It is the school holidays, and so I must dutifully submit to being babooned by my children.
As I am travelling with my family I bring you this remarkable poem in place of the series I have planned for a deeper investigation on the crisis of Modernism.
It is a remarkable portrait of Christ the man - an aspect seldom seen in the marshmallow totalitarianism of these modern times.
HOW TO READ THIS POEM
I have been meaning to post this poem for some time, which I came across quite by accident some years ago. It is beautiful in the way of a delightful afterthought, not being showy about its business and instead leaving you with an effect that creeps like morning sunlight over everything.
The poem was written by Ezra Pound, who wrote elsewhere that human history was
Desensitisation, desensitisation, and ten thousand years of desensitisation.
To read his remarkably well chosen words is to step outside the muddy stream of time into something bright and honest.
Pound wrote this poem about the Christ of the gospels - a man’s man, a common hero - as a kind of riposte to the misrepresentation of Christ as some kind of milquetoast.
‘Fere’ means something like ‘mate’.
The poem could be translated as ‘Jesus - what a legend’.
It is a brotherly look at a friend without equal.
This ballad is talk, not a song.
It is to be read as if hearing the voice of the apostle Simon Zelotes speak about his best mate. Try to listen to him.
Perhaps it works better if you imagine Simon having some rural accent - someone who is a bit of a lad.
You can imagine that Pound chose this patron saint of tanners and woodcutters for the rough-handed whiff of leather and the smack of the axe which he brings to the portrait of the Son of God, who was also one of us.
THE POETIC PERSPECTIVE ACROSS TIME
Poetry is often described, like any art, as being of its time. It is more useful to notice how it contrasts with ours, how for example the third line might read like smut to a mind mired in filth. This says more about us than either Christ or the poet.
We see a sailor, a brave and smiling friend comfortable with his fate. He liked a drink, our goodly fere, and he didn’t back down from a fight. When he went, he went like a hero.
At the end of this remarkable glance of the Lord there is a moment which makes good poems great. Pound leaves you with an image which will not leave. It is golden, singular and unforgettable. This is what it means to be an imagist. His words threw a gilded beauty on the mind, which haunts you with its splendour.
Listen to Simon Zelotes speak to you of the Christ he knew, of the cross, and of the honeycomb.
Ballad of the Goodly Fere
Ezra Pound - 1885-1972
Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion.
Ha' we lost the goodliest fere o' all
For the priests and the gallows tree?
Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O' ships and the open sea.
When they came wi' a host to take Our Man
His smile was good to see,
"First let these go!" quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Or I'll see ye damned," says he.
Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears
And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
"Why took ye not me when I walked about
Alone in the town?" says he.
Oh we drank his "Hale" in the good red wine
When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere
But a man o' men was he.
I ha' seen him drive a hundred men
Wi' a bundle o' cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house
For their pawn and treasury.
They'll no' get him a' in a book I think
Though they write it cunningly;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere
But aye loved the open sea.
If they think they ha' snared our Goodly Fere
They are fools to the last degree.
"I'll go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Though I go to the gallows tree."
"Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead," says he,
"Ye shall see one thing to master all:
'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree."
A son of God was the Goodly Fere
That bade us his brothers be.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men.
I have seen him upon the tree.
He cried no cry when they drave the nails
And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue
But never a cry cried he.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between,
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea,
Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.
A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.
I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
I do hope you found this poem as marvellous as I did. If you think someone you know would like it, do consider doing this:
I aim to return with a series on two of the most significant documents in the history of the Church, whose wisdom concerning the fall of our civilisation has both a predictive and a restorative power like few others.
A poem to read out loud. Lovely!
Superb. My Master and Messiah!