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The Mitre Literary
Review is printed at the University of St Andrews in the United
Kingdom.
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Caedmon Jazz by CHRIS JONES Now we must sing... Yes? All eyes converge on him. A stillness thickens the hall, stirred by a nervous shuffling few. Now his tongue, ox-sized in his man’s-mouth, has turned to tripe. But it has sliced the silence once And the silence is not yet done with this tongue or the service it still owes. Now we must sing of the origin of things It is a beginning, granted, but the hall-guests have heard better, glare restless, remain unimpressed. Perhaps day-long bullshit-shovelling is the limit of Caedmon’s capabilities. Beer mug bangs empty on neighbouring table. Now we must sing a hymn, praising Him the creator, originator, author of all things, Hild overhears from the cloister and, laying aside her pen, Abbess permits herself a smile. A little formless, she thinks, but nothing that can’t be tutored. He first adorned the earth and set the sun on high, world-candle, beacon in heaven’s lighthouse, which carves an arch daily in the church of sky, which coaxes seed to set, which caresses the corn, which hones harvest to ripeness. We have to praise Him, like we should. So, this is how the vernacular sounds in the service of the sacred? Hild picks up her pen, translates song to script. The rest is story Dr. Chris Jones is Lecturer in Poetry in the School of English. He received his BA from King's College London and MA in Old English and Old Norse from the Queen's University, Belfast. He is the winner of the 2001 Review of English Studies Essay Prize and the 2004 Keats-Shelley Prize.. |
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