An Alchemy of Words

mad maid mary

"mad maid mary"

mother of the saviour

mary, mad maid mary

bore a son

that wasn't hers,

mary, mad maid mary

joseph said he didn't do it

maybe they were drunk

but mary, mad maid mary

put up with this junk

had to run away from herod

pay their taxes

pay their dues

mary, mad maid mary

you should've used a noose

john the baptist, sister's son

decided he should have some fun

and mary, mad maid mary

in her madness, jumped the gun

ran through the crowds, told everyone

that her baby was the one

mary, mad maid mary

never know what she had done

jesus said he talked to god

crazy as it sounds

mary, mad maid mary

said it's a phase that's going round

jesus christ, the holy son

disowned his parents

and had to run

perhaps he should've stayed his ground

the kid ran off with his twelve friends

said they'd stick together 'til the end

matthew, john, and andrew

peter, james, and thomas

thaddeus, simon, bartholomew

philip, james, and judas

an ugly twelve, a motley lot

and mary, mad maid mary

you should've had them shot

the damned twelve ruined him

mary, mad maid mary

they took his clothes, betrayed him

a kiss upon the cheek

thirty coins of silver

let's crucify the freak

mary, mad maid mary

they hammered nails into his feet

simon peter denied him thrice

so your son jesus paid the price

oh mary, mad maid mary

why did you ever roll the dice

he's hanging there, the curtain's torn

the sky has all turned dark

it's three o'clock and the crown of thorns

has slipped from where it parked

you son is dead and on the cloth he's worn

the blood is showing stark

and mary, mad maid mary

they're rolling in the stone

in a shroud of cloth, he's buried

why did you let him run from home

[first published in Saskatchewan Writers' Guild, WindScript, Volume 10, #1. Awarded the Currie-Hyland Prize for excellence in poetry.]

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AUTHOR'S NOTES
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I grew up in a religious context. My family and I were Mennonite, which is as much a culture and a community as it is a religion. I wrote this little piece of sacrilege while attending a Mennonite high school, amidst classes on religious ethics and Mennonite history (which, like much of what occurred in the 1500s is quite dark, to be honest). High school was a wonderful time and place, for me. My memories of my high school experience, and the deep friendships I formed there, are quite positive in a way that I don't think they would have been within the public system.

This poem was shocking in many different ways to many different people, while also being deeply human at its core. It made waves when it was not only published in a provincial magazine of high school writing but also was awarded a major prize. It created headaches for parents, teachers, and principals alike, both at my school and more broadly (Canada also has a Catholic school system alongside the public system as well as a hodge-podge of private secular and religious schools like my own). I would go on to win that same prize in every subsequent issue of the magazine, until I graduated--sometimes with better poems, sometimes with worse.

While I no longer practice my religion formally, I continue to identify as Mennonite and view myself as such within both a cultural and faith-based context. But my roots as a black sheep, an iconoclast, and a sh*t disturber run just as deep and remain important to me, even as I mellow with both age and rage.