“There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money either.”                                                             – Robert Graves

The stones of monasteries and convents reveal old secrets. In Spoleto I spent time in a convent at a writers’ workshop and gazed in wonder at Fra Lippo’s frescoes at the Cathedral. In Mulhouse at the Abbaye d’Oelenberg I learned how to paint illuminated manuscripts on parchment in the ways passed down from one generation of monks to the next. At Mont St-Michel I sat down at a desk that had been worn down by monks toiling over manuscripts.

Fra Lippo’s Mary

Fra Lippo Lippi’s hand shook only once
when he brushed the Holy Spirit on the wall,
and God’s dramatic diagonal burst forth
with life, singed the gesso as sparks flew
into Mary’s shoulder. From annunciation
to miraculous creation there is only
a fine line.

Splattered with Umbrian reds that match
the Virgin’s gown, his frayed Carmelite cowl
turned crimson. Pigment ran down his face
drenched hair and beard and blurred his vision
burnt and raw. From conception to the real
Fra Lippi’s arduous journey was not
Immaculate.

Outside the Duomo of Santa Maria
the ailing friar shook a stained fist at God.
“Do you see what I must deal with to make
you visible?” Blinded by the setting sun,
he limped down the hill to bed Lucrezia,
his virgin’s model. Not a model virgin.
Chiaroscuro.

Inside the Duomo shadows outline Mary’s
form. Behind stale incense smoke her hands
shape questions with clenched fingers. Why me?
Are we made in God’s image? Can God
be made in ours? Alas, even Mary
continues to gaze down. She cannot fathom
that fine line.

 

Illuminations                                                         

A millenium ago monastic silence
muffled the whispers of fragile pens,
moving over dry parchment, letting light
seep through ancient wisdom, while
massive walls embalmed their texts,
and cramped fingers mediated knowledge
letter by letter
word by word
page by page
until a lifetime of toil loomed large
magnum opus, singular.

Today Mont St. Michel’s lofty stones
spiral out of the sea, teem with tourists,
tramping upward, yearning pilgrims,
seeking some immediate truth in a
museum for masses, pockets filled
stone by stone
trinket by trinket
relic by relic
until the monks’ dim shadows melt into
bland images on faded T shirts:
“What I did last summer.”

In nearby Avranches the manuscripts
emit their old brilliance under glass.
Ordinary words immortalized by color,
icon, form. In the corner a slanted desk of oak
with gouge marks, ink stains, carved initials
letter by letter
smudge by smudge
cheek by cowl.
Desire. No otherworldly wishes from this monk.
Red blood ran through his veins.