James, the poem

 Some things just get on your nerves, don't they. We would hardly be human if some didn't.

Obviously Boris, obviously l'enfer c'est les autres, obviously Top Gear, Jeremy Clarkson, terrible poetry and obviously Christianity.

James is understood to have been the brother of Jesus, that long-haired preacher man from 2000 years ago who was somehow the one out of many who caught on. The Taylor Swift of his time, as it were. Well I doubt it. Faith in some bad translations is the basis of much of much Christian faith, a miracle is something that can't possibly happen and so none of them did but we all believe what we want to believe however much evidence there is to the contrary.

James has been an idea for a poem for a while. It might be better to wait for the arrival of Heresy, the book due soon, but, no, having done the Boris doggerel before, this doggerel in some way satisfies what I set out to say and there might not be much to be gained by making a good poem out of it.

I dunno. But this will do as it is for now,

James

Seasons of ferment and fierce hallucinations,

Of stories told in mistaken translations, 

I was not his brother as is understood 

but a member of the same brotherhood.

Religion, as it ever was, was schismatic 

But he was nothing if not charismatic, 

As volatile as gunpowder would be one day 

That glistened as they listened to what he had to say.

I’m sure he could have sold sand to a Tuareg 

As well as provide healing to a lame leg.
Some of them didn’t take that much convincing, 

So keen were they to have something to believe in.

We’d waited long enough for the Messiah, 

Our hopes ran high, our expectations higher, 

And so the likes of me and John the Baptist 

Threw in our lots with this wastrel idealist.

He was too good at it for his own good. 

He never said he was the son of God. 

He was trouble and crowds are trouble, too,

And they did what he told them to do.

He should have stuck to woodwork except 

He was never a carpenter adept 

At making furniture like chairs or mangers. 

I’m sorry but that is one of the changes

Those who rendered the Bible from Aramaic

Into other languages, as prosaic

As the story needs to be to make it 

Sound as if it couldn’t have been us that had to fake it.

No, he had no trade and no profession. 

All he had was his maniac obsession 

And rulers who rule Empires from elsewhere 

Prefer craven subjugation and don’t care

For rebels or any sign of insurrection.

They dealt with it with things like crucifixion,

The torture represented in art 

That everywhere intends to break your heart.

But it doesn’t break mine if only because

I took over from him after he was 

Disposed of with such unnecessary cruelty

and so, yes, the next one they came for was me.