I made an ink blot
Eleven years old
On the opening page
Father Parker’s history book
And the Ziggurat of Ur
And Father Mythen’s languages
Latin Greek and French
An ancient world was opened up to me
The pity was
The world I knew was barred to me
Off limits
Seminary shunned that world away
We lived religious rituals
Within our walled off school
The very idea of training priests
A madness anyway
And off to further strictness
Remoteness in Kinnoull
Majestic house
High up upon a hill
A year spent there
At eighteen years
A nursery for prayer
But growing up?
Not a chance
Rarefied thin air
Took sacred vows
I ask you
Give your life away
Off to Hawkstone
Arctic countryside
Six years in fields
A country house
Never saw a soul
Black robed seminarians
Programmed rigmarole
The boy who made that ink blot
Just away from home
Came out at 24
And that little boy went home
To see again his family
Say hello unto the world
Where have I been?
What did they do?
How come so much has changed?
I gave a way my freedom
Gave away my will
They said it was a holy thing to do
But they robbed me of my engine
My power to give and go
I got it back eventually
A story you all know
Always question systems
Someone put them there
Thought them good
Endorsed their probity
But systems caused the Holocaust
The Slave Trade and much more
And the Church had holy systems
Which I name now and deplore
Brian Fahy
28 October 2021
Erris Poetry 