Magdalen College Chapel, Oxford or Intentions

Pray for my son, who has lost his way.
For you, a herd. A herd so plump,
That news of their rotund rumps,
Would be heard as far away as India, for
You are more scared to me.
I’d sharpen the blade between
My tongue-tied teeth and stick it
Hard beneath each lowing jaw.
For you, the ruby fountain I would milk,
My stomach would churn but on and on
It would spill.
For you, a beef mountain.
I would face the wrath of a subcontinent,
The angry tides of a blood ocean,
And the prattle of dying cattle,
If you would come home.

I found my way here. I mapped my way,
Drifting along crimson channels and
Dusty mistakes.
(Can you imagine me in a church?)
I don’t know subtlety. I don’t know how to pray.
I never knew how to be a mother,
But for you I would fat a herd and their
Moo-boo-hoo would be heard for miles.
I can’t sew you costumes now,
Or read you fairy tales,
Unsmoke my lungs, undrink my liver,
Or undo the paces you took in distant places,
But I can slice and I can slaughter.
Find your way and just see how many calves I will kill,
For you.

Praise God for the safe return of Mrs X’s cat! God bless all animals.

Pussiest, furriest, purriest of creatures home safe and sound!
Confirmation that the hand of God is petting all around!
For four whole days we hunted hither and thither tinkling his bell,
The sun breaks forth no matter how drowsy and drippy the spell.
He is home by the fire and retraces the carpet with his claws,
May God keep all creatures safe between his noble paws!

Pray for X, a student at this college, who died of cancer this morning.

It must have been meant, ordained by some perfect design.
Invisible hands placing you in the room next to mine.
From the first, we were boy scouts knotting each other as twine.

The happiest thorn in my side. From me you’ve been stolen .
No music now through thin, ancient walls. The silence is swollen,
Like my eyes. Your parents’ eyes are more like black holes and
We all wonder what to do now. The houses your pen will never unlock,
Form streets in my mind, coffin doors that will remain unknocked.
Neighbourless and favourless; to whom now can I talk?

There’s no knocking now either at the door just feet away.
I have nothing else to do, so I write and I pray.

Pray for me

What is more real: the voices I imagine as I read these intentions
Or the voice of God? At least the paper speaks back.
I remember deals of youth
Find this for me, and I’ll be a good girl.
Forgive me this, and I’ll become a nun.
I defied you so, rambunctious rebel,
And now you seem to defy me.

I shouldn’t really believe in you. Sense, something I avoid,
Tells me you can’t exist. I’ve been taught of all that you’ve wrought.
Your will? It is iron and ours is not free. Not really.
I can just about bear the snide sermons on high from those
Who never knew you or no longer want to.
You believe in God? How quaint.
They pin my belief to my flowers and my curls and I know they see
The lost little girl, clinging to crumbling walls.

You are the hardest of all masters. Your servants,
Either you break their hearts or you make them obsidian.
The reverie of your churches, your gilted gifts to the world,
Lends shadow to the dark masses of your Church.

You know, for I have told you, I worried that I was cursed.
I’ve read that the children of priests become werewolves.
Hear me baying at the moon for you now.

These cards and scraps offer me some hope,
I hear each whispered cry or cloying plea,
Faith is alive here. I pick up my pen, unsure of my intention.
Pray for me.