Bernini for Easter

The lovely portrait of death writing is from the tomb of Pope Urban VIII (1627-1647) in the Vatican. Death is writing Urban's name. I cribbed this from Doug Blanchard's blog. Doug is an artist living in New York City.

here's a poem and an image i made

THE CITIES ABANDONED

The cities abandoned. I saw you

Walking there long after the others

Had left. It was as if a huge

Truth stretched out in front of you.

It glowed and had teeth, sparkling

Pointed and sure to find flesh

Before feeling. Great winds

Filled with lightning moved

Throughout its body.

Could this be the same place

Where we had made love together?

Could this shower of glow discharging

Ether be the same feelings

That once were tender in our hearts.

Oh poor mankind, to be caught so far

From harbor on this night,

Slouched and desperate far from

Arms that love you.

“Come home.”, I said

But none could hear angel music

In this place, save animals

And the pure of heart.

Waterfalls As Jewelry

Finally all of Lake Erie moves over Niagara Falls.

Not like it has had a choice since the Lacustrine

Plains weren’t plains at all but the shores of great

Bodies of water, children of glaciers six thousand

Five hundred feet thick at times. The kind of thing

We might keep in our pockets and pull out from time

To time to show our closest friends are waterfalls.

The glaciers still don’t fit. Ice is not meant to be

Understood. We can keep the waterfalls as tokens

On short chains we can attach to our belts. This

Is Victoria, this is the Gullfoss, this is Angel,

Sometimes it touches my shoes. You can see my footsteps.

I can carry Niagara, all of it. The Horseshoe huge

In my back pocket like a wallet.

The smaller American and a charm with the Bridal

Veil attached to it. I can whirl it around and around.

When I open my mouth you can hear the rapids

In my voice, wordless and full of power.

I am surprised by veering off of course occasionally,

The faithfulness of sunlight and the manner of birds.

I am Dettifoss and Gottifoss, Kaieteur and Sutherland.

You can wear me as a belt , a skirt of Iguazu dropping

totally without fear into your life and feeling it is doing

Something valued because of this, unarguably.

I will light up all your cities.

SHAPED NOTE SINGING

A cabin perched on the edge

Of a view that overlooked forever.

One could see from a great

Distance for no man made structure

Was anywhere near it. We used to

Sit in our camp in the valley below,

Gazing up at it every night. The

Light from this place was like a beacon

Over acres of nothing, forest, watercourses,

Wildlife and weather. No one knew

Who owned it or why it was

Located in such an unusual place.

As children we made up stories

Concerning its history and thrall.

Now, we know this cabin more

Intimately. The events of our lives

Are connected with it almost

Like a fable or an old, embroidered

Folk tale. All our being has been in reference

To this cabin. At times it does not seem

Real at all, but a wayward star or distant

Fire, a spirit or a messenger of some kind.

Soon we will leave here and go

To this cabin. Our grandparents and

Our parents have done this before us.

We have been told that we might meet

Them there again. These stories are

Like a religion to us. We will go

When it is our time to do so; when

We are too old for other tasks.

How strange that a simple cabin

Should have such power over our lives.

We feel that our beliefs my be mysterious

To others. Perhaps different yet similar

Events may have such sway in other places.

We ask this only as fancy. Our hearts

Delight in such a fine mystery.

The photo is called LINE- The poem appeared in Medusa's Kitchen

UNABLE TO EXPLAIN

We sat on the edge of the blue
Inlet and listened for the question
To become complete. A slight
Drift of smoke carried the scent
Of the cities through our clothing,
Peeling layer after layer of feeling
From us as if it were the heart,
Caught in its room of ribs and breathing,
Unable to understand hands, the movements
Of high mountain goats among the pinnacles of forgetting.

Sounds poured forth from us,
Continents of them, ripe and with
A million yellow mouths, all wanting
Something other than words could
Give, caught in melody and stripped
Before our eyes of the darling vestments
So beloved by men everywhere;
Truth, Knowing, the Sublime, Instinct.
“All lost, lost,” the captain said, unable
To recognize the land any longer.

We have no maps for things like this.
We are forever thinking we know
What will happen. We are forever
Calling, searching for echoes, the voice of angels,
The smiles of children blessed with tenderness,
Founded in waking up to see the sun
Slipping between the window blinds,
Not a dream at all, rather a way of knowing.
We embrace them and weep endlessly.
We name ourselves rain forest.

PANIS ANGELICUS

The hour of the Angelus.

The shortest day of the year.

The room all but deserted

But for the figure resting

On the bed, not on light depending.

Hail Mary. The grace of sleep

Through her fine bones

Lift her to vision.

Elizabeth in the next room

Hears nothing, but the soft light

Has a music to it.

Be it done unto me according

To thy word. The language of flowers.

The angel may or may not have

Beautiful wings, may or may not

Be genuflecting next to Mary,

May or may not be whispering,

May or may not be a dreaming,

But the soft light has a music to it.

O res merabilis! Unaque poscimus

Sic nos tu visita, ad lucem quam inhabitas.

Translation:

What wonder! We beg of you

That you visit us, the light in which you dwell.

RELATIVE TO THE SPEED OF THE PAST

My mother’s twin brother was killed

At Normandy Beach while hanging

A telephone line from a pole. Never

Saw it coming. Came back in the

Late summer. The funeral was at home.

He was a handsome man, young and

Beautiful with a kind voice and a bright

Future. There were so many who did

Not come back. Every small town had

Some kind of board listing their dead sons.

Faster than that his nephews and nieces

Were growing old and laughing at how

They looked in the nineteen sixties, how

Long their hair was, how idealistic they were.

Even younger, their children are showing

Off their new babies and are being fussed

Over by relatives. There is still a war. It

Is much more informal these days. No

Boards with names on them in elementary

Schools. Now there are national monuments

With names on them. One must go to Washington

D.C. or the state capitol to see who these people were.

They still gave the same thing as their relatives,

Their lives. It isn’t legal, or barely so, to show

the boxes of the dead coming home.

The speed of the past is wildly furious.

Soon it will be lost again as it always is.

Soon we will stand in the fields of dead

And not one name will carry us away.

We will know nothing once again, implicitly.