The Cockpit Chapel
Bert Biscoe brings us another of his poems, this time with Truro’s rich religious history in mind.
A passing thought behind Trurra Cathedral
The first signs of pretention came
In the eighteenth century
When the burghers granted permission
For a spire to cap
The miserable chapel tower –
As masons created their puzzle,
And rubble was carted away
From Middle Row to allow
Old Ned[1] to affix his admiral name
To a broad and cobbled vista,
Jack Wesley, clearing his throat,
Opened proceedings at the pump
Outside the Market House,
Revival swelled up Quay Street
And silenced the Fighting Cocks crew –
Sam[2] and Jack met in prayer
And over tea at Truro Vean,
But schism was the destination
No matter what
Evangelical persuasion
Flew angelically over Goody’s Lane,
And chapels arose
On every street, bishops shrank
Under Exeter cassocks and stolls
And revival filled the Truro air –
Old Sam deserted St Mary
To sing and pray a cockerel’s thanks
For a merciful act to spare
The Octagon, and all who joined him –
And, by God, it was many, who
Dubbed themselves Cockpitarians –
They shared their thanks-given penny
Whilst, with cow-shit piled
Before the rectory door, the curate, left
By his absentee mentor
To hold the established Trollopian fort,
Made returns to Visitation –
‘Dissenters ascendant!’ Charlie’s[3] airs,
Loudly harmonical over pews,
Swung the Lord’s left to catch the chin
Of sin, of wicked liquor and usury,
And win the prize at Whitsun Fairs –
Over St Day, rate demands greater
Than Bassett’s pay, they faithful few
Blew the roof off Cranmer’s church –
And down, a thunderous brew
Of self and mission, a newly scratched
Ancient line from Aberplym to Marsland,
Came he who saw himself
A messianaic wake of authoritarian charm,
Who did not dispute the whimsy
That from England came a second coming,
Raising his episcopal arm
And declaring: ‘Here, my dear,
We shall raze this ‘ere rotten piece
Down to the ground and erect
An edifice which will beat the brow,
Reverse the tide of non-conformity,
And impose the law for her majesty’s
Establishment upon such idolatry!’
Then, pretention clambered down the bus
To grab the back seat and sing
‘Ten Green Bottles’ all the way home
On the Marigold after Sunday School
Tea Treat down St Ives – he dragged
One and faithful all into the magistrate’s hall,
Demanding oaths, allegiance, obedience!
Dunnaw how many took to ships
To open shops in Americee – a fair few!
And up she flew – the great edifice –
All spire and buttress, a curving nave
And enough slate to empty Delabole –
All so’s Benson could save his soul
And deliver this deep belief of a land
Into the palm of a protestant God’s
Outstretched and nail-scarred hand –
Up she went, up to the clouds,
The peregrine thought a new cliff had come,
Its golden cockerel turned
Before the wind, looking down
Upon old Sam and The Cockpitarians,
Worn of knee but doctrinally free,
Giving the Lord belltink over by
The town Leat, above river-sprite
Shackled in Keyne’s culvert,
And behind the pilgrim’s trodden track
From Gannel to Fal and back,
The drunken old saint hid in the dunes
And dancing to banished Cornish tunes
Opened the box to set a language free –
Strange to say, for all the faith
Tied to railings and proclaimed
By bells on practice night, when Jason
Slipped and broke his head,
And found himself pronounced
‘Clinically dead!’ no spire nor
Mock gothic nave nor chancel
Caught his last long ship sailing
On a sea of grief to committal,
But Missus, sitting beside the councillor,
Turned to say: ‘Must be some day!
Every pew full to brimming, and up there,
Beside the geht organ, why, Maister!
That’s Sid Tann, Ronnie’s brother,
Sitting looking serious in chapel –
Poor old God, drowning in prayer,
Wondering if creation was His best idea,
He won’t know what’s on at all!
Best look out tomorrow, lest He forget
To raise the blaze of the rising sun.’
1 Admiral Edward ‘Ned’ Boscawen – Old Dreadnought
2 Samuel Walker
3 Charles Wesley
(Photo Steve Tanner)
Vyager gans Geryow (Bert Biscoe) lives in Truro. He is a poet and songwriter whose work draws on his interests in history, politics, social justice and language. He represents the people of Boscawen Division on Cornwall Council. The Division was formerly called ‘Moresk’ – an unbroken link from civic administration to the hurried escape of Tristan and Iseult from the vengeful wrath of King Mark – Bert tries to invest Cornish values into the demand of modern life. His work is fun, and best read aloud – which he does whenever the opportunity arises, especially with fellow Cornish poet, Pol Hodge. ‘Living in Trurra’ he says ‘means that there is a constancy of running water beneath your feet – there are two clocks which ring the hours dissonantly and out of step – a good environment for poems to flourish in the cracks and shadows. Nowadays, the mullet listen attentively in the lee of the Old Bridge’.
