#undismembered

[buzz-london]

Went to see 189 Cadogan Square - in memory of a sarcastic comment on the society of mid 1940s. It is a every evocative WWII poem by John Betjeman - ‘In Westminster Abbey’

In Westminster Abbey

Let me take this other glove off As the vox humana swells, And the beauteous fields of Eden Bask beneath the Abbey bells. Here, where England's statesmen lie, Listen to a lady's cry.

Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans, Spare their women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be, Don't let anyone bomb me.

Keep our Empire undismembered Guide our Forces by Thy Hand, Gallant blacks from far Jamaica, Honduras and Togoland; Protect them Lord in all their fights, And, even more, protect the whites.

Think of what our Nation stands for, Books from Boots' and country lanes, Free speech, free passes, class distinction, Democracy and proper drains. Lord, put beneath Thy special care One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square.

Although dear Lord I am a sinner, I have done no major crime; Now I'll come to Evening Service Whensoever I have the time. So, Lord, reserve for me a crown, And do not let my shares go down.

I will labour for Thy Kingdom, Help our lads to win the war, Send white feathers to the cowards Join the Women's Army Corps, Then wash the steps around Thy Throne In the Eternal Safety Zone.

Now I feel a little better, What a treat to hear Thy Word, Where the bones of leading statesmen Have so often been interr'd. And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date.

[mariacallous]

The poem they’re quoting from is Betjeman’s fairly satirical “In Westminster Abbey” (1940):

Let me take this other glove off As the vox humana swells, And the beauteous fields of Eden Bask beneath the Abbey bells. Here, where England's statesmen lie, Listen to a lady's cry. Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans, Spare their women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be, Don't let anyone bomb me. Keep our Empire undismembered Guide our Forces by Thy Hand, Gallant blacks from far Jamaica, Honduras and Togoland; Protect them Lord in all their fights, And, even more, protect the whites. Think of what our Nation stands for, Books from Boots' and country lanes, Free speech, free passes, class distinction, Democracy and proper drains. Lord, put beneath Thy special care One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square. Although dear Lord I am a sinner, I have done no major crime; Now I'll come to Evening Service Whensoever I have the time. So, Lord, reserve for me a crown, And do not let my shares go down. I will labour for Thy Kingdom, Help our lads to win the war, Send white feathers to the cowards Join the Women's Army Corps, Then wash the steps around Thy Throne In the Eternal Safety Zone. Now I feel a little better, What a treat to hear Thy Word, Where the bones of leading statesmen Have so often been interr'd. And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date.

[heamatic-archive]

Uno verse card: Tui La has died (Fujin)

My muse is dead. Tell me how yours is dealing with it.  (REVERSE)

          :･ﾟ🌪️┇ The lake, rubies on the shore, crimson as the swirling skies above — through the scarlet fog, the lone eye of a vermilion moon watches. The lake weeps. The mood weeps. The Gods weep. The God of Wind, whose grief filled storm is seldom contained, holds upon the cool body of his beloved — heavy in his arms, eyes closed, and he thinks if he pushes her upright, she may just open her eyes like those special porcelain dolls. Except she will not awaken. She will never awaken. Chimes in the air. The wind whimpers and sobs.

           The back of his head hurts — she, Tui La, left evident and cold, undismembered, the beasts unfed, violence thwarted. There is a whole red world birthed by her death; a long struggle as the ends are met. He holds her to his chest, her hair lose and flowing in long obsidian ribbons; red lips smeared. Deities do not die the same as mortals: it takes patience, but also swiftness. It takes evil beyond the threshold of time itself. But when the scythe had struck, there is no going back.

            His heart hurts. In the last few hours with his feet within liquid rubies, his struggles have become narrow and specific but three dimensional. The pain he feels is akin to razor blades swallowed down his throat; toothache as his heart condenses and rots for her.

             His eyes hurt. They have become the shade of saffron. He holds her so close to him, but all he hears is the chimes, and then the hum of cicadas in the grass at his back. When it begins to rain, that too is red. Blood red. He advances into the lake at last, his legs sore from hours of standing still. Water rises up past his knees, his waist. Tui La’s hair swirls in the waves as the storm coagulates around them; carmine funnels like sea serpents reaching for the moon to swallow her whole. Soon Tui La’s body wants floating, but Fujin holds her to him so she will not drift away from him.

             And then she is submerged beneath the rocky waves — splashes past his shoulders lapping at his chin. He walks and walks the death walk until he too disappears into and under the waves.

            And the storm rages.

               Rages.

                        And never stops. Centuries of red. Millennia of red. Forever.

                    His love. Their love.

                            Red.

[allyourprettywords]

“In Westminster Abbey,” John Betjeman

Let me take this other glove off    As the vox humana swells, And the beauteous fields of Eden    Bask beneath the Abbey bells. Here, where England's statesmen lie, Listen to a lady's cry.

Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans.    Spare their women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy   We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be, Don't let anyone bomb me.

Keep our Empire undismembered    Guide our Forces by Thy Hand, Gallant blacks from far Jamaica,    Honduras and Togoland; Protect them Lord in all their fights, And, even more, protect the whites.

Think of what our Nation stands for,    Books from Boots and country lanes, Free speech, free passes, class distinction,    Democracy and proper drains. Lord, put beneath Thy special care One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square.

Although dear Lord I am a sinner,    I have done no major crime; Now I'll come to Evening Service    Whensoever I have the time. So, Lord, reserve for me a crown. And do not let my shares go down.

I will labour for Thy Kingdom,    Help our lads to win the war, Send white feathers to the cowards    Join the Women's Army Corps, Then wash the Steps around Thy Throne In the Eternal Safety Zone.

Now I feel a little better,    What a treat to hear Thy Word, Where the bones of leading statesmen,    Have so often been interr'd. And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date.

[buzz-london]

In Westminster Abbey

Let me take this other glove off As the vox humana swells, And the beauteous fields of Eden Bask beneath the Abbey bells. Here, where England's statesmen lie, Listen to a lady's cry. Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans, Spare they're women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be, Don't let anyone bomb me. Keep our Empire undismembered Guide our Forces by Thy Hand, Gallant blacks from far Jamaica, Honduras and Togoland; Protect them Lord in all they're fights, And, even more, protect the whites. Think of what our Nation stands for, Books from Boots' and country lanes, Free speech, free passes, class distinction, Democracy and proper drains. Lord, put beneath Thy special care One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square. Although dear Lord I am a sinner, I have done no major crime; Now I'll come to Evening Service Whensoever I have the time. So, Lord, reserve for me a crown, And do not let my shares go down. I will labour for Thy Kingdom, Help our lads to win the war, Send white feathers to the cowards Join the Women's Army Corps, Than wash the steps around Thy Throne In the Eternal Safety Zone. Now I feel a little better, What a treat to hear Thy Word, Where the bones of leading statesmen Have so often been interr'd. And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date.

by Sir John Betjeman

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