The Celestial Cup
(revel religio in 4/4 rhyme )
Prologue:
A Sage arose in modern times,
In agéd pose proposed in rhymes
That every pure religious face,
Should cease to pray, and run a race:
To settle once—and once for all—
To whom the Heavenly Gates should fall;
And end the strife that first began,
When God wrought clay—lo! wroughten man.
Hymn I: The Sage’s Address
High over Earth’s blest Italian boot
Shone Heaven’s eye, a golden fruit,
Warm-kissing earthen heel and toe,
The thigh above, the calf below,
Whose gilding light fair dressed each home,
Though fairest blessed of all was Rome,
Wherein lay gilt St. Peter’s Square,
Where lilting bells sweet-tolled the air,
Whence, as the light, now swelled on stage,
And, as the bells, sweet-tolledŠthe Sage:
“O pious friends of God and man,
Pray hear a Sage’s humble plan
To end the bloodshed, pain and grief ,
That’s dealt—and felt!—for thy belief:
Do let us sport instead of fight,
To sort out who is wrong or right;
The victors shall in Heaven dwell,
And all the restŠwell, who can tell?
“Pray, let us make divine the rules,
That doth define the Sage from fools:
In truth it would be sense gone wild,
To have each wroughten man, and child,
With teary eyes to Heaven cast,
Beseech the skies their faith be fast;
Then don a number (their’s to choose)
And pray to God! that they not lose.
“No, let each faith, religion, creed
Mount their most holy on a steed;
But not the equine beast—perforce,
A faster, far more stable horse:
A thoroughbred in all respects,
Yet free of Dobbin’s speed defects;
A low-slung beast ’twould scorn his pace:
An Indy Charger—born to race!
“But friends, alas, man’s many creeds,
Do far surpass all worthy steeds.
If thou art pure and wouldst take part,
But thou art poor, pray now take heart:
If faith but lira thou hast not,
With one who does, pray cast thy lot;
Pray in these hands (put by your fear),
Place your one soul, and let them steer.
“And if, in course, thy steed shouldst fall,
Endorse another therewithal;
For in the end the only sin
Faith can’t defend is not to win.
Yea, bless thy lost creed with a prayer,
And leave the dead steed lying there;
Then fast! another mount embrace,
And count thyself in ŒHeaven’s Race.’
“Pray, holies, sell thy churches, land,
Upswell thy wealth into thy hand!
If greed tempts thee to trim expense,
Thou hast contempt for consequence.
Spend thy lucre!—horde it not,
Lest Lucifer shouldst burn the lot.
If thou be nervous (fear hits hard),
Well, I’ve a service Š here’s my card.
“If thou a Maserati choose,
Slim be the chance that thou shalt lose;
A Lamborghini, less now yet
Ferrari, surely thy best bet.
No matter that it cost the moon,
A crew must keep thy beast in tune.
My stable is at thy command;
If able, grace a Sage’s hand,
“For I’ll a Golden Cup award
—At my expense!—as thy reward,
In honor of thy faith, and speed
If thou wilt but my counsel heed.
A million then (wouldst thou agree?)
Is but a paltry entry fee,
For thou to everlasting sup,
With God—drink life from thy sweet cup.
“For this ŒCelestial Motorfest,’
Let each knight don his Sunday best.
Dispense with helmets, suits, and gloves,
That He may bless whose dress He loves.
Let safety be not thy concern,
His hand shall guide thee through each turn.
Eternity’s a damnéd spell,
To dwell in Heaven—and look like Hell!
“Fair Vatican City’s hallowed gate,
Shall be the gap that seals thy fate;
Those sacred portals so divine,
Shall be thy start—and finish—line.
Make fly! the Pope’s own sacred dust,
To ply those ancient streets august,
Of man’s ŒEternal City’ home
(Ever the world’s belovéd), Rome.
“As fast thou quit St. Peter’s square,
Spit out thy utmost earnest prayer,
And o’er swift Tiber make thy cross
In haste! lest time shouldst be thy loss.
Where Romulus and Remus snore,
There seven hills await thy roar;
In seven hours—for Heaven’s sake—
Must seven laps times seven make.
“I pray thee then to fix thy course,
And from thy steed coax one last horse;
Though hearts of steel cry out in pain,
Spur on thy beasts!—and give them rein!
Shouldst rivals seek to past thee glide,
May thine own conscience be thy guide;
As He dost judge thee from above,
Let thy lone rule be: Brotherly Love.
“Who crosses first wins Cup of Gold
And he and his shall Heaven behold;
Thy faith engraved in bas relief :
The Sole Official Blest Belief.
But should no Holy cross the line
Within the fair alotted time,
The Cup shall e’er with me reside,
And I thy troubled souls shall guide.”
Hymn II: The Glory That Was Rome
O Rome, thou can’t escape thy past,
When gladiators gaped their last;
When lion hearts on Christians fed,
Thou it was pronouncéd dead.
How paltry seems thy Colosseum,
When all thy streets cry Mausoleum!
Soon Jews and Muslims—all—shall roar,
And lying hearts shall dine once more.
Disputed long, agreed upon,
It came to pass, the day did dawn:
A Sunday morning, mid-July
(At seven bells the dust shall fly!)
Already in St.Peter’s Square
A din and clamor pierced the air.
The Sage, as light infused the east,
Gazed down and mused upon the feast:
Oh, such a godly fine array,
Shone on the Sage that fateful day,
As never before the Earth did grace,
In harmony of time and place.
The masses who had suffered lent ,
Now suffered more for how was spent,
Their tithings and their sacrifice,
Over writhing sins and wracking vice:
Plush habits, cloaks of virgin wool,
Alpaca caftans, flowing, full;
Spun-silver slippers, chamois gloves,
Kid leather sandals soft as doves;
Sleek satin tunics, capes divine,
High velvet fezzes, gold and wine;
Oy! yarmulkes of coal-black silk,
Midst turbans white and smooth as milk;
Fine linen hankies ruffed with lace
In cambric pockets, sleeves to grace
Chemises, robes of such damask
The very saints would blush to ask.
The Sage’s eyes appraised the throng,
A twinkle glistening there erelong,
For brightest gear could not erase,
The righteous fear on every face.
YetŠ
Of all God’s high priests good and fair,
Not one exalted head shone there:
Each high and pious, saintly mind,
“For reasons here set forthŠ” declined;
Then each devout, most reverend face,
A minion posted in his place;
Yea, every blessed, holy nose,
A designated driver chose.
Hymn lIl: Heaven’s Seven
And thus that morn it came to pass:
Amidst the pious, wailing mass,
Sat seven hopes and seven dreams,
In seven holy time machines;
For yestermorn, in seven heats,
Full seven more lost seven seats;
The Sage now, ’fore all Hell was loosed,
The ŒHeaven’s Seven’ introduced:
“A Moslem mullah from the east;
From West Berlin, a Christian priest;
A Buddhist lama from Tibet;
A Hindu guru—Bombay’s pet;
A Jewish rabbi north of Liszt;
A South Chinese Confucianist
—A monk who, yes, begat a sonŠ
But I digress—the seventh one!”
Such frigid protest then arose
As might a lesser’s wits have froze;
Through wisdom’s grace the Sage kept cool:
“Pray, friends—embrace the Golden Rule!
Has mankind truly come this far ,
To grouse about who drives the car?
Old habits we must shed—and shun.
Behold! God’s blesséd Anglican!”
Oh! such a saintly pretty thing,
She, pity, from all hearts did wring;
Such, vestal virgins pure would fight,
To wrest from her her habits white.
The mullah and the guru both,
Swore inwardly to her betroth;
Whilst celibates (sigh!) waxed full loath,
To think they’d sworn such curséd oath!)
The Sage warm-clasped her trembling hand,
Whilst rapt, as one, the masses scanned
(That face—a saint!), and drew a sigh,
For seven bells were queuing nigh.
Although the Sage officially
Fair feigned impartiality,
Shone from his dais in the sun,
The Sage’s bias forŠthe nun.
As Moses did the Red Sea part,
The Sage, with mass, reprised the art:
A path before them opened wide
—Oh! for her beauty how they cried!
(How sad that Chastity divine!
Has graced this beastly starting line;
And disappeared with step so light,
Into her low Ferrari’s might).
Who knows what seven hearts did feel,
As seven bells began to peal?
The Sage with flag and Cup in hand,
Pronounced his most profound command:
“O drivers, thou so pure of heart,
I pray thee now thy engines start
—And may they never cease to roar,
Till thou the Tiber cross once more!
“Thy steed is chomping at the bit,
Pray heed—thine every faith commit;
To heart take this Sage caveat:
Nay! slacken not thy pace for that
On wings of prayer thy Pegasus
Fly! thee to St. Pete’s terminus
First, pray nor speed nor spirit leaven
That thou might rise to Seventh Heaven.”
Hymn IV: The Road to Xanadu
Such discord never before heard Rome,
As echoed from St. Peter’s dome,
That God Himself might well despair
To hear the bells (much less a prayer).
As engines screamed and faithful cried,
He might have deemed the Pope had died;
Thus louder prayed each soul its cease
Would bring them everlasting peace.
“Drivers, thou shalt hit the streets,
In order same thou won thy heats.
From moment that thou cross the line,
Full seven hours elapsed are thine.
True, Rome was not built in a day,
But let not that be thy cliché.
To do in Rome, as Romans do,
Thou wouldst of this most surely rue!
“Devout, thou’st come from near and far,
To bless and cheer thy faith and car.
The path to glory is just that:
A winding course that’s seldom flat.
Yea, all roads lead to Rome, it’s true,
But only one to Xanadu.
Behold! the blest Celestial Cup.
May God smile down—as (Mine!) speeds up!”
With flourished waving of the flag,
Each raving beast lept like a stag;
At once both prey and hunter too,
All seven from St. Peter’s flew:
The priest was first across the line,
His Porsche’s curse a shrieking whine;
Four Goodyear’s cried for earthly tie,
As o’er swift Tiber all did fly.
The guru hugged the priest’s rear end,
In smug belief that he’d transcend;
His Aston-Martin (2) was proud,
And hummed its Vishnu mantra—loud.
The mullah was no less devout,
As Allah akbar! thrice rang out;
His Maserati never ceased,
To Œfast’ whenever headed east.
The rabbi, strictly orthodox,
His faith—Oy vay!—would stop the clocks;
His Lamborghini (Talmud’s rule)
Ran fourth—and lean—on kosher fuel.
In fifth the monk disdained to look,
To quote his Master from ŒThe Book’:
“Confucius say: A monk must sow,
To reap an Alfa Romeo!”
The lama spake enlightened sense
(His car ran sixth, his karma hence):
“In darkness though its root’s begun,
The Lotus blossoms in the sun.”
“Fair Virtue’s battle’s never lost
Till she, the Rubicon, hath crossed.”
An inner peace already won,
In seventh heaven sped the nun.
On every crack, on every stone,
Of every street stood every bone,
Of every wretch and every wraith,
Of every church and every faith.
On every stoop, on every sill,
Of every house on every hill,
Watched every eye of every face,
For every sign of ŒHeaven’s Race.’
Oh, how the vias, corsos rang,
As holy torsos over them sprang,
In chariots whose deafening keen,
Screamed out of horses never seen.
And every tongue from every place
Cried every prayer of every race,
And every curse in every head,
And every oath that ever was said.
Thus through the plazas, fountains ’round,
Over papal tombs and sacred ground;
Astride the ruins of ancient homes,
’Top temples, forums, palace domes;
Past stadiums of loud repute,
By marble statues: crumbling, mute;
Amidst the hills where wolves once played,
ŒThe Seven’ set their wills Š and prayed.
Lap three of forty-nine now done,
The Holy Shrine so moved the nun,
That she, the Sistine Chapel, passed,
With blesséd full Ferrari’s blast.
The ardent monk, bemused and slow,
Bethought himself the Romeo;
And when the nun was full abreast,
The amorous monk, her heart addressed:
“Confucius say: A woman’s heart,
Must love in life ’fore youth does part;
Soon Beauty’s gentlest bloom is lost
To Time’s relentless, chilling frost.
Confucius say: To love is Life;
To love is to become a wife;
To be a wife and love a man,
Is loving God’s—and Nature’s—plan.
“Dear Lord, forsake my earthly pride,
That takes me on this sinful ride;
Where weep these highborn Roman streets,
So deeply worn with Man’s conceits.
Now drunk upon Confucian lore,
A lovesick monk wears them the more.
I pray, O Lord, he be excused.
Forgive him, LordŠhe’s just confused.”
Thus Passion’s arrows missed her heart,
She, past the monk, was quick to dart.
In dudgeon for her righteous nerve,
He nudged the gas to spite her verve;
“Confucius say: O Romeo,
A woman’s Œyes’ is often Œno’;
If love you seek—pray, never forget:
Love speaks with God’s own Alfa—bet!
“Confucius say: A man must be,
Religious in his chivalry;
And nothing makes a courtly man,
Like practise, and more practise, can.
Love’s labour’s like (and here he smiles)
A journey of ten thousand miles:
Although it takes a lover’s pep,
The aches begin Š with the first step.”
And what a thundering step they chose,
These two sad blundering Romeos;
And then another, then a score,
And then a hundred-fourteen more.
Down the ages, down the depths,
In fiery stages took their steps;
Where Keats the poet breathed his last,
Love’s journey endedŠwith a blast.
“Confucius say: Before Love dies
Each lover sees before his eyes
Each name that did his heart console,
Each flame that warmed his very soul.
Oh, I see three, and now a score
And now a hundred-thirteen more!
Though down I crash into the fire,
Love’s passions lift me higher, high—!
As hush fell over St. Peter’s Square,
The sage wore his most solemn air:
“O Lord, dear friends, so sad my heart!
So pure thy servant didst depart.
His chaste soul vanished—to the depths!
In tumbling down the Spanish Steps.
Oh, praise his piety in thy prayers,
Who died for thee on Spanish stairs!”
Hymn VI: The Lamb of God
The lama who’d himself advanced,
Was astral travelling, well entranced;
Though no ŒGrand Lama,’ he ran hot
A ŒDally’ Lama he was not.
Upon a hill the monk he’d passed,
But still, though fifth, was second last.
The seventh lap now just begun,
The lama rapped most everyone:
“O Buddha, I am from Tibet,
Or from SiamŠI quite forget;
I must be in some mystic funk,
Or, Lord, in love—just like the monk.
And love is like the lotus flower
When much of either we devour:
The lotus fruit fair makes us sleep,
The fruit of love fair makes us weep.
“Although this Lotus makes me ache,
Pray notice, Lord—I’m wide awake!
But of this fruit that makes one cry,
Sometimes, Dear Buddha, I could die!
How can a rabbi—God!—from Liszt,
Know love from broad old yentas kissed?
What fires shall there his mettle try,
When gray mares in his shtetl lie?
“That celibate, self-righteous priest
—What knows this wit of passion’s feast?
A frozen heart, a rigid head
—Such frigid parts can’t warm his bed!
Where blow the hot Sahara sands,
There go for naught fair Love’s commands;
Thus ’neath burnous and turbaned skull,
The mullah’s juice lies cool Š and dull.
“The guru’s soft, for lack of meat,
His point of view thus lacking heat;
What cow would sport a flaccid bull,
That seeks to court—a vegetable?
For all his trite Confucian quotes,
His Lilliputian anecdotes,
Gautama Buddha, Lord Above!
What can a dead monk know of love?
“And yet, these thoughts now said and done,
I count it not against the nun.
Dear Lord, her vow I’d gladly breach,
Her, habits now, I’d love to teach!”
With these few love-knots off his chest,
The lama laid his thoughts to rest;
Unravelling then as oft before,
Went astral travelling yet once more.
With blast to stir Rome’s stately hall,
Now past the Palace Quirinal;
Where popes, kings, crimes and presidents,
All in their times were residents;
Both nun and lama quickly hied,
Flashed through the plaza, pink and wide;
Two hearts, as one, now beat so close,
The nun, in heat, became verbose:
“My Lord, the lama’s thoughts are crude
—Gautama’s lips were not so rude!
The late, dear Buddha’s sweet young lamb,
Has grown, I fear, into a ram!
Who seeks to pull, with clever lies,
His reeking wool over all our eyes;
So Lord, I must—for Heaven’s sake—
His beastly lust now overtake!”
When he divined she sought to pass,
He thought to smite her saintly brass;
Thus as she loomed up on his left,
His Lotus bloomed, so swift and deft:
He veered in front and stave the brake,
But Oh! (Dear Buddha!)—grave mistake!
The Lotus, slipping, set a trend,
Of deadly flipping, end for end.
“As snow doth on the mountains fall,
So coins unto the fountain’s call.
Thus Man will dream and Man will dare,
For no more reason than they’re there.
In water born does lotus rise,
In water lives, in waterŠdiiiies—!”
The lama did no more expound,
For, like the Lotus, he was drowned.
“O Brothers, Sisters, welladay!
That we shouldst live to see this day.
Our Lamb of God, our lama—Christ!
To save the nun he sacrificed
Himself—the pride of all Tibet;
In Trevi Fountain, died—all wet!
But he’ll return to Rome—a Saint,
Whilst I, a sage, though worthy, mayn’t.”
Hymn VII: The Camel’s Tale
As if all Heaven’s clappers sang,
All seven bells in clangor rang.
In first still, by a second’s gap,
The priest streaked forth, on his ninth lap.
“God, east is east and west is west;
Your Holy Grace knows which is best.
Oh, may it never be my disgrace
That Thou should kiss thisŠcamel’s face!”
In second place and top gear now,
The mullah made a solemn vow:
“If I don’t smear this infidel,
’Fore I hear one more curséd bell,
May Allah strike dead Abou Addam
Al-Farouk-El-Sheik-Ben-Saddam.”
ŒThe Camel’ stopped to spell his breath,
And thought he caught the smell of death.
And if he’d known that fateful morn,
The oath the priest himself had sworn
(“I’ll lead him such a Roman chase,
I’ll blow the beard clean off his face;
And If I let this Camel by
—May God Himself spit in my eye!”)
He would have prayed or rushed to plead,
That Allah pay his little heed.
The mullah’d passed the guru great,
Who’d paused in pits to meditate:
“Enlightenment of flesh and mind,
Does man refresh and make refined;
But too much drink unnerves his bliss,
And only serves to make him miss
The joys of life when less is mor—”
His noise cut short by Aston’s roar.