Tuesday, May 22, 2007
You Treat Sex Like a Scratch Card
I once taught poetry to a delightful girl, who was also working as a lap dancer. One day, I decided to read her my poem 'You Treat Sex like a Scratch Card', which was written for another friend of mine. However, on hearing the middle section she squealed with laughter, rolled on the floor and cried out 'How did you know about the organic milk?'. Just another little example of the prophetic power of poetry, I assured her; bemused. She doesn't work as a lap dancer any more and I suppose I'd like to think that discovering how talented she was in the poetry department helped in that process. At any rate, I was performing the poem again on Sunday, within sight of St Pauls Cathedral, as part of a campaign against the trafficking of women into this country for sex. www.thetruthisntsexy.com and www.chaste.org.uk are challenging the demand for these 'services' and asking the governement to provide more safe houses for women who escape from the trade.
In the meantime, back to the organic milk and the odd coincidence that the poem was being performed by the 'white plaza' of St Pauls Cathedral, in brilliant sunshine, just like the vision in the poem.
You Treat Sex like a Scratch Card
You treat sex like a scratch card.
Do you think you’ll get lucky one day
And if enough cherries appear in a row
You’ll know that this time you’re OK?
You don’t pay much for your scratch cards.
You think that that’s all that they cost
But I’ve seen you walk the white plaza in sunshine
And that is a vision you’ve lost.
You treat sex like scratch cards.
They don’t even give you a thrill.
The more you lose, the more you buy
I don’t want to think of the bill.
And now you buy organic milk
And then have sex with strangers.
Do you think in the world of milk
You overestimate the dangers?
Yes, the hormone/farming issue;
I’m wholly convinced it’s real
But in the economy of grace
Is there nothing you can feel?
So now you’ve been out again and f****’d
And you feel you’re falling freely
Into self-destruct.
And you don’t think of suicide
Because you’re not that type
And Russian Roulette of the sexual kind
Is just a load of hype.
So here’s to the world of plastic balls
Of lottery prizes and draws.
But I place my bet on the day that we met
And the vision was mine and yours.
Sarah de Nordwall
www.bardschool.co.uk
You Treat Sex like a Scratch Card
You treat sex like a scratch card.
Do you think you’ll get lucky one day
And if enough cherries appear in a row
You’ll know that this time you’re OK?
You don’t pay much for your scratch cards.
You think that that’s all that they cost
But I’ve seen you walk the white plaza in sunshine
And that is a vision you’ve lost.
You treat sex like scratch cards.
They don’t even give you a thrill.
The more you lose, the more you buy
I don’t want to think of the bill.
And now you buy organic milk
And then have sex with strangers.
Do you think in the world of milk
You overestimate the dangers?
Yes, the hormone/farming issue;
I’m wholly convinced it’s real
But in the economy of grace
Is there nothing you can feel?
So now you’ve been out again and f****’d
And you feel you’re falling freely
Into self-destruct.
And you don’t think of suicide
Because you’re not that type
And Russian Roulette of the sexual kind
Is just a load of hype.
So here’s to the world of plastic balls
Of lottery prizes and draws.
But I place my bet on the day that we met
And the vision was mine and yours.
Sarah de Nordwall
www.bardschool.co.uk
You can sign up on http://www.chaste.org.uk/takeaction/ for info on how to try and get the government to take action, as they have in Sweden, and make the purchasing of pay as you go sex illegal.
Labels: bard school, chaste, Sarah de Nordwall, the truth isn't sexy
Thursday, April 12, 2007
What I found in the Garden Tomb
One April I travelled to Israel with the Sisters of Zion on a trip to visit a whole host of peace initiatives, that involved both Arabs and Jews or people from 3 different religions. The first Arab/Jewish nursery in a private home shared by 2 families, one Palestinian, the other Israeli. A crossroads at which a mosque, a synagogue and a church stood within feet of each other, and they all worked together peacefully on a single project.
We also visited groups that were strictly living on their own terms and on their own turf. The ultra orthodox neighbourhood of Mayer Sharim, where "daughters of Jerusalem" do not "disgrace" themselves by wearing trousers. We saw the remains of the first strictly socialist Kibbutz which banned marriage and whose motto over the door read somewhat chillingly "Freedom through Work" - the same motto that was placed over the entrance to the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau (see picture on the right). We visited the graves of the members of that first Kibbutz, who had died of starvation or suicide. It wasn't exactly your average holiday.
Later, we sat on low stools around a brass tray table in a 'Casbar', drinking very strong coffee, to hear from the man who holds the keys to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where many Christian denominations from Coptic to Orthodox both pray and argue incessantly over who owns what and who can go where and when. It was an extraordinary microcosm of history, human stupidity, diplomacy and devotion.
By the end of the 10 day trip, I was exhausted and planning the osteopathy appointment I'd need on my return to recover from the stress of having to make sense of it all. Our very last appointment was the Garden Tomb. The sun at least was shining. I felt rather depressed though, about the whole maelstrom and wasn't remotely in the mood for having Holy Thoughts at a site that was highly unlikely to have really been the place of Jesus' tomb. I stood outside and looked at it, wondering if I would bother to go in.
Some people came out and it was left empty. I decided I may as well take a look and say some kind of a prayer or something. I never expected the power and simplicity of what I found.
The Garden Tomb
The tomb was empty of all but light
And the sunshine blessed the opening in the roof of the tomb
Like a messenger from a brighter world.
And in the absence of everyone else
Both the living and the dead
Whose endless needs and questions had been oppressing me darkly
With the weight of their centuries of irresolvable agonies
They were suddenly present.
They were there
They has blossomed instantaneously into being
Unquestionably
As simple as sunflowers
The Five Words
For the feeding of the seven times seventy thousand
And power was in them
And I knew it then
Love is stronger than death
Let’s hear it again!
Love Is Stronger Than Death
Amen
Amen
Amen.
Labels: Bardschool, Poetry, Resurrection, Sarah de Nordwall, The Garden Tomb
