Cranmer to the Crowd

This is the first poem that I wrote that I felt good about. The original was very poorly lineated, and my creative writing prof, David Wright, used it as an example for the rest of class of different methods of lineating a poem - a bit embarrassing at first, but incredibly helpful. This is the version I finally settled on, and I am very much indebted to David for his help.

Thomas Cranmer was the Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry VIII, Edward VI, and Mary Tudor. It was under Mary's reign that he was executed for his role in the Protestant Reformation of the English Church. He is remembered now for the creation of the Book of Common Prayer. This dramatic monologue imagines his final moments in St. Mary's in Oxford, where he was taken before his execution, that he might repent of his sins. He had earlier signed a confession, condemning his Protestant works, as he had been promised a full restoration to his post as Archbishop, and reward managed what torture could not. When he was put in the pulpit though, he shocked everyone by loudly condemning the persecutions that Mary, the Catholic monarch, had ordered, and he repented of turning from that which he believed to be true. He was dragged out into the streets to be burned, and as the fires were lit, he thrust his right hand down, declaring that the hand which signed his recantation would suffer first. He stood there, impassive, as the flames rose around him, his hand defiant. He was a great man.

The final text in italics is taken from the collect The first day of Lent, commonly called Ash Wednesday, written by Cranmer. Also, the "crooked Pole" I speak of is Archbishop Pole, the Catholic Cardinal who led Queen Mary's inquisition.

Cranmer to the Crowd

You drag me off, eager to end my heresy

I say

and believe Christ did die once for all

even those whose eyes prefer

English to Latin.

I do not fear those fannéd flames,

great Heaven's Gate lies beyond

that portal.

Penitent, I pass through the heat,

intended to incinerate, instead, purifies

my putrid soul. Yes, putrid,

Archbishop though I am.

This hand, by torture's test unmoved,

foolishly let flow forth

that fatal ink,

My repulsive recantation, damned

apostasy

This was the Hand that wrote it,

therefore it shall

suffer first!

When the rack's subtle subversion

yielded

no yelps other than of agony,

pleasure's gentle persuasion,

a potential pardon, secured

my shameful signature.

That crooked Pole and Mary,

anointed by Anglican

blood,

to crown their crass joys,

publicly proclaimed

my craven capitulation.

My pious present to the people

prayers in the common tongue, lies

dead, scorned and shamed.

Their promised pardon

proved false

a date determined for my

death

a pulpit provided for my final

farewell.

My tongue then uttered that

Truth

I should have trusted first -

I renounce him, and all his works, him

The Pope!

As you gather in to stunt my speech,

I collect my consciousness one

final time.

Almighty and everlasting God,

which hatest

nothing that thou hast made,

and dost forgive

the sins of all them that be

penitent:

Create and make in us new

and contrite hearts,

that we worthily lamenting out sins,

and acknowledging our wretchedness,

may obtain of thee, the God of

all mercy,

perfect remission and forgiveness; through

Jesus Christ.

Forgive us Father!