For the Tempus-Fugitives

by Christopher Norris

  Me from a joke that surely must exceed

  The limits of good taste for connoisseurs

  Of wedding conduct, namely one I’d planned

  To use when I was father-of-the-bride

  To Clare, but which (I’m pained to say) was banned

  By everyone except—and this point I’d

  Here like to emphasize—the very one,

  Our Jenny, who at that time thought it might

  Go down quite well, but may now wish she’d done

  More to dissuade me. Granted, it’s not quite

  The sort of thing that custom would condone

  Even in these licentious times, but why

  Let force of custom regulate our tone

  Through rules of good behaviour that apply,

  If anywhere, then only where those rules

  Are drawn up to exclude the very thought

  Of someone who, like Jenny, could make fools

  Of all the rulebook-sticklers.

  Still I ought

  To preface it with “Sorry, Jen” since she’s

  Now looking slightly worried (who can blame

  Her, honestly?) and thinking: no, Dad, please

  Not that one, or just hoping that I’ll tame

  The punchline, or recalling all those times

  It flopped, or someone didn’t get the hang

  Of it, or (as may happen with these rhymes)

  It came back at us like a boomerang.

  So: it’s about that time when Jen asked Dave

  If he’d give his opinion on the dress

  She’d bought to go away in, and so save

  Her asking Clare or Mum to come and bless

  Her choice of what to wear on honeymoon.

  Her question, “Do I look too big in this?,”

  Addressed to Dave, came just a bit too soon

  For him to think, step back from the abyss,

  And take the question straight. Thing is, she posed

  It coming from the bathroom framed against

  An open door that instantly disclosed

  Her perfect figure, yet—although he sensed

  The coming storm—he somehow couldn’t check

  Himself before he said it: “Yes, but it’s

  Such a small bathroom.”

  Get it in the neck

  No doubt I shall, not Dave, which quite befits

  The case since—let’s be absolutely clear

  About it—poor old Dave in fact played no

  Part in all this and it was my idea

  So crudely to debase the tone with so

  Unsuitable a joke. I’ll make amends

  Now, if I can, by trying to convey

  What won’t need spelling out for Jenny’s friends,

  Who’ll guess already what I’m going to say

  Because they’ve made this lengthy trip to share

  Her great event and show not just how much

  She means to them but how she’s part of their

  Own past and present lives, and apt to touch

  Those lives more deeply through her special gift

  For love and sympathy.

  I know you’ll each

  Have much to say of how she’d often lift

  Your spirits at some low point, how you’d reach

  For Jen’s phone-number when you’d been through some

  Life-crisis, or how far she’d go to try

  And make things better. It’s a gift I’ve come

  To recognize in her from years gone by

  Right back to school-days when she’d always be

  Not merely “popular” but one of those

  Who formed long-lasting friendships that would see

  Her mates through their recurrent highs and lows,

  With Jenny just the one they’d always choose

  As confidante in both. I guess that’s what

  It took—putting yourself in others’ shoes

  Like that—to let your colleagues know you’d not

  Give up on your tough job, your work with all

  Those victims of man’s inhumanity

  To man, but make it something I should call

  A true vocation, if such vanity

  Were not the sort of thing you’d think absurd

  And shut me up. At all events it’s great

  That you’ve spurned the big money and preferred

  To do the kind of job where you relate

  To lives and people, rather than the kind

  That shuts them out.

  Dear Jen, there’s so much more

  I’d like to say, but then you’d quickly find

  It just too much and silently implore

  That I should now sit down. Just let me run

  On for a verse or two and say how glad

  We are, your Mum and Dad, that it’s begun,

  This marriage of true minds, this launching-pad

  For our best hopes, since “Jen and Dave,” along

  With “Clare and Jake,” is now the sort of phrase

  That sounds so right it cancels every wrong

  From way back. One thing missing in today’s

  Updated ritual was the bit that laid

  Down how the minister should ask the bride’s

  Dad—after telling everyone how they’d

  Best speak now of impediments besides

  Blood-kinship of a Hapsburg type—if he’s

  The one who’s come to “give this woman away,”

  Suggesting he’s now lost the chance to seize

  Some inverse dowry that lot ought to pay

  For his fair daughter’s hand. It doesn’t feel

  Like “giving you away” at any price,

  Nor like some hard-negotiated deal,

  But more the kind of match that leaves us twice

  Blessed with a son-in-law and daughter whose

  Devotion to each other simply shines

  Out from them, though—like all the best-laid clues—

  It doesn’t grab attention but combines

  With everything about them so that now

  It’s hard not to suppose they must have been

  Predestined to meet up, or anyhow

  That some good angel must have overseen

  Their life-lines all along.

  The thing that I

  Had most in mind (but went a bit off-course)

  Was what a joy to raise our glasses high

  To Jen when she’s so long been a huge source,

  For Alison and me, of all the pride,

  The love and admiration that could go

  To fill her parent’s hearts. You want to hide

  Away out of embarrassment, I know,

  When I say all this sentimental stuff,

  But it needs saying—if you’ll just endure

  One moment more—because you’re apt to tough

  It out, or (more like) put the lid on your

  Emotions and get on with what most needs

  Attending to at home or work. I think

  That’s a great thing about you—better deeds

  Than endless agonizing—but the chink

  In all that psychic armor sometimes shows,

  And it’s at just those moments you reveal

  What‘s always seemed, to anyone who knows

  You well, how self-involvingly you feel

  Their troubles in relation to your own

  Well-hidden yet no less demanding sorts

  Of worry.

  But enough: let’s not postpone

  The moment: contrary to all reports

  My speech had a big point to get across,

  And it was just to say that Jenny’s choice

  Of Dave and his of her involves no loss

  For us but every reason to rejoice

  With all our hearts. And so I bid you: pray

  Be now upstanding with me, raise a toast

  To this loveliest of brides, and bless the day

  That, of
all days, will always matter most.

  THE BEAUTY OF IT

  I would have preferred to have invented a machine that people could use and that would help farmers with their work—for example, a lawn-mower.

  I didn’t put it in the hands of bandits and terrorists, and it’s not my fault that it has mushroomed uncontrollably across the globe. Can I be blamed that they consider it the most reliable weapon?

  —Mikhail Kalashnikov

  The beauty of it was how it would take

  Apart in twenty seconds flat, reveal

  The bare mechanics, never jam or break,

  And so let first-time users get a feel

  For how it worked. That’s why my gun could make

  Of raw recruits sharp-shooters who can deal

  With dicey situations apt to shake

  The nerve of those whose fancy guns conceal

  All that mere nuts-and-bolts stuff for the sake

  Of slick appearances or sex-appeal.

  They used to ask me: don’t you lie awake

  In the small hours and see the blood congeal

  On piles of corpses and not share the ache

  Of lost or shattered lives? But since the real

  Blame lies with others, not myself, I’ll stake

  My case on it: those wounds aren’t mine to heal.

  * * * * *

  Not sleeping well just lately; it’s my own

  Now close-up death makes what I’ve done acquire

  Such haunting power. There’s that discomfort-zone,

  That moral no-man’s-land where those who fire

  And kill bear no more guilt, if truth be known,

  Than those like me who aimed a good bit higher,

  Strove for invention’s accolade alone,

  And so bid conscience happily retire

  As long as my invention helped postpone

  My day of reckoning. Now they all conspire,

  Those untold deaths, so that at last I’m thrown

  Into such thoughts as question my entire

  Life’s work. When I unwrap this thing that’s blown

  Whole dynasties away my one desire

  Is to find some design-fault and atone

  For everything the death-squads so admire.

  A DIFFERENCE OF VIEWS

  Did Origen believe in the salvation of the devil? He clearly believed that all rational souls were able to be saved and this would, on Origen’s view of the nature of demonic forces, have included the devil and his demons. So the accusation was stirred up that he taught the salvation of demons.

  —Robin Parry

  At that greatest of all spectacles, that last and eternal judgment, how shall I admire, how laugh, how rejoice, how exult, when I behold so many magistrates liquefying in fiercer flames than they ever kindled against the Christians; so many sage philosophers blushing in red-hot fires; so many tragedians more tuneful in the expression of their own sufferings; so many dancers tripping more nimbly from anguish then ever before from applause.

  —Tertullian, De Spectaculis

  God’s mercy knew no bounds, or so it seemed

  To Origen, who put the case that Hell

  Might still be empty since Christ’s death redeemed

  All sins and sinners, even those who’d swell

  Its ranks if all the candidates were streamed

  On stricter lines. His thought: since none can tell

  What God decrees, why kid ourselves we’ve teamed

  Up with Him to select the personnel

  For Satan’s crew? Redemption-stories themed

  On mass-damnation warned him he should quell

  That vengeful strain and be the one who dreamed

  That Satan could escape hell-fire as well

  Since this might always be the message beamed

  By a wise deity whose blessing fell

  Alike on those whom providence esteemed

  God’s own and those predestinate to dwell

  In darkness. Origen’s idea looks all

  The nobler if you think how they preferred,

  Those others like Tertullian, to forestall

  Such civilising thoughts in case they blurred

  The line twixt saved and damned or Saul and Paul.

  ‘This I believe because it is absurd’,

  Tertullian said, and slammed the Christian ball

  Straight back into the court of those who’d heard

  The sheep-and-goats stuff but been less in thrall

  To versions of it that more deeply stirred

  The old blood-lust. So that we’d hear its call

  Ring loud and clear, Tertullian gave his word

  That, if their heavenly joys began to pall,

  Then God’s elect could watch the pains incurred

  By those whose sins demanded they should fall

  Into the fiery pit that once deterred

  The righteous who now fixed their downcast gaze

  On torments fresh devised and fit to cheer

  Their jaded souls. To justify God’s ways

  To man or make His purposes appear

  Less psychopathic might deserve high praise

  From those, like Origen, of less severe

  Doctrinal bent for whom auto-da-fé’s

  On that scale don’t too readily cohere

  With what their own theodicy conveys

  Of His benign intent. Yet why should mere

  Compassion—now we hear Tertullian raise

  His counter-claim—so dominate the sphere

  Of judgment that its influence betrays

  The same Old Adam who once lent an ear

  To Eve’s request and started the malaise

  That came of letting human hope or fear

  Dictate in matters where God’s will alone

  Should carry weight. So he, Tertullian, screwed

  The stakes sky-high and set out to atone

  For Adam’s sin by sending Adam’s brood,

  Or most of them, to their appointed zone

  In that vast torture-house where there accrued

  All wages of all sins, all wild oats sown,

  And every fall from grace God might include

  In their last reckoning at the judgment-throne.

  So, should some blessed soul be in the mood

  For spicier stuff once Heaven’s fare had grown

  A trifle stale, their bliss was soon renewed

  And heightened by reflecting how each moan

  Sent up from Hell or glimpse of one who stewed

  In seas of fire just might, if truth be known,

  Be what brought final quittance for some feud

  Long past. Since even blessed souls are prone

  To gloat, those sounds and sights could be construed

  As perfectly recapturing the tone

  Of mother-in-law, or pleasurably viewed

  As some old friend-turned-enemy now thrown

  Below though rated tops by viewers glued

  To his infernal pains. That this be shown

  Quite fitting, though its fittingness elude

  Less sapient types, was why Tertullian bent

  His intellect to talking up that line

  Of grand guignol. He wanted our assent

  To pleasures that, should they lack such divine

  Endorsement, we’d most likely represent

  As plain sadistic or another sign

  Of some perverse compulsion to invent

  New tortures that exquisitely refine

  The viewers’ taste. Else they might soon relent

  And think to question whether a benign

  Or caring God could possibly have meant

  His favoured few choice spirits to recline

  At ease while, down below, their loved ones spent

  Eternity where, by His sole design,

  Each one at every moment underwent

  The very torments that might best combine

  To conjure flat despair. Thus He’d pre
vent

  Their ever working up the moral spine

  Not only, those who wished it, to repent

  But—those of Satan’s party—to enshrine

  “Non serviam” as flagging their intent

  To shove His edicts where the Sun don’t shine

  And pay no more instalments of rack-rent

  To God’s slum landlords. Should the righteous pine

  For something more appealing—less in hock

  To God’s idea of how things ought to go

  With miscreants—then building up the stock

  Of Origen might be one way to show

  How stern Tertullian need not put a block

  On shared humanity, why letting go

  Of Hell might leave no victims in the dock

  To face God’s wrath, and lastly, apropos

  Those tortures that enthralled the pious flock

  Of His elect, how switching such tableaux

  For others less sadistic could unlock

  New springs of sympathy that might bestow

  Such fellow-feeling as forbade them mock

  When told to by the Moloch-God. And so,

  If you’re out to apportion blame, don’t knock

  Kind Origen who bucked the status quo

  Of God-think in his time and caused such shock

  Amongst the orthodox that it left no

  Choice for them but to reprimand, defrock,

  Or persecute those few who looked below

  The radiant heights and saw what it denied,

  Their first Apartheid rule. It said: ignore

  Those pleading voices from the other side

  Since why that gulf unless God fixed it for

  His own good purpose: namely, to divide