Between Mother and Other

Picture the child

Between mother and other,

Other was ‘wife’ to him they mourn

All shared life

And home

In the front pew,

See the child

Clinging to mother

Whom neighbours call ‘other’,

His two hands held,

He draws two women close.

A different trinity

(Just as paradoxical)

Mother, son (whose?), and significant other.

Adults both aware

Of who they are

And not.

The child between,

The moment seized,

In time of need.

Kent, 1995

A grieving child the bridge between two Kentish mothers, at the funeral of his polygamous father.

From the Pews

Wedding Custom

Far from home

Freed from family expectations

Their festival their own.

Only an ‘if’ or ‘maybe’

The mutual feeding

Longed for by their elders,

But, the older women had their way

So, bowed and kneeling,

She fed her standing spouse

And he,

From his ascendance

Fed her.

The aunties shrieked,

Gleeful at the sight,

After lives feeding

Or being fed.

Meanwhile,

The new master

Mused on his unsought status:

Can I still close that stable door?

Tempting

But futile.

Aunties notwithstanding.

Deptford, 1994

The imposed inclusion of a West African custom runs counter to the Anglo-African ethos of a young couple. Could the custom turn back time?

Fled

She fled,

          Useless as a breeder,

          Man being King

          And she

Nothing.

Fled

          Ever to another male

          (She being nothing)

          Leaving her confused

          How many ways abused

Fled now

          Towards her God’s embrace

          (Now baptised into grace)

          Seeking respite.

That said,

Finally she fled

          Low spirits

          Low security

          High Guys tower.

Fled

          Out through a ward window

          Down,

          Into the embrace.

Southwark, November 2003

African woman, wounded by life, looks to God to give her answers. Despairing, her Bible her companion, she ends this life.

Wapping 1 – The Band of Bong

Through Wapping streets

So long, so long,

They marched for us

The Band of Bong

Back to the 30s and beyong

Beating the bounds,

With marching drum.

East End Catholics

Marching strong

‘Faith of our Fathers’ singalong,

Ah for those days !  the oldies long,

It brings us back,

The Band of Bong.

In Belfast too the lambegs sing

And draw a faithful following

Come march and let the city see

We’re not like them –  we’ve history !

In London of diversity,

We’re different too!

Come bong with me !

Wapping 2 – An Ecumenical Matter

This Rose Garden circled

by pre-war storied terraces,                              

Each year, this Palm Sunday morning,

Home to Catholics both Roman and Anglo.                                                                 

Their conflicts now past, mostly.

St Patrick’s holy Romans

Await St Peter’s Anglos, high and nigh.

Friends share fronds,

Their common cause bemusing neighbour Bangladeshis,

And each other.

Prickly with unease among the roses,

Romans finger tongues of palm,

A few formed into Bridget’s crosses,

But mostly single  strands,

Fr Digby shivers, ill-attired for Thames-side March,                                         

As his three young sibling servers

Fidget from trainer to trainer,

Holding fast to Cross and blown-out candles.

From flats encircling, back from the 70s,

Lynn Anderson grants hope while begging pardon

“Along with the sunshine,

there’s got to be a little rain sometimes”.

As if on cue, Anglos sweep into view,

And are amongst us swishing jewelled gold.

Three deacons for the morning

(Sons and friends of the vicar),

Then their Father, illustrious in their wake.

Ministers of spectacle: 

Swaying palm bushes eclipsing lamplights,

not shrivelled Roman strands!                          

Glass protectors fanning high proud flames                                   

Keeping catholic fire alight!

No fools these Anglos.

Anglo crack corps wheels into the Rose Garden,

Leaving poor Romans bemused.

Two flocks converge in unity,

The Gospel is read,

Then palm in palm each present waits.                                    

Digby blesses first with outstretched arm,   

Then from his ancient aspergillium an icy benediction.

Ritual now complete,

Two parishes turn to return

To communion at separate altars

Anglos smile charitably,                                                                                    

Happy with their fitting, worthy work,

Romans raise eyebrows and return home. ,                                                                                                                      

Another year.