WednesdayI July

All Saint's Day Dinner

Turning to the super-eminent, wonder-worker,
Seated 7th to my right at the elegantly dressed table,
I shouted ‘What’s this hate all about?’
He paused, visibly scorned.
His benevolent features contracted with a furtive fear.
It was as though my mouth were a sewer,
And out had flown all that had ever been sworn.  
That or he’d choked on his skewer.

Feeling bad (who likes upsetting the pious and good?),
All he wanted was a nice chat and a bit of cloud-fluffed pud.
I asked Saint Autonomous and Zelates, ‘why?’
‘Is hate that hard to stomach? Does ‘it’ not have a place at this table?’

Hadrat and Buddha nodded sagely,
Bumping sage heads.
They giggled and apologised, starry eyed with good will.
There was no getting sense from them.
Michael and Gabriel were no better.

Kabir and Tzadikkim managed to solemnly decree:
‘It’s all about the love. Love heals hate. But hate never healed love.’
Untapped, heedless rivers of boundless purity.
They spouted forth on this as more than a possibility.

It sort of made sense.
Though seemed overshadowed.
Good and Evil.
In the middle?
Well I don't know, maybe it was just this heavenly wine?

At a good people dinner party.
Table manners are politely observed.
As are all other traditional observances.
Signs are unnecessary:
‘Darling goodies please remember....’
The guests didn’t need to be told
They were always good as gold.

It was a big dinner party.
Made up of lots of good guests.
Delicately enjoying ambrosial cuisine,
Honeyed-nectar and Eden terrine,
Slipped by with the cat who’d got the cream.
 
These men had changed the face of humanity.
Changed the way men viewed men.
But yet they ate and ate, blind to all the hate.