ABSTRACT
late seventeenth century For Bishop Glynn, ‘The gadfly prelate’, Two parts dandy, One part zealot, Decking his creed With lace and ribbons, This pulpit was carved By Grinling Gibbons. The artist’s favourite Clustered shapes Of rounded, living, Luscious grapes Made many a bored And drowsy sinner Long for his port After Sunday dinner. But once the Bishop Had climbed these stairs, Hopes could not save them Or fervent prayers. He had them caught While he aired his views, Trapped like lobsters In rented pews. He’d gaze with contempt On their upturned faces, Straighten his wig. And fl.ounce his laces, Glare at a cougher, Pause, and next Clear his throat And quote his text. With tags of Hebrew, Greek and Latin He kept them pinned To the pews they sat in. Nothing in Testaments Old or New But served his purpose And saw him through— Epistles, parables, Gospels, psalms, He welcomed them all With open arms. Every curious Contradiction, Snatches of truth And chunks of fiction, Appeals to forgive And commands to kill, All was grist To his Sunday mill. He knew each Jew And near relation From Genesis Until Revelation— All the rites And barbarous fights Of the Israelites And Ishmelites, Bedlamites And Wykhamites, Stalagmites And Stalactites— Every word That was in the Bible, Whether divine Or merely tribal, Shouts of triumph, Wails of despair, Who begot whom And precisely where— A mind and memory Great as his is Could scoop the jackpot In all the quizzes. At notes and footnotes None was better. He might miss the spirit, But never the letter. He knew what it meant To be a Christian; Whether he felt it’s Another question. Of Christian love He had no inkling: As soon as he spoke There were cymbals tinkling. But he loved his Church And he loved his King— There just wasn’t time For everything. These rules were enough For loyal needs: ‘Obey the Church, Respect her Creeds.’ And on that subject No modem German Ever turned out A more tortuous sermon. Dissecting all The Thirty-Nine Articles, He could preach for hours On each of the particles. While he admonished His hurdled flock, Chimes went unheard From the chancel clock. Half hour, one hour, Two went by As they gazed at their shepherd With glazing eye, Easing buttock In anguished pew— And what he was driving at No-one knew. When it was done (For his Lordship brooked No Norfolk goose To be overcooked) He’d smooth his surplice; And shaking his cuff— A sign to the faithful He’d had enough— Descend the staircase With regal tread, So that all who saw him Proudly said No previous owner Of mitre and crozier Had been such a credit To tailor and hosier. With a final flourish He stalked to his stall, Half-waking the Dean And the Canons and all, And leaving empty This clustered vine To Mr Gibbons’ Express design, Where trailing tendrils With leaves entwine— A pulpit bulging With wooden wine.
