11 September, 2020

Working in the medieval imagination: Notes from August

Thunder and rain blot out the odd symphony

of airplanes and commerce trains –

this baptism not a redemption

but a mnemonic.

quaint conversations of the apocalypse over coffee,

weather patterns and the overall 

normal feel of August in an age

when very little feels


Where are we now? This mess

they call middle age. This yard stick

shows up again and into the diatribe

of expectations, the list of boxes

needing ticked to prove

beyond the evidence 

that we

“Made it.”

Renoir's “Woman with a Parasol in the Garden” 

The “Ava Maria” in my ear

no focus

every thing swims in the currents

between Christ Crucified 

and Christ Ascended

and I wonder

did Mary bury her son

before he died?

Before Pilate

before the tree

before Gethsemane

before the Marriage at Cana

or was it then 

when she first saw the world

pull and his failure

to avoid drowning?

Getting there

That insistence to rush

a permanent prepubescent state

wanting to grow

up wanting to grow

a mustache wanting to grow

six inches wanting to grow

a man-sized prick only

to find all the hurry

waiting at the end

Every archway an echo of immortality.

Each piece of stained glass an eye of the divine. 

Christ Crucified in the west / Christ Ascending in the east

and even the damned play a role: the mad

wander the streets and every brick to the face

is a call.

airplanes take flight

crickets symphonize

fading moonlight.

The sun will be later today

than yesterday.

The air is thick with the coming storm.