My Madonna

I wrote this sneakily in my planner during an English Literature lesson while my teacher strode about animatedly throwing bible passages at us about the Madonna at us in conjunction with a book we were studying (The Magic Toyshop by Angela Carter). Being my wayward self, my attention span slipped, and when I chanced to hear what he was saying I assumed my teacher was talking about Madonna, the singing sensation rather than the virgin Mary. It took me longer than I care to admit to realise my mistake, but the idea stuck with me. It seems to me to symbolise the modern disillusion with religion. In my class of twelve we only had one Christian who understood the references in our texts, and it made me wonder about how we lost touch with something which was integral to the formation of our society. I am atheist, but even I can see how our social conventions, such as the weekend, come from the Christian religious beliefs. So here's a little poem on the topic for you all to enjoy.

My Madonna

Madonna, with your pointed bras,

Your pure red lips,

And your immaculate body,

Teach me how to sing.

We worship you from the stalls,

Our eyes look to you,

Cradling a foreign babe in your arms.

We were taught about you,

head swaddled in blue,

Your eyes so kind, I thought

how you had thinned to almost nothing.

I am glad you stepped up from the limelight,

stopped hiding behind bearded faces,

But somewhere along the line you lost your immaterial halo,

Somewhere along the line

We lost touch.