high, take a look below.

It sickens me, you know?

I long for the days

When we grey pigeons

Could call this place our own.

Poem-stephen francis-Parakeets

Parakeets

Where once there were none now there are many.

They don’t belong you see.

They invade without a care in the world.

Don’t they know the trouble they cause?

Stealing food is their goal,

And shelter that’s rightfully others.

What will the pigeons do, the paragons of London

When those filthy freeloaders spread further

Like a disease, they won’t stop

And soon what’s left of those true Londoners will be gone.

What next? It won’t end with Peckham.

They’re remorseless,

They just don’t care what gets in their way.

Perhaps those poor grey squirrels

They won’t know what’s coming when death swoops from above.

They’re not safe I swear.

But under our care things could change.

Perhaps we could contain them in Peckham

Like you contain an epidemic.

Let them spread their disease amongst themselves

As we watch and sigh in relief.

‘They won’t get us now’ we’ll say and we’ll cheer.

We’ll be right, till the next lot arrive.

Away and Home

They walk and stare and walk and stare

Like I am some alien, not meant to be there.

I ask for help, they smile and nod

And then they simply walk off.

Is it me I ask? Is it me?

Should this place me free

Of one so clearly of another breed?

No, surely not.

That can’t be right.

I ask again, I beg, I plead.

Yet one by one they ignore me

As if I were a rotten seed

Planted by a foreign hand.

It is me. It is me.

They want this place free

Of one so clearly of another breed.

Funny that.

I leave.

I return.

With warmth and smiles I am greeted.

Refinement it may lack

Without a doubt that’s a fact.

But at least it has its humanity intact.

Parakeets 2

At first they were a wonder

Soaring above our skies

Nesting in our trees

Impacting on our lives.

But soon they multiplied.

Clearly they had lied.

The invasion, it began

Undermining us was their plan.

They took and took and took

Like a simple common crook.

With no remorse they watch

From their perches high above.

They gaze with unnerving eyes

Impacting on our lives.

Soon we’ll be the wonder

Driven away from our skies.

Don’t believe me?

Fly high, take a look below.

It sickens me, you know?

I long for the days

When we grey pigeons

Could call this place our own.

Parakeets

Where once there were none now there are many.

They don’t belong you see.

They invade without a care in the world.

Don’t they know the trouble they cause?

Stealing food is their goal,

And shelter that’s rightfully others.

What will the pigeons do, the paragons of London

When those filthy freeloaders spread further

Like a disease, they won’t stop

And soon what’s left of those true Londoners will be gone.

What next? It won’t end with Peckham.

They’re remorseless,

They just don’t care what gets in their way.

Perhaps those poor grey squirrels

They won’t know what’s coming when death swoops from above.

They’re not safe I swear.

But under our care things could change.

Perhaps we could contain them in Peckham

Like you contain an epidemic.

Let them spread their disease amongst themselves

As we watch and sigh in relief.

‘They won’t get us now’ we’ll say and we’ll cheer.

We’ll be right, till the next lot arrive.

poem HONOUR Stephen Francis

Honour

They have used me and I have served.

How could I not?

They made me what I am.

A servant to their cause.

I’ve seen Queens crowned.

Threats of invasion from afar.

Overseen their communications.

Remained steadfast

As a good subject does.

I serve Queen and country.

I provide shelter for the Virgin

And light for her successors.

I trembled as planes flew above

And celebrated as they flew no more.

I’ve watched from afar, as the great playwright worked,

As theories and principles that would shape the world

Were committed to paper for forever more.

I’ve seen evil and good, hatred and love

Entangled in their eternal battle

From high above.

And as I waned, as I began to fall

Like all the Queen’s servants must do

Even those that had once stood so tall

Above it all, yet never apart

I can fade happy knowing this oak has honoured thy Virgin. 

Goodbye London, my one true love.

PECKHAM

Harakiri

Is it possible for a land to dream

Of Harakiri.

Gouts of screams and tears abound

Self-destruction is such a sweet sound

Particularly when told from afar

By those so clearly in the know.

But is that the truth, what we are told?

Does this land dream of a death all of its own?

Or perhaps tales of its expiry are greatly exaggerated

For profit and shock.

Could this be true, that they are lying to you?

Or does Peckham wish to fall on its sword?

Perhaps once, in the span of three days

Did this land wish to see itself burn,

To see itself consumed in the fires of greed,

Of hatred,

Of ignorance.

Tell me, is that all that this land has to offer?

Will it willingly trudge to such a dishonourable demise?

Or will it rise

And show those in the know 

That in truth Peckham dreams of a fate more honourable than Harakiri. 

Another bogus

About two years ago, I worked as a lecturer at a college in Ilford, London. My immediate colleague had obtained, he said, a degree in English literature from a Pakistani university. He then explicated to me the contents of one of one of his essays. It was meant to impress me I think. His essay was original-ie clever. He apparently proposed that Shakespeare's characters were types. This he informed me that this was an innovative concept.

Now, in fact it would be extremely difficult to make such a case. Shakespeare, unlike many of his peers, such as Ben Jonson, is noted for the opposite. His escape from archetypes is what makes Shakespeare so great. Modern western literature owes him an extraordinary debt for his construction of complex personalities. For example, the McBeths, Hamlet and Lear. It can be equally said, with justification, that modern psychology owes him the same debt.

This was an absurd claim, made by someone without perception or knowledge. As he later, in front of students, used such words as 'challengingdising', and others of equal strangeness, I wondered what kind of university he had studied at.

ISLAM

I was brought up in the Christian tradition of sacrifice and forgiveness, although my parents were neither religious nor honorable. Still, whatever the absurdities of his being the son of god (which he did not believe), Jesus seemed, growing up, to be a noble figure. His dictum of 'he who lives by the sword dies by the sword' seemed eminently right to me. I also grew curious over other religions, finding each both interesting and worthy of study. Islam nevertheless shocked me. A religious leader who was also a warlord! This struck at my very understanding of holiness. A religious leader who ordered killings! This I could not accept! No doubt Mohammed was both convinced of his calling and forceful, but he was singularly nasty.

How do we understand the religion's success. I suggest because it appeals to our visceral natures in a way that other more thoughtful religions do not. It is not a religion of the intellect, it does not clamour for ideas, only for sameness, insistence on the suppression of change and of life. Its condoning of violence, all Islamic states are oppressive, seems a beacon to the violent in all societies. I recall a photo of imans coming out of a national meeting in Bradford, making no dress concessions of course, bearded and miserable looking. Compare that to Hindus joyfully celebrating in their religious festivals. This is certainly the only religion in which its priests call for the murder of others. Extraordinary!

In its present form, Islam is a political/economic system that employs, those that do at least, terrorism to control territory. Westerners must not encroach on Islamic land (bin Laden), nor politically interfere in Islamic lands. Without armies they resort to other military means.  

THE PROPHET

Throughout Mohammed's religious career, he appears to have been invisible to all outside commentators. He is not mentioned until 200 years after his supposed death. In fact, very little of the early events in the Koran, like the Gospels, is historically verifiable. There is no evidence for slaughter of the innocents, and of course none for the visit of the Magi. A very curious matter indeed, with Zoroastrian priests bringing ritualistic gifts to another god. There is no contemporary evidence for Medina and Mecca as bustling urban sites, nor any for Mohammed.

GLADIATOR by Stephen Francis

 

A Greater Man

I had held myself as a greater man,

A soldier aloof from the whims of life.

The only things I cared for were the gladius in my hand

The screams of my enemies

As their blood dripped from my blade

And they lay clawing at my feet.

I went whoring with the boys

Played with them games of dice

Laughed at their jokes.

It was all lip service.

I did not care for their ways,

The ways of lesser men.

I was a soldier whose only lust was for blood.

I was better.

The new recruits came

With their beardless faces.

They huddled together for comfort,

Some cried to their mothers

Others prayed.

Those simpering wrecks were of no interest

Except for one

Erasmos.

With the stature of a god

The confidence of a titan

He stood amongst his peers

As a man stands amongst children.

It was not long until we sparred.

As good soldiers there was no need for words.

We both knew what was obvious

What was as certain as life and death

We were brothers in arms

Of the same breed

We were as one.

The fight came.

Outnumbered ten to one

We fought

Until blood soaked our faces

Our enemies and our own

Until crimson flooded our eyes

Our noses

Our mouths.

Before night fell we were the only two left

Alone in a field full of ravenous beasts

Of coprses waiting for the crows

Left to rot in some far flung land.

Their gaping snouts salivated

Waiting for the chance to sink their blades into our flesh.

A new emotion filled my veins.

I was no longer fighting for myself

To satisfy my lust for death

But for my kin standing next to me

The god made flesh

It was as we stood back to back

As I felt him stand firm against Fortuna’s whims

That I knew I was finally what I claimed to be

For Erasmos

My love

Has made me a greater man.

RELIGION/RELIGION

Apropos of previous blog. All this prattling about religion, this idiotic absorption, this socially accepted and enhanced obsession, pushes out everything else. No talk of art, philosophy, poetry, science-just religion. An extraordinary kind of barrenness. No fruit there, intellectually or emotionally. A consuming deadness.

This is human life as an ant hill or bee hive.

This is brainwashing writ large.

This is frightening.

RELIGION-RELIGION-RELIGION. Throw me a lifebelt.

Here I am in the sloughs of Whitechapel. I am teaching in a small college run by Bangladeshi. When I leave the train at Shadwell, my spirits sink in the widening trough of religion. It is everywhere, like an infection. My students think of nothing else. It is mindless and boring. They must wake up each morning thinking of it and going to bed at night, when shopping, when fornicating. This is Hell on earth!

Depression

Is depression truly helped by drugs that merely squash feelings and memories? Is it so reprehensible to live with negativity? Do we always have to be positive?

A population fed with drugs is one that does not rebel. The triumvirate of drug-companies, medical profession and government is benefiting from this smothering of thought and action. I am considering this in my research work 'An Unusual Power', a view of the medical profession and its ideas, especially of mental health.

poem-cherry tree-ying cao

CHERRY TREE

A cherry tree, heavy with fruit,

Once stood at the bottom of my garden

By the small pond filled with septic water

Disagreeably still. Ignoring it, over time, its

Fruit fell and decayed.

Over time its trunk became overwhelmed

With boles, its branches snapped.

Close by the rich soil

Was suffocated with weeds.

Ying Cao

poem-living by the sword

Living by the Sword

He had a look of the illicitly serpentine about him

could summon a home like Caligula in Rome,

as he lifted his foot the ground would rise to meet it

and so forth.  Of course,

the pendulum must swing

and the old tree will bear the most rings,

an abstract print

shapes and squares of solid hues

gained ill repute, grey city workers and mud stuck views.

If I had dared to ask,

where he had been, where he was and where he started from

and algebraic conundrum of x to z

a man of education might meet the end

or the beginning.  But not he,

destined to be the alien stray

he’ll always leave but somehow stay

pollen carried on the wind to foreign shores

and many more, a thread through the ages to keep in tune.

Gemma Wildman, Chesham, Bucks

Larry Lefkowitz-Cum Laudeus C

Cum Laudeus C

I must go up to the C again
To the C and its curve so high.
To the sweep of its cite
And the bent of its height
As it points twice to the words' far lie.

I must go down to the C again
And its soft contoured cry;
Its implored can and could,
To be followed upward, if wooed
Till it crests in a canticled sky.

I must journey forth to the C again,
To its comely, capacious abode
On its wind-swept cape,
Its caprioled fate
A comma, in a cavalier spate.

I must seek out the C again
To drink its near-chronicled fill.
A courtesaned life,
Incomplete but rife,
Open-ended, yet curving toward nil.

Larry Lefkowitz

poem-ying cao

The drowning man is lost beneath the waves,
the birds picking at his feet
and in the distance
pixelated in greens, yellows and reds
the forbidding slope of
the dormant volcano.

ying cao