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King James’ Version

POETRY

AMONG THE TRUMPETS

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read638 views

A committee of eight Hebrew scholars –

politically balanced between high church

and puritan – produced in Cambridge

University four hundred years ago,

what Tennyson called ‘the greatest poem’,

the King James’ version of The Book of Job.

They were not paid but promised possible

preferment – essential for some comfort

in the church and the groves of academe

of a country racked by civil strife.

 

Their contribution to the new monarch’s

pursuit of national unity

was ten books: from Chronicles – ‘These are the sons

of Israel…’ – to The Song of Solomon –

‘Let him kiss me with the kisses

of his mouth.’ The Book of Job was the sixth.

 

Imagine a committee of divines,

an octet of cloistered pedants producing

not a camel but a steed that ‘saith

among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he

smelleth the battle afar off, the

thunder of the captains, and the shouting…’

 

 

 

Note: the poem was first published on the site in November 2015.

 

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POETRY

WAITING AT THE GATE

David Selzer By David Selzer0 Comments2 min read306 views

On the notice board of the Methodist Church –

on the opposite side of the street

from where I sit at my desk typing this –

is a poster. It is a colour photograph.

In the foreground is a wooden five bar gate.

 

Once I am certain there are no prisoners,

like me, at their exercise – voluntary

exiles walking their dogs in the middle

of the road avoiding others in lycra –

I go over for a closer look. The gate

is shut. Beyond is pastoral land rising

to low green hills. The caption reads: Jesus said,

“I am the gate.” I return and google.

 

Ah, a parable! But King James’ smart divines

have the gate as a door to a sheepfold.

So there ought to be a small flock of sheep,

at least, as well as the bearded shepherd

pour encourager les autres. I go back,

again looking out for cyclists and strollers.

The field is empty but for the odd thistle.

I look carefully at the gate. There is

a weathered sign. ‘Please keep closed at all times’.

 

Later I look up from the laptop.

The ukulele class is surreptitiously

leaving the church hall one by one two metres

apart. On the building’s main roof ridge

there are magpies, an octet, all facing

the same way, teetering in the east wind.

One for sorrow, two for joy…eight for a wish.

I hear them singing each to each. ‘I’m leaning

on the lamp post at the corner of the street…’

 

 

 

 

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POETRY

JUBILEE

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments2 min read635 views

‘Then shalt thou cause the trumpet of the jubile to sound…and ye shall return every man unto his possession, and ye shall return every man unto his family.’ Leviticus 25:9 & 25.10

 

Much of the chapters and footnotes of England’s,

though not Britain’s, history are scribed here

in stone and iron – Roman Walls, Norman weir,

marshalling yards – the rest is on paper,

of course, and from hearsay. It is said,

for example, for Victoria’s Jubilee,

in our street, lilac trees were planted.

Some have survived changes of taste or neglect.

 

This city, where I have lived most of my life

by chance then choosing, is shaped by the Dee,

that brought wine and the Black Death from Acquitaine,

powered the long defunct tobacco mills and still

draws occasional salmon from the oceans.

I imagine them waiting in the deep currents,

fattening on sand eels, squid, shrimp, herring,

and then the long, fasting haul from west

of Ireland, homing for their breeding grounds.

A cormorant perches on the salmon steps.

The last of the fishermen is long dead.

 

Like the calls and wings of Black-headed Gulls,

blown by April storms, the names and titles

of princes echo from the neutral sky

and sound through the deferential streets.

No doubt, there will be the splendid nonsense –

the cathedral’s ring of  bells will peel

and the Lord God Almighty will be urged

repeatedly to ‘save the Queen’. So,

let the ram’s horn blow like a trumpet

through Mammon’s and God’s obsequious temples –

and ‘…proclaim liberty throughout all the land…’

 

Almost which ever road you take westward,

in the distance, are the Welsh hills. The Legions

exiled the Celts from here – Saxons et al,

with legal threats and occasional killings,

kept them out except for trade and prayer

but forbade their songs. Now, waiting, we

are everywhere. Let the ram’s horn sound.

 

 

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