The Homeless Jesus
THE poem chosen this Holy Week, the week of The Passion, is riddled with the themes of abandonment, fear, doubt and degradation. Themes that run, tragically, hand in hand with its subject matter, the modern day blight of homelessness. A frightful stain on society in this the 21st century. In fact, at time of going to press, the latest figures available on homelessness in Ireland indicate a record number of people for the month of Jan this year accessing emergency accommodation exceeded 9,000! An alarmingly dreadful statistic.
As mentioned, this is Holy Week and perhaps fitting that the underscore of the work’s title quotes from the gospel of St Mark from its account of the crucifixion of Christ, following the Last Supper, the Agony in Getsemane, and his betrayal and trial. It recalls, in Aramaic, the final words of the dying Christ, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? – My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’
All four canonical gospels, written between AD66-110 recount the trial and execution of Christ but it is Mark’s account that was the earliest (in fact, Tacitus, the renowned Roman Senator and historian, when writing his final work ‘The Annals’ in AD116, records how Nero made the Christians the scapegoat for the burning of Rome in 64AD, by persecuting ‘those followers of the executed Christus, he that was put to death at the hands of Pontius Pilate, circa AD 30-33’.
The poem pretty much speaks for itself, the poet, having firstly lauded himself for his simple charitable act of donation, and the feeling of self-satisfaction it temporarily bought and brought him, almost immediately reflects upon how differently his life may pan out, and how rapidly his circumstances could alter for the worse. It brings to mind that American adage that we are all, perhaps, only 3 pay cheques from the gutter!
That, at times, we not only remain unaware of how rapidly our lives might sink towards the abyss but have no clue as to whether or not we’d have the tools to cope when all hope is slipping away. He admits as much by closing the poem with his concerns over what would by then be the trivial, because he is failing to imagine the depths of depravity p that exist for life on the pavement.. There is no big stick here.
No analysis of why’s or reasons, no deep trawling of cause and consequence. It is merely a pause for thought. Like a stop at a traffic light or an Angelus bell. A reflection. One week, like Jesus Christ himself, s we might be riding high among the palm leaves into Jerusalem, and a the following week, nailed to the cross. Awareness might be the beginning b of our own salvation. O Connell Bridge Crucifixion (Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?) My day is better now, or at least the start of it, or o I have dropped some coppers, with fluff from the corners of my pockets, into your coffee c cup, and bought with it the rights to glance into your eyes, for I have saved you, and you, for now, are mine. But when my time arrives, and my choices, stupid and hauntingly less wise, cut like the spear into my side and see me sit beside you there, having utterly screwed life up, and feel the grey creep upon my face, as I tilt my own crushed paper cup, perhaps p a blanket or purple cloak, might land between us both, or a sunny morning’s warmth, fill our wretched day with hope?
As we swap cans and smutty jokes, and beneath sleeping bag we grope?
O Lord, bring the river, bring the rope. You? you’ll live the drunken company and vulgar Irish craic Me? I’ll wish my teeth were whiter, for those that pass over and pass back.