Large Fierce Mammal

Raven from the book “The Ice Bear” by Jackie Morris, whose website (http://www.jackiemorris.co.uk/blog/) chronicles “The balance of life as an artist and writer living and working in Wales: or, how to ignore housework.”

Culturally, the hospitality aspects of festivities prevailing at this time of year exist in a maelstrom of ill considered and contradictory drives. Year after year, many will attempt to answer seasonal motivations to visit people who sometimes live at a great remove and may be reached at no small peril to life and limb, even as they simultaneously yearn for good food and drink in the role of Host, enjoying the sanctity of hearth and home with Family and Friends.

I said ill considered. Perhaps I should say unconsidered, for in this lies a template for behaviours and expectations that should be governing intercourse between Hosts and Guests everywhere, even as they have in every time.

Some of us have learned these lessons and, notwithstanding cellars full or scant, meet the onset of the solstice with spirits shored against the long cold sleep, prepared to meet wayfarers of good will every bit as thoroughly as those of the other sort. Those of us who ourselves are called to be wayfarers must also draw from the well of ancient wisdom that has long set down the rights, obligations, and appropriate expectations of host and guest.

Upon this day of torpor referred to as “boxing day”, and whether or not you adhere to any pugilistic practices in honour of the name, today we offer two illustrative poems from the archives — one taken from the perspective of a well founded Guest, the other from that of a righteously indignant Host.

First is The Stranger at the Door, first published here on the sixteenth day of October, 2015.

The Stranger at the Door
By LFM

The hour is late, the moon is full,
At last the homely inn is gained,
A grimy hand appears from ‘neath
A cloak careworn and weather stained.

One hand knocks upon the door,
While other grips the sheath-ed blade,
Wary eyes watch road behind,
Where tracks his weary feet have made.

This Traveller on mission grave
Before the olde inn’s door doth stand,
In hope whoever opens it
Won’t find him, naked blade in hand.

He knows his troubles are not shared
By those his knock hath waked within,
And so be prays the portal yawns
Ere fight for life might fain begin.

For though he’ll go not gently to
Commune with long departed kin,
He’d not deliver doubt or fear
To he who comes to let him in.

The second bears the title Pickled Bollocks, and that alone suggests the importance of manners in all times and places. This delightful parable made its first appearance here on the Christmas Eve of 2016.

Pickled Bollocks

By LFM

To speak the sins deserving death
Calls not for but a single breath,
And of those few, that hated most
Falls hard on who betrays his host.

‘Twas in the dead of Winter’s grasp
My callused hand released the hasp
Upon my door near end of day
To find a man who’d lost his way.

I threw the portal open wide
And welcomed him to warm inside,
“My Wife’s goode beans are on the fire!
“Please, eat as much as you desire!”

And so he ate ’til he was filled,
His every offered tankard swilled,
‘Til warm and sated, nodding head,
He took my lead and went to bed.

My Wife is up before the sun
To start the things that must be done,
‘Twas in that dark before the dawn
She heard close by a quiet yawn.

Now turning ’round from kneading bread,
She spied our guest with tousled head,
And as she watched he helped himself
To goods upon our pantry shelf.

Some he ate and some he piled,
Then noticing my Wife he smiled.
“You must be keen to go,” she said,
“Pray, sit thee down, I’ll get you fed!”

A different hunger moved him then,
My Goode Wife recognized the yen,
He moved to block the kitchen door,
Then sought a taste of something more.

Within the barn I heard the scream,
A cry from Hell to curdle cream,
I knew no man could voice such sound
Who’d not felt bite of blade or hound.

Those twenty paces barn to dwelling,
Seemed as leagues if truth be telling,
‘Til bursting in I spied the spoor
Of blood upon the kitchen floor.

And o’er the stain my Wife did stand,
Her keen and bloody knife in hand,
Her eyes flicked down, then back at me,
From fruits of gelding clear to see.

I grabbed her then and kissed her well,
And vowed to send our guest to Hell,
We kissed again as donning pack,
I took my rifle from its rack.

The snow was fresh, his trail was clear,
As such will make who flees in fear.
For half the day I rode him hard,
To drive him to his final yard.

I’d taken higher ground to see
Him stagger by to right of me,
‘Til cold and tired he sought to hide
Where vision’s gifts might be denied.

Beneath a stand of Fir and Pine
He traced his staggered tottered line,
To reach at last my westward fen,
And, as expected, stopped just then.

I watched his breathe drift on the breeze,
And couched in comfort, took my ease,
My rifle stock snugged into place,
Resolved to end the sorry chase.

My sights upon his panting gusts,
No longer fueled by carnal lusts,
I watched them drift in fine detail,
Then fired a shot across his tail.

And as predicted, up he got,
Believing I had missed my shot,
And charged ten yards across fen,
Before my rifle spoke again.

His arms thrown up, his head bent low,
He fell headlong upon the snow
That rose and settled on the scene
To lie as though he’d never been.

My rifle sights remained unmoved,
The purpose of my quest unproved,
When came a sound upon the breeze,
As clear as any cough or sneeze.

My Goode Wife’s beans bring gas to he
Who fails to drink her special tea,
So he who skips it in the night
Should drink it ere he goes to flight.

So, whaler on a frozen sea,
An arsehole’s breath awaiting me,
Barely breathing, nothing stirred,
Another loud report is heard!

I smiling brought my sights to bear
Upon the puff still drifting there,
A little right, a bit more low,
I squeezed … and let my vengeance go!

My Wife and I now have an inn,
For guests who never stray to sin,
We’ve all the beans that you desire,
And pickled bollocks by the fire.