Hagiography
Sharbel, adolf, rafka, filumena
1.
LUMENA
Arrows, anchor, lance, lilies
Martyr, hope, vicinity, virgin
What does Bonavenia say to Professor Marucchi? (1904-6)
What does Pius VII say to Napoleon? (1802
Preface:
The uses of lives, when put to use.
It is not enough to be enough.
But to act. To do.
from poesis to praxis.
The uses of bones.
The uses of names.
The uses of phials of blood,
which turn to certain precious
stones. To stop the warring,
both carnal and spiritual, finally
and for good.
Butlered, lives.
Excavations and exhumations
of my grief could be grace
from some other life.
Didn’t she cross the alps in a cart
drawn by oxen?
Her servant saying to her chaplain:
She will die of the effort!
But she did not and found something.
And when the casket rested in the house
of the book dealer—Maples—didn’t
the house smell of roses?
The bishop’s little Queen of hEARts.
ONE: the phials of blood.
TWO: the skull
THREE: bones & ashes
FOUR: bones & ashes
FIVE: bones & ashes
THE OPENING OF THE TOMB
Of course, you have seen the original tiles disarranged:
LUMENA : PAXTE : CUMFI
with arrows on the first tile,
right to left and bottom to top,
with a branch to the right
of the P, with a lance
upward next to the C.
Below a further inscription:
hi tres lateres ossa
divae philumene v et
m.
Next line: xv fere
saeculis
tumulata servarunt.
On the righthand side, an anchor,
on the left, a lance.
It was in the papers.
So despite heat,
the crowds came to the
exhumation. Cynics won over
by the miracle of the blood—
turned to precious stones.
The body was whole
for a moment, but
in the air, fell
into 5 pieces.
Fifty years later, Victor Auguste Dechamps,
a former liberal saw it.
He said:
Need I tell you what happiness I saw:
Blood shed for love of virginity …
rubies, emeralds, flakes of gold and silver
suspended in the deep liquid.
The ampullae sealed her.
She was 13.
The stonecutter was
illiterate. He broke the tile
on the right.
In dark times (Pius IX) the gems turn black.
Once she was mocked and the blood
turned to dust for 3 days.
Later the lonely man died
at a dinner party,
unready to meet the girl.
Nightingale, womaning among the war,
she brings us silence:
45% death, 12% death.
I wanted to go to Colombia
but they would not hear of it.
This room. I am besieged by
visitors. Myself lost.
The bishop held the body
in his arms and carried it
to the table where
the women dressed her. The lamp.
They made a new skin
from papier mache.
Occasionally over the years
the body shifts,
reclining back
then pulling forward. As if
flying in her sleep
by some special exertion.
But always returns to its favorite shape.
The box has an ebony frame
and large glass panels.
She sits on the softest cushions.
She lives above the altar.
The scarf around her neck was found
to be soaked
in fresh blood.
lumena.anemul
2.
PAXTE
Cimafonte. Don Giovanni. DIXIT:
A sharp crack broke the slab
of marble down its length.
The finger of the girl
cured it.
She is more seductive than George. Sand. Purity. How many
people
have said so? How many people
Have heard that inadvertent laugh
in how many streets?
Those girls crowded at the bazaar
at Balaklava.
Looking over the people,
She blushes, closes her eyes again.
Wax babies on the walls.
Marianna, knowing only, one song ,
Mocked the girl.
Open your eyes for me!
She only knows one song.
And how can you open empty eyes?
One song!
Timid girls were fired.
Fiery girls were chastened.
Open your eyes! One song!
Glass eyes , wax babies, fingers, legs
and the couch on which Madame
was carried over the alps.
an invalid, ex votos.
BULBUL
And coming November 21 to Scutari,
just when the casualties arrived
from Balaklava, the place
where I lay `12 days with fever.
It was there I met Plato and
Pseudo-Denis.
Regarding the health
of the British Army: You can see
by the smell of the wounded,
foul, their hands reach up for something
floating above their pallet,
just out of reach.
I walked alone into England
and retired to my room
for …
I have lost count of the years.
Jowett visited with the Timaeus.
I could suffocate. Lamping.
Lamping.
Cleaning the inches of the bodies
of the young men. I candled
their delirious heads.
I’ve a boy inside.
It is. I have been to Balmoral
and visited the Queen,
wearing her shadows.
In Egypt I met some nuns
Of vincent de Paul. It is warm.
It is all full of news of adventures
In Illium. Stalemate.
Actually paris was beautifully
fallen for a woman
who laughs.
I have never slept with a man,
bed crowded with nightingales, Philomela.
The arrows are from god, the lance
is from god, the anchor
is from god The lilies from god.
My ampullae. Paxte. come.
A woman walked from the smoking car and stepped
on a bomblet. She is the last to die in this desert!
She turned to redmist, not enough to fill an ampullae.
She saw the sand turned to rubies.
3.
CUMFI
He is coming back to his senses and coming back to god …
Just glance seems to
shift love
and break the triangle
or set her in an honored place
and she will care for neglected
children, destitute mothers.
In a dark room, a girl holds
the child against her startled
mother. A nun feels the pressure
on her arm and sees the bruise
for the rest of the day. She
makes silver eyes
for the statue.
“Throw wide your doors and
windows, you girls
who live in the town!”
Today we are harvesting roses.
The story is simple:
She lived in ashes. But wore
Music. Charming.
Her soft skin. No years.
An unguarded laugh. Sounded like rain.
The soldiers clicked.
They had no arrows but their eyes.
They had no lances but their cocks.
They had no anchors but their hands.
They had no lilies but their tongues.
She closed her eyes, then.
Not 13. 12.
Not a bone was broken.
Not only a heart but an EAR.
They seemed louder than storms.
I could think rivers and be buried
Underground for a thousand years.
I have not done anything to deserve
Happiness or holiness. I have laughed.
The soldiers carried her
in their arms to a shadow.
An ebony box. With large windows.
Open your eyes! One song!
I can scream the sharp leaves of an oak
each lighted by separate drops of sun.
But with these metal tongues
we will be silent, her live tongue whispering
at her feet. She reclines silent
in that room for … I have lost count.
Is it is here?
Youva a boy inside!
A splinter of bones. Her story.
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