Pick a big coal and light it early, the bishop had said,
I want it to be fired up and glowing when I need it.
Later, as we walked to the vestibule to receive the casket
I could see there was a white pall draped across it
in memory of the swaddling clothes that had brought
them to the church in the first place. When he was ready
he heaped the myrrh on the glowing ember and lifted
the metal thurible high to swing it against the chain,
the clanking loud like the tolling of a bell,
once, twice, thrice…then repeated, again and again,
as he circled around the coffin. (We are, if nothing else,
pattern makers and pattern finders: pattern users.)
When we were done I carried the thing back to the altar,
acrid, pungent smoke belching from it, rising in a column,
bouncing on the ceiling and curling lazily along it;
I feared I would faint from the fumes…
The bishop—I can’t recall his name—was a hockey buff,
the Habs, I think. But he was also fond of the team
from my all-male, catholic school in their annual crusade
to keep The Cup from the protestants, a tally in which
to be honest, the good guys were lacking. During one game,
I remember, a fight broke out on the ice, a real donnybrook
of an affair. I looked back and there he was, up in
the stands, booming out encouragement, laughing
and swinging his arms, That’s it! Get ’em boys!
Maybe I should have stopped watching hockey then.
I didn’t, but still, I keep wondering…
are those skates still sharp? Are the sticks still hard
and are the referees still policing those penalties?
Are the bruises still black and purple, is there still
bright red blood splattered on the ice? And the church—
is the smoke still curling across the ceiling?
I don’t know, but I do know this:
I can’t abide the smell of incense. Patterns.
Funerals are good sources of poetic creativity. They are such stark, clear cut, emphatic events with an intense matrix of emotions. This poem was started as I attended the funeral of a co-worker’s father, when being in a church brought back memories of when I used to be a catholic and an altar boy.
This is a rare type of poem from me, a longer narrative one, although for some reason I same to be working on several like that right now. I hope you like this one and them, whenever I post them.
Just a few notes: The Habs is the nickname for the Montreal Canadiens NHL hockey team, based in the Province of Quebec, Canada. A thurible is a hand-held metal censer (incense burner) suspended from one or more chains, in which incense is burned during some services. A burning charcoal briquette is placed in the thurible before the ceremony begins and incense is added when required. Because it takes some time for the incense to really start effectively burning, some priests (as in this poem) heap it on to get immediate combustion. Myrrh is a highly prized and expensive, natural tree oil resin used since ancient times as both a wine spice and in religious ceremonies. It was, for example, one of the three precious gifts given to the Christ Child by the Magi. It’s scent is instantly identifiable, strong and unique. Not unpleasant, when mild, anyway.
Thank you for reading Memories of an altar boy. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
© 2013 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2013 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.