Hymn Practice
Every Saturday, for half an hour:
the wholesome repetition of hymns,
their robust martial rhythms
shaping overgrown boys into men,
our strength in numbers disguising
the rasp of breaking voices,
the self-conscious spluttering,
the earnest drones of the tone deaf.
Keen types sang the familiar strains –
Nun Danket, Minster, Crimond –
each seeking approval from gowned
frowns burrowing into their backs;
and a roll of lost names reminded us
of what was certain and right,
drilling cohorts of fresh recruits
to unite in loud communion.
We were quite accustomed to speak
quaint sounds with contorted syntax,
in clumsy declarations of love
or the stoic desperation
of our descant sobbing after dark,
pleading the bullies to stop,
or the censoring of the heart’s
longing in our letters home.
After our weekly chorus of lying
we had nothing left to confess –
but looking beyond our high walls,
we learned dissonance, and knew
that Ulster, Gaza, Vietnam
were anthems beyond all words:
the world played tunes unknown
to us. We all stopped singing.
Ninety
Your veined claws clutch blindly
for hand holds long discarded
by those who followed.
Your legs are buckled totems
etched with signs and symbols
known only to you.
Your blotched face is mapped
with dry trails and tributaries
that still weep in winter.
Your frame, coated, mufflered,
sits proud on bench or pew,
challenging God.
Your arms, winged, stand ready
to glide into time and space
like the first explorer.
Your skeleton is poised, prepared
for carnival, a great orgy
of jiving with ghosts.
Your head, crammed with facts,
wonders which capital city
still has your phone.
Your eyes, suspicious, gaze
at distant figures greeting you
from a great height.
Your feet, splayed, half turn
to seek the names of children
recalled in photos.
Your ears, alert, lead your fingers
in dancing to ancient tunes
that drive your blood.
And your pride stirs your memory
of days, events, achievements
that bear your name
as your new age begins
with brisk swearing, spittle
and a clenched fist.
*
Jeff Gallagher has had numerous plays published and performed nationwide. He was the winner of the Carr Webber Prize 2021. For many years he taught English and Latin. He also appeared (briefly) in an Oscar-winning movie. Some of his poetry can be found under the Facebook profile ‘Umbrellas Used With Difficulty’.
New Critique 