I Bet You Haven't Seen Jesus's Poo

 

Tapu*

The best humble brag I made in the school yard was - my grandfather’s got some of Jesus’s poo. He was the local Anglican vicar so it was likely he kept sacred organic ornaments beside letter-knife and pipe and paper-weight. How my sister and I came to be in narrow canvas stretchers (supposedly sleeping) in the museum of his study that weekend remains a mystery. My parents were in a guest room, there must have been more than one in that rambling, veranda trimmed vicarage in Puketapu. But a theologian’s study is a place of wonder and chance, and raising my sleepy head in the dim morning light those consecrated stools were the first thing I spied. I can still picture the three of them now on the sage leather inlay of the huge oak desk – soft brown, finger-sized, dry and odourless. The only smell in the room was time. Spice and books, linen and tobacco, honey and ash, wisdom and charm. And wonder, because I, Jane Frances Newcome Waymouth had witnessed Jesus’s blessed stools. I skipped to church on Sunday morning down through the willow treed garden. The congregation loved my grandfather they gave him the moniker – Tapu | Sacred. Giving his weekly sermon, Tapu certainly looked celestial to me, his pale neck rising from his white dog collar, his dark pleated robes elongating him a stained-glass saint at the lectern. Word angels swirling around the little wooden church over beams and under pews. A knowing smile on his lips as he caught my stare in the front row - we’d both communed with the sacred manure. None of my school mates believed me for longer than a week but I held our communication close. Tapu also had a law degree had I challenged him I would have uncovered the truth. Instead over time, I composted it into the sweetest human-humus. Tapu stepped back into my life five years ago. I was prostrate on a thin towel covered gurney – a human portal in a crystal healing session – I’d been asked to channel my male spirit guide. I didn’t know I had one but no sooner had I asked and Tapu’s face, the one above that Sunday lectern, hovered above me in a dark endless universe. A silent presence in my Divine Pathway, my 12th chakra. How he'd silently guided me over the previous fifty-five years I do not know, he died when I was still touting the holy stool story. Consecrated scat mystery aside, Tapu my grandfather, man of the cloth, continues to appear if I will him to. I’ve kept our secret safe.

 

I bet you haven’t seen Jesus’s poo.

*Stephen Francis Newcome Waymouth, Venerable Archdeacon of Hawkes Bay, my grandfather

Humans Can Normalise Anything

 

Kipiadis Beach, Paxos, Greece

  

Holidaying on a tiny Greek island with the threat of nuclear warfare approximately three thousand kilometres to the east, June 2025—sunbathing beside the turquoise Ionian Sea for the first time in my sixty one years and minutes after my blue and white umbrella cartwheels away and shaves the legs of the couple beside us a high-pitched supersonic engine thrum interrupts my sound space and next minute the azure water is ruffled by a fucking low flying fighter fuckin jet flyover—a Tom Cruise and Maverick move over reclined bikinis and bleached pebbles and hired motor craft and my daughter and me now sitting upright too far from our peace keeping country—an errant B2 jet fighter heading home? post Israel and Iran playing cowboys and Indians with quick draw missiles and nuclear arrows and Clusters last orange sheriff’s pop tweets earlier boasting spectacular military precision how his might broke up the fight declaring it a twelve day war and peace on earth—not a word about the ghost spirits made from bombs and radiation leaks just gold stars for the warty war lords flexing—I roll over and go back to my novel Romantic Comedy play acting the nothing to worry about parent no point freaking out ruining the chill vibe where we gonna run to anyway on our Greek island holiday in June.

Humans can normalise anything.

The Animals Have It

 

Anteater stack

In the same week I discovered my old horse Star was blind in his right eye a dolphin swam up a river and a sperm whale swallowed a boy on a kayak then spat him out again – his father filmed the whole thing talking to his son all the while telling him to stay calm - stay calm slipping around on a whale’s tongue a la Geppetto who actually ended up in a whale’s stomach and waited it out until his son Pinocchio came to his rescue – a monkey turned off the electricity in Sri Lanka sending the country back to the dark ages - a fox followed my middle daughter home on Wakehurst Rd, Clapham - a moose said hello to my son in a carpark outside a bar in Jackson – the male anteater carries its family on its back, baby on top of mum on top of dad - how many ants do anteaters need a day for that level of exertion I wondered as I did my daily hand-flick beside Star’s good eye hoping it keeps seeing – he’s a real whinny-er now - there’s nowt so noisy as a blind horse who wants to see – anteaters eat thirty thousand ants a day – that’s a daily consumption of one hundred and eighty thousand ant legs – good to know they’re getting their protein – octopuses have three hearts.

 

all over the planet

animals promise

emotional rescue

Author note:

The above is Jane Bloomfield's first attempt at Haibun. Popularised by Basho in 17th Century Japan - a Haibun is a poem using a combination of prose and haiku. Hopefully, I've sort of nailed it. A fun if tricky writing exercise. Give it a whirl, poets! Inspo - Rattle Mag Spring Issue #87's Haibun feature with the most excellent curation of Haibun, and an interview regarding writing the poetry form between Timothy Green and Lew Watts.

Did They Serve Iceberg Lettuce on The Titanic?

It always pays to eat your wedge

Iceberg lettuce doesn’t look like an iceberg nor does it taste like one, it tastes of sandwiches curing in a leather satchel in the cloak bay outside Room One. 

 

Warm lettuce membrane pocked with butter and Marmite, a pale but pungent filigree between thin crusted white bread.

 

Wasn’t it a treat when mum changed it up and you found Marmited crinkle cut chippy crunch in place of damp raw leaf.

 

Often thought to be lacking in nutrients due to its bland demeanour - lettuce info dot org tells me the veg contains Vitamin K and folate.

 

And a superior sensory profile thanks to 96% water content it’s our obsessive diet culture’s perfect D for the carb-less lettuce cup. 

 

Burger oft desired when shredding, to house your thick saturated fat meat patty and melted cheese it’s all about how many grams of protein nowadays meal.

 

Behold this mighty lettuce really comes into its own not sliced fine in a soft shell fish taco or minced and refrigerator-aged in a foot-long meatball Subway sub.

 

But when eighth’d and served dressed in Thousand Island dressing dripped with bacon crisps and croutons - I give you the iceberg wedge.

 

Only the greatest mullet salad of all times eaten with a knife and fork alongside a chargrilled porterhouse steak in any fine diner east of Eden.

 

James Cameron towed an iceberg from New Found Land to the movie set of the Titanic in New Mexico only it got stuck in the Panama Canal and melted, said SL4968Q on Reddit.

 

How to tow an iceberg has five hundred million and seventy-seven hits on Google, with the helpful hints - if you tow, go slow. 

 

An iceberg is a large floating mass of ice detached from a glacier, 90% of it lies underwater I don’t know about you but I’m scratching my head.

 

So many bee sting summer suppers served torn in salads slick with gran’s Condensed milk mayonnaise fresh from the garden row granddad named slug bait.

 

It always pays to eat your wedge. Derris dusted or not.

 

In answer to the question - iceberg lettuce was not served on the Titanic in 1912 - this unsinkable member of the Daisy family only hit the veg markets in 1920.

 

Jane Bloomfield 

Collection 2023-24-25