1 Samuel

How to be a fortune teller

Then Saul said to his servants, “Seek out for me a woman who is a medium, so that I may go to her and inquire of her.” His servants said to him, “There is a medium at Endor.” (1 Samuel 28: 7)

How to be a fortune teller

 

First, work-out how much they will pay

and what it is that they want you to say:

 

the hope or fear they cannot admit;

so, they came along to you to hear it.

 

Find out who they really are,

watch their gait, their mien and posture.

 

Once there came three men whose clothes were of shepherds,

but they were not shepherds;

 

they did not smell of wool, their skin was clean;

one gave orders with unassumed bearing:

 

tall, handsome, with sad, shy eyes –

I noticed King Saul beneath the disguise.

 

Our first monarch, who had banned all sorcery,

had come to me at night for necromancy.

 

Supressing surprise, I considered what mattered

from the calls of heralds and the gossip I’d gathered:

 

servants whispered that before the was crowned

he’d hid behind bags, afraid of the crowds;

 

for he was a loner who loved the fields,

ploughed with oxen, cared for his mules.

 

Soldiers in taverns would mimic the music

a minstrel played to soothe his spirit,

 

and then they’d sing a drunken round:

“Saul killed a thousand, but not ten thousand;

 

he killed the men, but not their children;

not their wives, their mules or oxen!”

 

As I thought on this it all became clear:

Life had become too brutal to bear.

 

He had not come for promise or warning,

but to be reconciled to his ending.

 

If, when you speak you get something wrong,

don’t blink or hesitate, just carry on.

 

As he was a king, I thought he expected

me to conjure a god for him to talk with;

 

but he called for an old friend and guide,

Samuel, a prophet who had recently died.

 

So, I spoke to the King in the manner of a friend:

“On the battlefield your life will end,

 

your kingdom given to your minstrel, a shepherd,

who sings as he brings his sword from scabbard”.

 

The trick is to say what they need you to say,

to win their trust and take your pay.

 

I called him to sit upon my bed

and stroked his foolish, well-meaning head.

 

We supped together on wine and meat,

then he went outside into the night.

 

I clicked the coins, counting the cost

of the lies I’d sold and the faith he’d lost –

 

that kindly King who could no longer cope –

I’d fed his fears and drunk all hope.

 

 2022.

Giant Killing

The Philistine came on and drew near to David, with his shield-bearer in front of him (I Samuel 17:41).

I was holding Big Phil’s shin-pads as he marched up

to take that final penalty in the southern league cup;

he always took them out for such crucial moments –

one of his rituals that I’d never dared to question.

 

I remember smiling when I saw the boy running

down to the front of the stand; perhaps Phil laughed

at such a gawky lad going to join the ranks of men

waving their fists, spitting all the usual insults.

 

Big Phil, at that time our most popular player,

was felled by a laser pointer procured, allegedly,

by the boy, on-line, for four pounds ninety nine pence:

as he strode up to strike, the light hit his eye, he winced,

his boot scuffed the ball, which bobbled, slowly,

like a giant’s head, into the hands of their grinning goalie.

 

I still have the shin-pads, I found them yesterday in a box in the attic.

Just when I tried to clear the memories out, they all came back.

It turned out the boy did have a God-given right to take the piss,

but Phil was a man of ritual – who never got over it.

 

 

2013

Vladimir Putin Listens To Abba.

Whenever an evil spirit was upon Saul, David would pick up his lyre and sing (1 Samuel, Chapter 16, verse 23). In January 2009 it was reported that Vladimir Putin had celebrated the New Year at a concert by Abba tribute band Bjorn Again. The Kremlin denied the story but it gave me the idea for a poem.

“There was something in the air that night the stars were bright, Fernando.

They were shining there for you and me, for liberty, Fernando”

Vladimir Putin listens to Abba,

I know, I was with him one New Year

playing guitar for tribute band “Bjorn Again”

at Novgorod, in the Hotel Grand Pushkin.

 

Now, I could have predicted Putin grinning

at the sound of western rulers crumbling:

“at Waterloo Napoleon surrendered” and all of that;

but Vlad tapped his toes to our full repertoire.

 

The Kremlin’s pretending he wasn’t there

but I swear it I caught his stare as I plucked

the opening notes to “Chiquitita”.

 

So why is this a story they want to dismiss?

Is late seventies disco just a little too kitsch?

Was it a low-brow moment of weakness

that could leave us thinking Vladimir Putin’s not as serious

as, say, Mussolini who began each day

with a cup of coffee and a canto by Dante;

or as highbrow as Hitler, painting his watercolours

whilst listening to operas by Wagner;

or as lyrical as old Joe Stalin

who wrote prize-winning poems

whilst training to be a priest?

Next to such artistic complexity

does Vladimir Putin fear he’ll be teased

by pompous leaders at the next G20,

joking about flares, sequins and chest hairs,

whilst he’s sitting sad and lonely?

 

No, he’s not the type who gets picked on.

He’s a black-belt, an ex-KGB officer

who can probably down a bottle of vodka

whilst winning his hand at bridge or poker,

cocking a revolver at the head of James Bond

after tricking him with caviar and blondes.

 

With 80% approval ratings, a degree in international law,

a 5% stake in Gazprom and a black labrador,

what would Putin want ABBA for?

Those mawkish peddlers of cheap emotion,

singing about love in a lost revolution,

wishing away the world’s wicked tyranny

as little bright stars come out for liberty.

 

I don’t know why Vladimir Putin

doesn’t want us to think that he listens to Abba,

but I know that three days before we played in Russia

a journalist and a human rights lawyer

leaving a conference about rape in Chechnya

were shot in the middle of Moscow

in broad daylight.

 

I don’t know why I joke about playing in an Abba tribute band

but I’m not cynical about it, I’ve always been

genuinely thankful for music;

and I don’t know why you, or you, or even you

listen to Abba and I don’t mind,

just don’t pretend the songs can mend or undo anything.

But they are full of things worth living and dying for,

all of the things worth loving and crying for,

and even Vladimir Putin listens to Abba.

 

2010