The Padre

by Alan Reynolds
 The Padre

Copyright © 2009 by Alan Reynolds

All rights reserved
including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof
in any form whatsoever.

Poems by Alan Reynolds are also published

in US and UK magazines
and literary journals
and
on the Internet.

www.alanreynolds.nl
 Introduction
The Padre visits me often and occasionally lets me report
his doings. Several years ago an ex-nun wrote me that she
thought she knew the Padre, that his name was John and that
he had headed out to Miami in a single-engine plane and had
never been seen again. The Padre made me write her back
that he was not real, he had never met her, and that it had
been actually a twin-engine plane.
ACR

Monnickendam, 2009
 Contents
Padre among Men 1
Padre at Three A.M. 2
Padre and Deus Ex Machina 3
Padre Camps with Purple Jesus 4
Padre Reduced 6
Padre Re Buff 7
Padre Excuses 8
Padre Smiles through Vapid Tears 9
Padre Despairs 10
Padre as Pundit 11
Padre Sees Off a Turkey 12
Padre Dries Out For A Larger Role 13
Padre’s Left Tenant Of Loo 14
Padre Takes Heart 15
Padre Parboils His Collar 16
Padre Counts His Carols 17
Padre Goes Golden 18
Padre Bedside Himself 20
Padre of Orange 21
Padre at Bay 22
Padre Nibbles Enlightenment 23
Padre Proceeds 24
Padre Shelters From The Temperance Picnic 25
Padre Legs It 26
Padre Populates An Amen Corner 27
Padre Admonished 28
Padre Shuns The Wallowers 29
Padre Enjoys A Winter Harbor Scene 30
Padre among Men
‘That’s not the way we men make love, my friend.’
The Captain’s words on open intercom
astound the crew at Mass, make Padre’s thin
hair stand on end as if a whistling bomb
had whispered up his nape. His famed aplomb
recedeth like his part. ‘The knave is pissed,’
he hisses loud but rising winds persist
and hurl his words to God above who bids
the Padre’s mind know peace: it seems he’s missed
that the Captain but harangues his tank of squids.

1
Padre at Three A.M.
When he sprang from bed in frolic lark,
his grace had grazed the table, felled the clock
that lies from impact handless, still and stark.
Its face, glass horse of combat, mirrors shock
as Padre counts his chins, deplores the crock
of idle smiles that, nihilistic, swim
like socks beneath his bedlam bed-and-gym
where nightmares run their race around his eyes
with their taunt tales asphyxiating him.
This nightly turmoil makes him weak not wise.

2
Padre and Deus Ex Machina
The homunculus that fleshes out the clock
the Padre knocked upon the deck last time
resuscitates itself, damps down the shock
then animates the tick, and tock, and chime.
Descartes was right: this tiny spirit’s climb
gives all hands heart; they rotate, synchronize.
The Padre, hearing ticking, scans the skies
for omens, bleats amen and barks his shin.
Believing Dawkin’s proved the Ghost’s demise,
he winds the clock, can’t see the Grin within.

3
Padre Camps with Purple Jesus
‘His aunt bought this the year that he was born.
Her ghost remains,’ the Padre thinks, confined
in Jethro’s Cadillac. He feels forlorn,
forgets the umpteenth time why he’s behind
the crusted steering wheel. ‘I’m driving blind.’
He is sweating with the windows closed. ‘Thy Will!
Cooped up here in this ancient Coupe De Ville,
I’ll sit until the sun dispels the bugs.
Oh Lord, please know I’d lift my finger; still,
malarias cause malingering. Those jugs

of Jethro’s P. J. got me to this place.

He’s a degenerate, and needs my help
to gather up his courage and then face
responsibility. A godless whelp
whom the devil could have drowned without a yelp,
he sneaked up on me, and he promised me
he’s ‘born again,’ and begged me referee.
The man avowed he needed Christian aid
persuading the police to set him free
since he sold no more gin in Gatorade.

4
And no less either! I learned that myself
when sampling the P. J. he left in back.
If Jethro’s changed, he’s changed into an elf.
A jug or two soon turned the June sun black.
In the eclipse I prayed, and felt the slack
not in my duty but within my skull
and I sought for shady glades I hoped annulled
the fever Jethro’s P. J. trick had played
upon my pious charity. He gulled
the Bishop’s pet! He should be spayed

by the Bishop’s vet. I’ve heard it said I’d been

picked out upstairs to be groomed to succeed
to purple silk and vintage wine. Not gin
made by a cracker whom a bull has kneed
between the ears, who gambles, gobbles speed ... …’
Again the Padre dreams: nightmares that rive
him in the Coupe de Ville, leave him alive
but lacking ministrations for his pain.
No angels come to free him from the hive
of heathens camped in his vacationing brain.

5
Padre Reduced
‘Too rare pork can bring on tricky gnosis,’
A Voice speaks in Padre’s porcine ears,
‘Don’t trust the Inquisition’s diagnosis;
Curare they injected caused those tears
that they proclaim as miracles. No fears
their Purgatory can instill should shake
your nerves. I jest. Rise up, old rake, and break
your fast and satisfaction with yourself.’
The Padre wakes up racked with stomachache
and reaches for the ham plate on the shelf.

The shelf, he then remembers, is not here

but in the galley of the Senior Mess.
‘I don’t need ham alone; that brings no cheer,’
he whispers to the Voice. ‘I confess
a fondness for sauternes, and port, and beer.
Curare’s best reserved for curates old
and pensioned off, while I see myself bold,
mature yet young enough to save salts’ souls.
I’ll conduct the evening service, rant and scold,
but first I’ll try the new chef’s casseroles.’

6
Padre Re Buff
Imbibing beer before the cocktail hour,
the Padre’s shocked to see the fair-sex throngs.
‘Ibiza girls must think they’re in the shower;
they’re naked but for mono Date-Tape thongs!
I’d look away but need to note what wrongs
might tempt our sailors should they visit here.
I hope it’s too expensive. My, how queer!
Those young men in the surf are walking nude
and holding hands. I’ll have another beer.
Thongs Be to Him who keeps me such a prude.’

7
Padre Excuses
Aggrieved, the Filipino stewards spat
into the stew they’ll serve the new XO.
The Padre, passing galley, seeing that,
debates himself: ‘Reporting them? Go slow.
This new XO’s a thug; he’s hitting low.
His thoughtless (?) jokes about ‘brown island wogs’
repulse me too. They’re strong sialagogues.’
So Padre smiles, resolves to skip high tea,
eschewing epiglottal epilogues.
He waives the waiting feast. ‘Bon appétit.’

8
Padre Smiles through Vapid Tears
The cat who fell three decks and lives in pain
reminds the Padre of his soul’s descent.
Dissenting through his desiccated brain
one catty thought persists: ‘I’m an ament!
Can this fallen cat’s behavior represent
my own search for a Savior in red wine?’
Cat-quick he shores up his own weakened spine
with potables: his catnip of good hocks.
‘These snakes I’m seeing render me supine;
I will ask the boatswain please to change the locks.’

9
Padre Despairs
Unhappiness revives the trembling chin
that Padre has sedated twice since tea.
He wonders if his liver will distend
from how he packs his jaws with port and Brie.
‘The horror of the news we’re forced to see
because of BBC and CNN
does no doubt wonders for the sale of gin.
Why must we witness what we cannot change?
I’d give up drink to get no bulletin
about this evil world that’s gone so strange.’

10
Padre as Pundit
Imagining his brain contains a thought
the Padre pinches pencil and inscribes
his name the way he thinks an author ought.
His sureness grows the more that he imbibes
his ‘I’ll be published!’ brew, his diatribes
against the warted wrongs his words will right.
He sees his theme, Go, Gentile, in the Night,
looks trite upon the vellum he profanes
and sadly gives it up. He feels a blight
descend, and wipes away his own cinquains.

He rallies when the evening port is served,

invites the present officers attend
how smallest things when properly observed
reveal the meanings, justify the end
their Empire’s come to. ‘Take how we spell gray,’
our prelate prattles. ‘Should we therefore say
that a family shtick that sticks together is
the same that which together goes to prey?’
All stand and leave. He’s their so mental whiz.

11
Padre Sees Off a Turkey
The bird the Filipino stewards flip
onto the serving platter goes kerthump.
The glistening breast, the garnish at the hip,
reminds the Padre of Ibiza rump.
He rambles in his reveries. The ‘grump’
the Captain gives recalls him to his task:
to say the bloody blessing, go and ask
for Acquiescence in the carving task,
invoke the words that serve to usher in
another round of gluttony. His mask
in place, he dreams of beaches, sips a gin.

12
Padre Dries Out For A Larger Role
Remembering his pledge and little else
the Padre takes Communion then a break.
His high resolve still rampant as it melts,
he drinks no wine, just water, with his steak.
‘If I can go three days, perhaps I’ll make
a month, or two, or years. I’m told to try
to care for me. I’m so quick to decry
the evil in my Savior’s world, but spin
my wheels, and span the years. Lord, let my eye
see one Good I can bring about, and gin

will pass my lips no more, save as a word

I’ll use, at times, at cards. And muscatel,
and port, and Mogen David (that’s absurd)
will be consigned, I vow, to that bleak hell
that was too long my recompense. No swell
of sea or belle ashore will wring my trust.
I’ll do great deeds, rescue my flock. Not fussed
by Philistine philosophizing, I’ll
levitate! Whatever. When I’m mussed,
like now, I do believe. I see You smile.’

13
Padre’s Left Tenant Of Loo
‘It’s little known,’ the Padre drawls, ‘nor true
that a dancing angel penned me in this head.
No prancing cherubs skipped me to this loo.
I’m tethered by this pull chain in this shed
to wrestle with Beelzebub. He led
me here to get my signature, not pound
me with temptations. Rougher lads go round
and fight when they’re ashore. I say quel bore
and think the saints agree. Tonight I wound
up victim of the beer Commode Adore.

14
Padre Takes Heart
With lunch’s gravy gelling in his veins,
the Padre feels inclined to ruminate.
Reclining in his stateroom, he remains
not comatose, but restful. ‘While I wait
till this Dalla Scala and my pulse abate,
I’ll balance all the bad heard on the news
against the good God gives us. He must use
the media to warn us, but impart
Spring’s glory to revive us, so I’ll choose
embracing what He gives us in good heart.

15
Padre Parboils His Collar
He joined in Toulon for fleet maneuvers
but, slowed by iced pastis, has left behind
his collar in a parlor where some movers
were shaking ample booties. When his mind
has forced his body back onto the wynd
he’d chosen as a lad, he shakes his head
in wonder at the life he could have led.
He notes his neck is nude. Les Saintes Maries
de la Mer, where he’ll do penance, looms ahead.
He hopes they’ll overlook his gaucherie.

16
Padre Counts His Carols
‘How many angels dancing on the pins
inside my head are real?’ the Padre asks.
‘How many are unstoppered fumes from gins
ensuring that my focus multitasks
and sends me volunteering? Stripped of masks
I’d see which one’s the devil who said, yes,
I would dress up. I hope he will confess.
When Yule has passed I yearn to get my paws
on him, but at this holy time I’ll bless
him and you all. Signed, this year’s Santa Claus.’

17
Padre Goes Golden
With cellulite still five or ten years off,
the hostess hides — by sitting on — the stool
on Padre’s right. He drinks his iced Smirnoff
and thinks of angels and the Golden Rule.
‘You’re new here, aren’t you, luv?’ The hostess’ drool
gets in his way of silence. Padre balks.
He realizes he is being stalked
and wishes not to be. He barks, ‘For fun,
pretend you’ve taken orders, do not talk.
For this you’ll be my favorite, bar none.’

He pays his tab and toddles to the door

and tarries there to think which sainted way
the Shore Patrol might go. He has drunk more,
again, than prudent, and begins to sway,
then, calling years of practice, makes his way
back to the town piazza, hails a jeep
whose driver recognizes him. ‘I must keep,’
appointments,’ Padre drawls, then half alert,
he preaches to the harbor: ‘Wayward sheep
need shepherds to prevent their getting hurt.’

18
On Sunday Padre preaches up a storm
exceeding even his own florid style.
He cites the Golden Mean, then gets on form
to lecture to the Shore Patrol: ‘Be mild.
The wildest misadventures,’ Padre smiles,
‘need not occur. Just turn the other cheek
and leave before you paddle up a creek
in waters that I hope you won’t fall in.’
He leaves the pulpit promptly to go seek
a healthful pre-lunch tonic laced with gin.

19
Padre Bedside Himself
‘Your duck l’orange transcends food,’ Padre says.
‘Don’t press me. I can’t pack another pound
of fowl most mordant. I’ll be needing stays.
Don’t stay your pouring hand; another round
of Haut-médoc won’t make my ghost abscond
and leave you here alone and washing up.’
He stops his speech to pour another cup
of coffee. ‘If prayer worked, this would be Scotch
and this wardroom an empty wickiup
in which no cleric pulled an in-port watch.’

The Padre stows his gripes to take a call:

a sailor’s dying from a creeping croup
he contracted gallivanting. Carryall
with all to hand (book, candle, bell, and stoop),
the Padre dashes stoutly past the poop
deck to attend the feverish young man’s side.
‘Come back here!’ Padre barks, ‘Think of your bride!’
The sailor rallies visibly to stare:
‘She has said ‘Yes’?’ The Padre, satisfied,
thinks grace arises from unanswered prayer.

20
Padre of Orange
The Padre, wakeful, dry and auxotrophic
for wine forgets his vows and hits the beach.
Although his leaves in France were catastrophic,
he ambles Alicante through to reach
his tapas bar that faces on the beach.
It’s winter, but instead of woolen shrouds
the Padre meets small promenading crowds
who celebrate the cheerful sun, and swan
in gossamer that’s thinner than the clouds.
He thanks the Lord for women well endowed

but, as he’s trained himself, longs more for drink.

‘To wish the other’s patently absurd.
I’ll pose myself a syllogism: think
would Pollux invite Leda for a word
in bars stocked with another kind of bird,
subject his madre mía to the tunes
of señoritas singing in saloons?’
To fuel thought, the Padre orders stout
con muy naranjas. As the waitress screams,
bartenders yell Valencian for out.

21
Padre at Bay
It’s been a special haven for him, Vigo.
The Padre’s foreign first, and many times
the crucible that proved his altar ego
wanting — in the old days wanting limes
to cut the Cuba Libre fueled chyme
he’d et and paid for, and would pay for more
with every extra drink he downed ashore.
‘We’re ádult, aren’t we, Admiral,’ Padre says
while tilting back his cocktail to explore
its bottom. Bottles glimmer in his gaze

as he thinks of Juan Carlos whom he met

when both were still midshipmen. He had God
and the prince had only Franco. ‘Yes, but yet
perhaps the better man wins. It is odd,’
the Padre murmurs. ‘Plants like goldenrod
grow to their destiny not needing ships
to shuttle them to their ambassadorships,
but all the men, including me, I know
or saw, or met, spend years acquiring chips
we can’t cash in.’ He sees his cocktail glow.

22
Padre Nibbles Enlightenment
The Padre’s peckish so his foot descends
from bunk to scuffle slippers on the deck.
Steel cold takes hold and dreams of tamarinds
abandon currying favor near his neck
that wrapped in cloth — the cloth! — provides a check
to the footless cold that scampers through his head.
Their toeholds lost, his dreams escape his bed
and go to join angels, Asia, trees.
Then Padre wakes, and waking, thinks of bread
and for first courses: wine, and slabs of cheese.

‘What a friend we have in cheeses,’ he

intones past tonsils roughened by Bordeaux.
Ten minutes later, gazing at the sea,
he adds, ‘also oranges, for Cointreau.
which drink — who said it, was it Diderot,
some Encyclopedist of his ilk
but not one courting thoughts of taking silk
— if drunk iced neat at dawn provides the egg
that scrambles each, no doubt with Leibfraumilch,
new theory man invents. God pulls my leg.’

23
Padre Proceeds
Proceeding, as he likes to think his travels
do; id est, his rambles have some goal,
the Padre finds the tawny port unravels
the ruby shrouds competing for his soul.
His dreams, hued dark as anthracitic coal,
grow peaceful, lighter, take on grays of dove
and reaffirm his faith in human love.
His glass goes dry, and dryness takes the glee
he’s felt away. His prayer wends above,
‘What Higher Good requires a refugee?’

24
Padre Shelters From The Temperance
Picnic
‘A port in any storm,’ the Padre says.
‘A Proverb, probably. Try the tawny next.
With such dark clouds, this rain may last for days
and make dry forces falter sore perplexed
and fry up snakes a younger Moses flexed
to staff the parting of the ruby sea.’
He sips a vintage claret, tastes the Brie,
then puts it by, returning into port.
‘Cheers,’ he adds. ‘and praise the Deity
who gives my mooted drought this wet retort.’

25
Padre Legs It
The Padre’s age invades his dextral knee
and locks it at the moment he would rise.
‘A sign!’ he thinks. He whispers, ‘Glory be,’
renews his kneeling, and, to emphasize
his homage to this thought, shuts both his eyes.
He says the prayers a moment can recall
then, signing off, stands up to quickly fall
afoul of superstition and the lock
of his patella’s closing down, and all
the Padre’s will is sapped by sudden shock.

‘Perhaps the angels took me at my word

when I confessed ennui from dining out
on lines at which the Bard Himself demurred.
I flirt with death but cannot stomach gout
and to take me literally’s absurd.’
He bows perforce until a heavenly band
charms his meniscus to where he can stand
the pain if not up to his normal height.
Then Padre shakes, not takes, the proffered hand
that Heaven offers, and says, ‘Thanks. Goodnight.’

26
Padre Populates An Amen Corner
The hand that stays his drinking must be his.
When he shakes it with his other they appear
to him as hip epiphanies that whiz
upon a slack wire strung from ear to ear
inside his head. ‘I should have left the beer,’
the Padre says, amazed at how his tongue
trips, as it were, upon the bottom rung
of a Jacob’s ladder angels now descend
to wrestle and then best him, and then bung
him in a barrel where he says, ‘Amen.’

27
Padre Admonished
‘Some jolly verse to celebrate the gay
gray-matter mares that neighed you through last night,’
the doctor tells him. ‘Either that or pray
for absolution. You’re a frightful sight.’
The Padre thanks the doctor and goes right
on doing what he’s done for many years:
considering why God created tears
in what some call a perfect universe,
and taking nips to bite back his own fears.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘it always could be verse.’

28
Padre Shuns The Wallowers
‘Scatology is not my cup of tea,’
the Padre knocks a sherry back, and adds,
‘I even write ‘pneumonia’ without ‘p’
and when I taught Biology forbade
course speculations on how sphinxes shad.
‘Marsala es’, as the Sicilians say
‘su casa’, but I hope you’ll go away
before you track in Pooh. Madeira’ll do,
please take one too; it’s good to counterweigh
the fino. I think Milne rues the day.’

29
Padre Enjoys A Winter Harbor Scene
The service, slow because the cafe’s closed,
detracts but little from the Padre’s calm.
He takes the sun the way he has supposed
God means him to: as sweet midwinter balm
for his soul’s ice; as satisfying Psalm.
This terrace chair, that hundred-year-old boat,
and more of both, from memory, moor and float
the Padre from this moment to the past.
Warmed by the sun, wine, and a borrowed coat,
he’s sanguine that this spring won’t be his last.

30