Amputation

Now all of that gouging business
Makes more sense
Now the limb hacking legs off
Of the Sham and Pretence

Now the iconoclasm bears more weight
Now the Cleaving the meat off
Between trust and hate
Is something I can appreciate
Now I see my actual state

When the ship is struggling you unload cargo
Better to survive with a lightened load,
But when the boat is going down, you have to go,
Abandon Ship, Geronimo,

I am lost and without hope
I am dead in the water now
The gangrene has taken hold
This Limb shall no longer slow me down,

It's got to go
It's got to go
It's got to go

It's better to live without
And live
than die
And to die with

I choose without
Because I want to live

More About The Sore

Your remedy contained,
The diagnosis when,
You uttered the words,
You must be born again,

Like the need for a lung transplant,
Tells you a lot about that cough,
Like when the sore on the ankle
Means the leg must come off,

The old me is dead and dying,
It's terminal without remedy,
Riddled with sin and selfishness,
Condemned eternally,

I need a new me,
Now at last I'm sure,
The amputation you prescribed,
Tells me more about the sore,

More than moral philosophy,
More than Political Policy,
More than words of psychology,
More than observed Religiosity,

You must be born again,
The life and death sentence ,
A call to faith and love and life,
To the woken, a call to repentance






If you have a sore on your ankle and after the doctor does his test, he comes in and says "I have some hard news: We have to take your leg off just below the knee," then that remedy tells you more about the sore than many erudite medical words.
So it is with the remedy "You must be born again."~ John Piper (Finally Alive)

What Is Conceived

 

There's something happening here

What it is aint exactly clear

 

 

It lies

Not dormant

Not sleeping

But waiting

Tucked away

Within the folds of her

Growing exponentially

Cells dividing,

Mass expanding

The latent energy

no longer lazing

released and fizzing

reaching, racing

First it will fill her

And for an encore,

It will fill her life

He that filled all

Is undetectable

Invisible

Imperceptible

It is the end inevitable

And it is the beginning

And it is here

And yet it is not yet

A new thing

A no-can-do thing

Done and doing

Without your knowing

 

 

 

There's something happening here

What it is aint exactly clear

This thing should not fill you with fear

You should not fear to feel failure

Nor decline to draw near

Though it is unsettling in the extreme

Though it does not fit in with your schemes

Though it upsets your tray of fresh tarts

Though you had no half baked plans for a fresh start

 

Though you are tempted to recoil in reticence

 

You may, in your dismay, miss the magnificence

 

 

The gold in the gutter

 

The baby in the manger

 

The eye of the angel,

 

In the face of the stranger

 

The doorway in the darkness

 

That opens your world

 

The portal to paradise

 

As true life is unfurled

 

 

There's something happening here

 

 

But

 

All of this

 

You could simply miss

 

If you write it off the list

 

If you just dismiss

 

 

And Joseph, on the night the angel came,

 

Went to bed, In a world of pain,

 

He pulled over the covers,

 

And closed off the world

 

Of unwed teenage Mothers

 

And imaginations of her 'other lovers'

 

The life he'd longed for; up in smoke

 

The taste of hope that had made him choke

 

And tried to shut out those bitter, painful themes

 

By burying his head in sleep and dreams

 

 

 

 

There's something happening here

What it is aint exactly clear

 

 

And in dream's depths amidst these things he feared

 

An Angel of the Lord appeared

 

Joseph, Joseph, David's son

 

Do not be afraid of what God's begun,

 

Yes this thing is not from you,

 

But what she tells you is still true

 

Joseph I know you will struggle to hear it

 

But what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit

 

The son she bears, will bear the Name

 

Jesus, the one who came

 

To save his people from their sins

 

So don't be scared to take them in

 

 

There's something happening here

And what it is becoming clear

 

 

 

And you, you may not perceive what is going on,

 

But it could be something God's begun,

This thing should not fill you with fear

You should not fear to feel failure

Nor decline to draw near

Though it is unsettling in the extreme

Though it does not fit in with your schemes

Though it upsets your tray of fresh tarts

Though you had no half baked plans for a fresh start

 

Though you are tempted to recoil in reticence

 

You may, in your dismay, miss the magnificence

 

Who too lay in a cradle once,

 

Jesus, come to reclaim our innocence,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus because he will save his people from their sins.~ Matt 1:20-21

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Trouble With Trouble

The trouble with trouble
Is that it can be very troubling
If you worry about your worries
They often end up doubling

Simmering, boiling, spilling out
Spitting, hissing, bubbling
Now they're spreading everywhere,
You struggle to keep struggling,

The trouble with trouble
Is that you cant help but let it trouble you,
Don't pronounce it with an R,
Try instead to say it with a double U

The trouble with Twubble
Is it's hard to let it twubble you
If you can laugh at all your worries
They're halfway turned to rubble too,

And for the other half turn to prayer
Throw God all the balls you're juggling
They wont trouble him like they trouble you
He'll give you peace instead of struggling

Be of good cheer, cheer up, although,
"In this world you will have trouble"
I have overcome the world,
And burst it's little bubble,

Take my yoke upon you,
Don't be overwhelmed by sight,
Because my yoke is easy,
And my 'burden' is rather light,

To deal with life without the worry
Will half the load you were doubling,
And half again, my friend,
Your trouble's not so troubling,

Oh Come On All Ye Faithful

Why so despondent, down cast and downhearted?
O come ye, O come ye, to Bethlehem,
Come and behold him,
Born the King of Angels,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on and adore him,
Christ the Lord,

God of God, However dark the night,
Look he's not too proud for the virgins womb,
Very God, even in dark places,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on and adore him,
Christ the Lord,

Sing choirs of wasters, Sing in degradation,
Sing all forgotten ones despised and unloved
Glory to God, in the High street,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on all ye faithful,
O come on and adore him,
Christ the Lord,

Northern Accents

My childhood best friend's family were from Devon,
And my Father's from the North East,
Berwick, and Durham and Newcastle,
And I want to say Whitley Bay,

At Junior School,
My friend and I used to stage mock arguments
About our identities,
Founded in the extremities of the compass,
In which we took imaginary offense at,
And traded in,
Regional based stereo-types and slurs and boasts,

My best boast was that my Northern blood
Enabled me to cope better in the cold,

We were both white middle class kids from Oxfordshire,
And at this point I had never even visited,
The places I alluded to as my ancestral heartland,

But my Dad was from the Northern most town in England,
Where he learnt to swim,
In north sea rock pools, once the tide had been in,
So far north it had a football team in the Scottish league,
It became a point of pride,
With a Dad from Berwick on Tweed,

Although I was only half Northern,
That half was of a superior quality,

My dad would sleep half naked, sheets thrown back,
With the window open,
In December,

Yes,
My half
Was twice as potent
As some people's whole.

I was at least as Northern,
As someone from somewhere like Manchester
Which was basically the Midlands
To someone like My Dad,
Or 'Me Da'
As I started to attempt to call him,

I also adopted the use of the word 'Champion',
Because my Granda' used it.
Because I wanted to be someone,

Anyone,
Who was from somewhere,
Somewhere else,
Anywhere
Other than here,

Because, I suppose
I suspected,
There was nothing special,
About here,
Or me,

So I stole my voice,
I used a borrowed Identity,
I could never hear my Fathers accent,
He was audibly invisible to me,

He had assimilated ,
Capitulated,
Blended,
Osmosis,
Not pretended,

It was not until many years later that I had learnt,
That he himself was being served,
By selective Identity,
He grew up In Newcastle,
Only moving to Berwick
At the Age of 13,
He was gone by 19,

But he never even mentioned Newcastle,
Only Berwick,

And so I settled,
as My Father did,
In my overlooked Mothers lands
Leaving and returning,
And embracing my southern twang,
Apparently there is a trace of farmer,
But I cannot hear it,
It is as invisible to me,
As my Da's Northern accent,

Satan Keeps Score

 

He keeps me looking at myself,
That's one to the devil,
And none to me,

He keeps my resentments on his shelf,
That's two to the devil,
It'll soon be three,...

He presents them to me with an air of stealth,
That's three to the devil,
And none to me,

He keeps note of my sins,
Of which there is a wealth,
That's four to the devil,
And none for me,

He poisons my mind and invades my health,
That's five to the devil,
And none to me,

He tells me I'm worthless,
Not good enough,
That's six for the devil,
now its getting tough,

He tempts me with pride and sexual stuff,
That's seven for satan,
And none for us,

He knows the scriptures,
Quotes it off the cuff,
That's eight for the devil,
And none for me,

He lies about everything,
And inspires lust,
Now that's nine for the devil,
And none for me,

But I trust in the Son of Gods blood,
So,
That's none for Satan,
And its Ten for me,

I'll sing it through the ages,
In eternity,
Its none for the devil,
And Ten to me,
Ten to me,
Praise God,
Its Zero for the devil,
And its Ten to me



M Joseph Burt 10-08-06

Christ On The Village Green

 

On the green,
He clearly has been portrayed,
Crucified,
A Jewish Messiah,
On a Roman cross,
In an English village,
2000 years later,
Whilst the tractors,...
And commuters,
And delivery vans,
Glide by,

His stone eyes,
Are fixed,
Not on the glory that is set before him,
But on,
A silver GT Golf,

A pigeon sits stupidly,
On his crown of granite thorns,
And blinks at the saviour,

An octogenarian wheels by,
Her tartan shopping trolley,
And, once the squeaky wheels,
Have passed from stony ivy'd ears,
He is left alone again,
'Till the VW is moved,

Out of place,
Out of our minds,
Life goes on about,
And without you,

How can you be the background?
What goes around,
Comes back round,
And I have noticed you,

Reach out,
Your stone hand,
Come down from that cross,
Come down,
And talk with us,

Oh preacher of Palestine,
Be mine,

In Islip,
I slip

 

 

 

 

M Joseph Burt

29.06.06 (written in Islip, Oxford, On the village green)

Isaac and Jacob (For My Mother)

 

"The last time I saw you,
You looked so much older",
I said that I loved you,
I wish I'd been bolder,
I gave you a weak smile,
You held my hand,
I felt like Jacob,
Bowed down in the sand, ...

Your hand was like Isaacs,
On top of my my head,
I stole the blessing,
At the foot of your bed,
I was the lucky one,
I caught your eye,
I said fairwell,
Without watching you die,

And you prayed for me,
And blessed my life,
And the desert is bleaker still,
Without his wife,

The last time I saw you,
Your eyes not yet faded,
Through jordans waters,
You had not yet waded,
Your silence oppressive,
Like a storm not yet broken,
But you held my hand and,
I'd barely spoken,

As Jacob I listened,
With undeserved merrit,
To Isaac my mother,
From whom I'd inherrit,

A penchant for sorrow,
And distance and art,
And the blackest of humor,
And a place I can start,

To piece together,
Just who I am,
Out of where I've come from,
And the frailty of man,

Oh Isaac my mother,
Its your Jacob here,
You shouldn't have blessed me,
That much is clear,

The blessing was the beginning,
Of the ending of living,
The grave unyeilding,
The sky unforgiving,

And I wasn't ready,
To inherrit your soul,
Knelt here in the sand,
A small part of the whole,

Take back your words,
Leave them unsaid
I'll gladly return,
To the foot of the bed,

And gaze on you breathing,
And take back the meal,
That I used for decieving,
That I used to conceal,

But now you're gone,
There's no room in the sky,
Agrophobic, the sand dunes,
Where I stand and cry,

All of us sand grains,
All of your children,
All of the sad stars,
All of us pilgrims,

We stand together,
And mourn your passing flight,
Untill Hades,
Or the kingdom of light,
Amen


M Joseph Burt (Somewhere between July 2005 and April 2010)

Fallen States

 

Sweet England,
Faded Beauty,
The prom queen,
Full of punch,
On her back,
In the car park,
Legs apart,
Some wryly amused onlookers gather,...
Chatter,
Feign disintrest,
With just a touch of envy,

Sweet England,
You showed such promise,
And now your roads,
Are track marks on your arm,
Collapsed veign,
Gaunt features,
Opiate eyes,
Dazed,
Our ex-heroine,
Staggers out into the motorway traffic,

Sweet England,
Mascara runs,
You sit amidst the srtreamers,
Of last nights party,
Bottles about you,
Your dress is torn and soiled,
Lost on gin,
Alone now,
As in reality you have always been,
And cry yourself to sleep,

Sweet England,
What have you done to yourself,
You let it go,
Stopped caring,
Chased a pretty rich boy,
Who used you,
Dumped you,
And will call again,
The next time he's at a loose end,
For a shag,
And desperate for old glory,

You'll comply and go along,
For the joyless joyride,
A murderers accomplice,
A whore for the bidder,
Complicit in your silence,
Unwilling to make a change,
You'll die alone,
Sleeping pills next to the phone,
But he wont come,
"Just a pathetic cry for help"

 

M Joseph Burt 03-07-06

The Mundanity of Glory

 

There is glory in every step I take,
There's glory in the words I make,
There's glory in each strand of hair,
There's glory in expelling air,
there's a glory in just standing there,
For heavens sake,
There's a glory,...

There's glory in each fleck of spittle,
In the sting gained from the nettle,
There's glory in an empty kettle,
There's a glory in untested metal,
For Christs sake,
There's a glory,

There's glory in my sucsess,
There's glory in a gory mess,
There's glory when I fail the test,
There's a glory from soiled sunday best,
There's glory when I take my rest,
There is a glory in pants and vest,
for gods sake there's a glory,

There's a glory in a speck of dust,
Sitting there because it must,
In obscure places, barely, just,
Of no significance to us,
But,
It bears the creators glory,
for gods sake,
There's a glory,

The company of heaven sing,
Of the wonders of this thing,
This small speck shall his praises sing,
And to his feet its tribute bring,
This humble feeble offering,
And stars and moon thier rendering,
Of glory, glory to our king,

In a speck of dust,
there is a glory,
A creators glory,
it belongs within his story,
That all his works shall praise him now,
And at last,
All shall bow,
And as one man say,
There is glory


M Joseph Burt 07-11-09

You Walk Away

In my sad musical pondering,
I see you walk away,
I see your figure disappear,

I am transported from this dingy, musty flat,
Behind the butchers.

What a metaphor,
We spent our last year,
Watching carcasses passing our window,
And being awoken to,
The hammering of flesh,

And the only tenderising taking place,
In our cold rooms,
Were the tenderisings of resolve.

I am transported instead,
To a country lane,
There are no cars,
To all intents and pictoral purposes,
 We could be in a novel by Austen,
Or maybe Hardy,

There are boughs of cherry blossom,
Framing your frame,
As you walk away,
It is spring,
And soon your birthday,
You are 29 forever,

The sunlight comes dappled through,
The blossom and the branches,
As you walk away,
Towards the light,
At the end of the floral canopy.

I take you out of these clothes,
I burn every trace,
Of urban wear (you will later adopt),
That's it,
That's better,

I put you in that long dress,
With sun and moon print that you wore in our early days,
A private poem for us,
Day and night,
Wrong and right,
Black and white,

It is deep sea greens,
And blues like your eyes,
Strong like your thighs,
Heavy like my sighs,

Your dark, warm, rich brown hair,
Cascades freely over your shoulders,
(You deserve that much),
That kink I always loved,
(And you always hated),
Is there (or not),
Picture it as you see fit,

And your motion flows, slows,
Your locks bounce to one side,
And your slender shapely neck,
Is revealed one last time,
The tiny blond hairs,
Catch the light like I never could,
I catch a breath,

With dandelion eyes,
You turn and smile,
Its a sad smile,
A giving smile,

It says;
"I'm sorry,
This could not be"
And,
"I love you more than you can know,
And in a way,
I love you and respect you,
Too much to stay,
You walk away.

This is now how you left me,
Not in a cold damp room,
Behind the butchers,
On my birthday.



M Joseph Burt
(06.03.2012)