Temptation

 

Iso-mandala No. 101 (September 2020)

Reflections for the First Sunday in Lent, the 22^nd of February 2026, in the pew notes at St Peter’s Church, Eastern Hill, Melbourne.  Written by Philip Harvey.

 How to talk about temptation? How to deal with it. Who to talk to, when in Scripture, from the start, temptation as a fact is assumed.

 A lifetime of encountering the decalogue teaches that the commandments are not simply warnings and directions. They describe society and its temptations, picture a human world that is not only peculiar to some ancient time and place, but is ours also. Forbidding in appearance as well as in their messages, they challenge our human desires and motives, causing us to think, reflect, and act. The commandments are talking points for the subject of temptation; they also inform the law.

 They are delivered in the wilderness. Wilderness is a place of desolation and need. There, things will be clarified over time, down to the basics. Wilderness is dangerous, but also purifying. This is where we might have a showdown with our demons. We might find it a challenge, but resolutions are reached free of distraction.

 The story of Jesus in the wilderness (Matthew 4: 1-11), familiar over a lifetime, delivers another way of talking about temptation. We are presented directly with the challenge of saying yes or no. Temptation, what to do? Either way, something will happen. Christ’s example is to summon reasons that counter temporary powers and illusory promises, even down to the whole world and everything in it.

 In terms of the story, here is a person who will not be tempted; Jesus is preparing to go into his ministry as one who speaks forthrightly, forgivingly and with godly authority. While for us, here is a model of possibility. We attend to his many consequent words and actions as lessons in how to live and understand God’s law. We are shown how our mistakes are made and how restoration is achievable. We learn to develop good habits, preferably to bad habits minor and even major. We choose ways that give life, whatever our circumstances. 

 Even the conclusion, where Jesus is ministered to by angels, indicates that challenges and setbacks are real, but that we will not be left lonely. After deserved rest, we can enter a new day.

Recipe

A Recipe Book of Perverbs

 

Too many cooks make light work, recipes

of a thousand miles start with one step.

 

In for a penny in for a pint

is a bread-and-butter issue.

 

To bring home the bacon eat the frog

chew the cud, and stay cool as a cucumber.

 

Know your onions, spill the beans,

eat your greens and say cheese.

 

If you eat like a horse

your supper will be humble pie.

 

Rhubarb rhubarb is food for thought

take with a pinch of salt.

 

The proof of the pudding

is selling like hot cakes.

 

Found a plum job, pulled out a plum

plum crazy, until plum tuckered out.

 

Everything stops for tea

while the watched kettle never boils.

 

A spoonful of sugar helps the caffeine go down

better latte than never.

 

Life is a bowl of cherries

in a nutshell, a cup of kindness yet.

Senses

 

The Perverbial Five Senses

 

The eyes have a thousand nights

and each day is a sight to see.

 

Eat, drink, and – it’s on the tip of your tongue -

put your merry where your mouth is.

 

A nose by any other name

sniffs out trouble and smells the roses.

 

Ears lend me your friends:

cheers of words and the spheres of music.

 

Skin deep is the beauty

of nerves headstrong hanging by a thread.

Wardrobe

 

A Wardrobe of Perverbs

 

To have your hat and eat it too

time to put on your thinking cap.

 

A rose by any other name’s the same

through rose-coloured glasses.

 

Off the cuff, bright as a button,

someone gives you the shirt off their back.

 

While another, pocketing red-handed

would take the shirt off your back.

 

An old school tie fashion statement

fit like a glove, goes: keep your shirt on.

 

Every dog coat has its day but

when I am old I shall wear the cat’s pyjamas.

 

To catch someone with their pants down

is a bit below the belt.

 

While the emperor’s new clothes show to effect

the ornaments of his birthday suit.

 

Shrouded - a dress dressed to kill

is a dress to die for - in mystery.

 

When the shoe is on the other foot

who knows if you’re coming or going.

 

To walk in someone else’s shoes

means putting a sock in it.

 

Table

 

TABLE

 

A Fable of the Table

 

The table is a twinkle in a very stable desktopper’s retina

only needing a start-up from a capable enabler.

 

The table stands up to scrutiny in a beta beat-up form

nothing a few squeaks and tweaks won’t upgrade.

 

The table is unlike any other project worth the name

or attachments, please patent the table as soon as able.

 

The table manual is load-bearing and world-beating a babel

read the small print before signing where X marks the spot.

 

The table is a by-word amongst the many alpha competitors

with most distraction coming from the wheel.

 

The table demands more science than the wheel, we feel

user-friendly, flexible and next generation.

 

The table is global sits comfortably in any room

kneels outdoors unfolds or expands in any climate.

 

The table, true, can be addictive though not as much as the wheel

still until they cut cables undersea watch the markets.

 

The table, users find they can keep working there for years

simply wondering why they didn’t think of it first.

 

The table now so everyday no one even notices how

it casts metaphorical shadows and fresh aspersions.

 

The table, its stable of innovators champing at the bit,

takes everyone on the ride of their lives.

 

The table asks what did you do before me

with blank amazement, for which it’s become renowned.

 

The table. Tell us how you rate the experience:

square, upright, extensive, inter-active, confusing, not my bag.

 

The table is disabled, is the simple message sampled

write via login to your op bot for further information.

 

The table on wheels is the latest fusion innovation

live the illusion, test the label, take it for a spin.

 

The table, very possibly, undergoes a takeover

now all eyes are on the syllable-dripping pen.

 

The table must adapt to the stylish stone stylus

or simply collapse under its own weight.

 

 

Off

 

Off and running through childhood backyard freestyle

having a ball off to a good start small steps the ball aloft.

 

Off you go to classrooms of uncushioned facts in the running

playing fields of bruises, talk of tumble and rough.

 

Off peak is the ordinary time to potter in the shed, shed fear

run the gauntlet of Anyswhereville life’s living proof, prof.

 

Off the wall the art, learning through early years or late

each peachy shape of creation studied, in spoken awe of.

 

Off your face with all unsigned designs of the unseen Author

who lights up all change forever more than enough.

 

Off and on your loves, more in common than with just anyone

but they why do they do that not this, you question and cough.

 

Off again on again likewise the lawful choices of work

teaching or trade, bohemia or business, silence or scoff.

 

Off the charts the cities that city’s contain, untold streams

dreams of them if you will and dream upon oft.

 

Off Broadway are friends their song, discovery trial and error

duets a lifetime, others the singing the notes pitch feel all off.

 

Off like a bride’s nightie on the search for domestic harmony

such overwork as deserves rest and a toast you may quaff.

 

Off-hand the ways of the wayward world wanting

off grid then on bend or vista, lonely scrub, sudden trough.

 

Off limits are the places visited because they’re there

limits learnt the hard way, the same way the highway the tough.

Off work with ailments muddle loss, troubles typical make for

scripts for painless, windows to stare, holidays to waft.

 

Off the deep end the great perhaps there no more thinking

where’s no on-off switch nor office of off, since cast-off.

 

Off the record thoughts pass days the minutes cannot track

while diarists catch tense seconds, someone from Chekhov.  

 

Off the planet is strictly for the nerds floating in tin cans

home is feet of terra firma, eyes with surprise, hand in glove.

 

Off-setting and with hmmm yes good idea the phone off

notice your mind find peace and air on the face is soft. 

 

Lorikeet

Lorikeet and more lorikeets shrill sudden the air density

no pardons above garden paths in suburban settings

 

no hide, all seek you sleek swoop seconds dive peak

cheeky-coloured beak all speak no lies seven days a week

 

clambering through the eucalyptus your due

sizing seizing sipping the flowery fantastical intake.

 

Throat open, paragraphs of shower telegraph to gain

in numbers a chirrup scale pumped to maximum pitch

 

whistles warbles rants chit-chat an entire symposium

fully disposed as you are to frilled offshoots of the territory.

 

Machines produce everything humans can’t use

while you, blue bird, have everything you need.

 

Oceans offering up droplets gliding the chequered regions

and earth, miles of foliage, find a foremost feeding frenzy.

 

You are an advertisement for here now and where next,

an opportunity rocking the treetop storeys transitory. 

 

Headturn dayspring, clawgrip thinbark, fantail upswing,

shiver feathers, swallow sweetness, upwards amble.  

 

Memories of young larrikins in worn footy jumpers

weaving in side streets resemble you, yellow bird.

 

Why you hang in the sky to take a screamer, zigzag

through a pack for the cherry, scout on a wing for the crumbs.

 

Leaf light thread fleck spray spool bounce bend bite drink

pod spill swift glance gaze curve flick gloss knot tip

 

lithographs can’t do it nor installations, however real;

French composers render fiddly moderniste imitations

 

while words in such odes as exist address you, red bird,

falteringly in lines that make pretence at being faultless.

 

Touch and go is your arrival and departure mode:

waiting, your occasional swagger way out of reach.

 

Repeat and more repeats are the hard sweet shrieks

remembered as your pennants burst landwards skyward   

 

people walking around hands jokingly to their ears

what stupendous noise, then you’re gone again, green bird.

Fire

 

“I have composed my stories as reporters write

their accounts of fires – mechanically, half-consciously,

 

“with no concern either for the reader or myself,”

fire being the given, the sudden cause of all decisions

 

the story tells as people run one way snatching belongings

or would stay put and fight heat they cannot beat.

 

Leave now, it is too late to leave, abandon your plans

is the language of fire coming over the hill towards us.

 

Staying doesn’t make you a hero. Fire came from nowhere.

We’ve lost everything. The whole place has just gone.

 

Fire quietens the township’s dreams of a world trip.

Fire has leapt the road and closed all access.

 

Summer in the city, a fine time to read Chekhov,

Anton Chekhov short stories over hardly before begun.

 

The provincial in few pages hides how he’s lost everything.

Loss is official once it’s named by a celebrity.

 

The look on the face of the spokesperson hardly finds words.

Subscripts serve up statistics at a blinding rate, old mate.

 

The secret life of a firebug is blazingly on view

whilst elsewhere stories emerge of unlikely saviours.

 

Fire remains unmoved where it comes to rest

air brown with dry meanings for days afterwards.

 

Certainty is that at the end of these short stories

everyone will stand up, brush down and keep going,

 

at least one of whom will write a letter to a friend

explaining his technique of showing without emoting.

 

Pages caught and puffed and burst in the firestorm.

Online reports disintegrated inside of burnt-out terminals.

 

Fire, the character, looks like nothing but smoke till close up

changing direction with unpredictable speed.

 

Stare at it how we will when fire’s under control

plain speech wants a way forward, left with nothing.

 

A blank page survives fire’s disappearing act

where writers make accounts, deft on show, light on emote.

 

iPhone

 Are you mine iPhone? What relationship do we have, at all?

One that grows in the making, or one purely practical?

 

You track every second of every hour of every month, no slumbers;

I would run out of patience sooner than you out of numbers.

 

Your world clock’s an assiduous asset, a capital invention;

timer untemperamental, alarm beset with intentions.

 

iPhone mePhone minePhone should I feel gratitude

as you daily remind me alone of mine tech ineptitude?

 

Your camera compiles flick files, every angle of selfie

endlessly easy, yet are body and soul made wise, wealthy?

 

When your news is paused following an hour of scroll

may I care to comment that was not my goal?

 

While your forecasts quite frankly wallow in the literal.

Why not, there will be clouds piling up like profiteroles?

 

Unfathomable it is you may conceal my comprehensive ID

without so much as me alone leaving my chair – tidy!

 

You promise the world, the whole deal, the best, a god blast

behind innocuous icons labelled movie contacts podcast.  

 

When I put everything on you, or further up the settings

is that upsetting, or adding mainly to more I’m forgetting?

 

Is it you-with-a-view or I-me-mine always has the last word?

Possibly you, thoughtless think tank of passable passwords.

 

I wonder how your body may get lost, including decorative case

while your soul in a cloud in a new body’s replaced.

 

Are you all you iPhone? And what then when we must part?

I think therefore you are, as we know from Descartes.

 

Had I wished to drop you a line every now and then, who’d known?

Could I write you again if you’d gone down an S-bend, iPhone?

 

On loan for the interim, in this life’s iteration you loom large

hanging on every sentence, and a regular recharge.

 

Companion, lifeline, social coat hanger

dependable know-all, dream machine, doppelganger.

 

The pressure’s permanent, iPhone, to go to the next release

but I me mine will stay with you-who to keep the peace.  

Aeroplane

 

Aeroplane why are your in-flight magazines all glossy

written for persons who imagine they reside inside seaside villas?

 

Your longroom is a cramped cinema, human abacus, a squat where

everything’s to hand, pretend confessional, makeshift kindergarten.

 

Your symmetrical windows lose track of East and West,

time of day becomes conjectural, almost like being in hospital.

 

Aeroplane your view stretches past wingtips to cold burn horizon:

clouds, that beneath the wheels promise illusions of soft lands.

 

It is reported that you can fly into rockfaces, pylons, or similar,

or disappear entirely from view, less than a speck in the sea.

 

Which is perhaps why you speak so lightly breezily easy

the captain and cabin crew delighted to have everyone on board.  

 

Reassuring knowing infectious cheer will touch down before long

together with everyone else, huddled in square formation.

 

Having, thanks to you, experienced extensive frequent flight

perhaps passengers no longer wonder about being birds.

 

Joining the avians, behaving becoming them, is achieved:

one more dream to tick off on humanity’s to-do list.

 

Pineapple juice sharply acid in silver box foretells a destination

or chalky biscuits busting from zip-bag, tea in a one-use.

 

The national dish reduced to a cultic culinary cube

arrives with irons, via a waitperson attentive as a kangaroo.

 

Aeroplane, to watch your shadow dart across fields and forest

inexorably over rivers and glint, is to catch a minute’s content.

 

Your re-run romcom concludes in unconditional bliss (again)

a thousand miles left for you to move, your viewers not an inch.

 

As the lovers, a tubular belle and headphone beau, at last

hit the ground running, there to halt happily ever after.

 

Luggage, meanwhile, moves around abstractedly like the clouds

outside your symmetry, all with a mind of their own.

 

Tin feathers know the score through storm and super tailwind:

ranks of rivets hold you fast, a riveting ride.

 

For now you are quiet beers, muted orchestras on tap

lullaby corners, an aerial dormitory closer to stars coming out.

Orchestra

 

ORCHESTRA

 

(in order of entry entrancingly)

 

accordion accordingly

bassoon buffoonily   

clarinet cleverly

didgeridoo digitally

euphonium euphorically

flute fluently

glockenspiel gearwheeliely   

harmoaniously harp

invisibly intoxicating

jinghu janglyjingly

keyboard kerboomally

lyre lyrically

marimba maraudingly

now noisily

obstinately oboe

piquantly piccolo

quite quietly

recorder recklessly

suitably sitar

tremendously trumpet

ukelele usefully

voluminously violin

wistfully whistle

xylophone xeroxly  

yearningly yes

zither zippily

 

PHILIP HARVEY

probably poem started circuitously circa 2014,found inconclusively incomplete in a file filmily early 2026 and thus completed complexedly, also an acrostic accompanyingly:

 

organ orgiastically

rattle rightfully

cello celestially

horn hornily

electively electronica

sinfully synthesiser

triangle tingly

rainstick riskily

alto alternately