Ephrastic April, Day 25: "Assisi"

"Assisi" (circa 1883-1910) by Annie Louisa Swynnerton [1844-1933].

the fact that birds
can fly even higher
than the fortifications

of Assisi

must have given Francis
hope for man's soul


© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

Poetry Friday--"Cathedral Tour Guide"

I was a participant in Laura Shovan's "6th Annual February Daily Poetry Project" and wrote a poem on each of the 28 days of February (and the last seven days of January). I've been illustrating some that are not dependent on the original work of art that acted as a prompt. I may be sharing one or two more on future Poetry Fridays.

This is a persona poem, which is defined by The Poetry Archive's glossary, "A persona, from the Latin for mask, is a character taken on by a poet to speak in a first-person poem."

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

Text:

Cathedral Tour Guide

The busload of tourists
gone I sit and breathe
alone, but not lonely.

Those who visit now
are not looking to learn
the history of the window.

We watch the change in
the quality of its colors
as the sun melts away.

Red, now saint's blood.
Not blue, but caelestis.
Yellow? Inferno, of course.

We sit--outer and inner
selves primed to accept
the pending darkness.

Note: caelestis is the Latin root of the word, celestial.


The guide is a product of my imagination and the cathedral is not a particular one. I did think of the "window" as a circular rose window. In reading about windows, I found that a rose window is also known as a "Catherine window," after the 4th century martyr, St. Catherine of Alexandria. (I added a statue of St. Catherine to the illustration.)

This led to a look into Catherine. Here's a quick summary of her story: originally a pagan, at age 14, Catherine had a vision of the Madonna and Child and became an ardent Christian. She had a run-in with emperor Maxentius, a pagan, who tried a number of ways to "persuade" her to renounce her faith. He used torture, starvation, and when that failed, he proposed marriage! Not surprisingly, she refused. He didn't like her response and ordered her executed on a breaking wheel. A breaking wheel was used to crush the bones of the person being executed. Contrary to what it was supposed to do to Catherine, the wheel itself was broken. (The breaking wheel became known as a "Catherine wheel.") Catherine was finally executed by beheading, she was 18. Believe me, her story is much more complex and mystical then my retelling!

Renée at No Water River will be posting this week's Round-Up, please stop by!

Poetry Friday--The Round-Up is Here!

Yes, indeed, the Round-Up is here! Welcome and be sure to leave your links below!

I've been drowning in political discussion and sometimes my poems have a political point to make, but, for the Round-Up I promised to keep my poem non-political. One of the suggestions I received last week was to write a poem about women; another was to write about celebrations.

As suggested, I've written a poem of women. I've been reading a novel that has a saint in it. I'm not a believer, but I am fascinated by the stories of saints. I've used a few over the years as subjects (to see them, click here). The Thérèse in this poem is St. Thérèse of Lisieux:

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

Text:

The Odor of Sanctity

With little Thérèse's final
consumptive breath a scent
of roses diffused through
her chamber. It was recognized
as the odor of sanctity.

Today we might recognize
the scent as something a crazy
lady who heard serpents
hissing in her ears would purchase
at the dollar store in a can.


It isn't exactly a celebration, is it? If you're looking for me the explain it, you're out of luck. It began as one thing and ended up as something else. As Umberto Eco said, "The author may not interpret. But he must tell why and how he wrote his book." I've told you the why and how of my poem, so the interpretation is up to you.

Ready for more poetry? Check out the links below. (I apologize to the earlier linkers, I had the wrong settings. I fixed it, I believe.)

Poetry Friday--Saint George

The feast of Saint George is celebrated on April 23, this coming Sunday. (April 23, 303 is the reported date of his death.) Saint George, is the patron saint of England, Portugal, Romania, and several other countries, and the story of his slaying the dragon has been told and retold over the centuries. Saint George and the Dragon: A Golden Legend adapted by Margaret Hodges from Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene and illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman, is a modern children's classic. It was awarded the Caldecott Medal in 1985.

My poem for today references the sainted man, but is not directly related to his story. It was really written as a woodcut project poem.

So as not to distract you by the vocabulary, let me explain that borborymus is a stomach/intestinal noise (plural = borborygmi). A great word, isn't it? (I believe I originally was introduced to it by Janet B.)

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

Text:
Dragons

A baleful growl at the edge
your consciousness? Or,
simply the borborygmus
of your also-dozing cat?

The air warm, rising,
quivering, with the energy
of a dragon's breath?
Or a fever of your brow?

A swamp crawling with
reptilian creatures hideous
and noisome? Or officious
expressions of power?

We are all of us St. George
daily faced with the task
of curing the imagined and
slaying the borborygmi.

Learn more about Saint George in this book published 110 years ago; click here.

I wrote another Saint George poem two years ago, see it here.

The lovely Tabatha is hosting the Round-Up at The Opposite of Indifference.

Poetry Friday--"St. Lawrence: Assus Est"

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

This is the first saint I have come across who is portrayed as having a sense of humor!

The tale of St. Lawrence of Rome is one of defiance and humor. Lawrence, a deacon of the Church of Rome in 258, was keeper of the Church's treasury. He was responsible for giving alms to the poor. Lawrence's excessive generosity led the Emperor Valerian to suspect that the Church had vast stores of riches. Valerian called upon Lawrence to bring the Church's treasure before him ("render unto Caesar" and all that). Lawrence asked for time to gather it. What he did then was to gather the poor, the sick, and the infirm. These people he presented as the Church's "treasures." Needless to say, the officials were not pleased. Lawrence was martyred. He was placed upon a gridiron (Lawrence is holding it in his right hand, although most of it has been cut out of the picture) and roasted over hot coals until he is reported to have said, "I am well done. Turn me over!"

I've recounted the legend rather briefly, and as expected, there's more to the story. The whole "roasting" incident may be the result of a "typo." The typical description of a martyr was inscribed Passus est meaning "he suffered," the "P" may have been accidentally left off on a description of Lawrence. The resulting Assus est can be translated as "he is roasted." It makes for a much better story than a simple beheading!

Here's the sound effect from the end of the poem.

So, how did this come about? I was playing with fire for the latest Spark challenge and I discovered the St. Lawrence story (after I found St. Florian, the patron saint of firefighters). He didn't fit with the response piece I was working on, but he sure does fit with the heaven and hell theme I've had going over the past few weeks! The response piece will be posted late tonight or early tomorrow. It's got lots of fire in it, too, but no saints!

Linda at Teacher Dance will be hosting the Poetry Friday Round-Up. Enjoy the Labor Day weekend!

Happy Haiga Day!

Click on the image to enlarge for easier reading. Poem © Diane Mayr, all rights reserved. (Originally written for a 15 Words or Less challenge 3/15/12.) Background print, "A view of the landslip from Great Bindon," courtesy Lyme Regis Museum, U.K. "Saint George Fighting the Dragon" by Raphael, courtesy Wikimedia.

Poetry Friday--A Winter Solstice

The winter solstice is a marking of the time when light will begin to return, little by little, leading to its culmination in the summer solstice. For now, in this mid-winter, celebrants light the darkness with fire and candles.

December 13, as you may know, is St. Lucia's Day (Luciadagen) in Sweden, Italy (Lucia was born in Sicily), and other countries. Before the change from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar in 1582, the date of the winter solstice also fell on December 13. It is no coincidence, therefore, that St. Lucia's Day is a celebration marked by lights. It is an example of how Pagan and Christian meld.

The name Lucia (or Lucy) means light or lucidity. St. Lucia (circa 283-304 AD) became the patron saint of those with eye problems and also of glassworkers. The story arose that Lucia, who was blinded, had her sight restored by her faith in God. (Depending on which story, she either plucked her eyes out herself to thwart an unwanted suitor, or, she was tortured by the authorities after a spurned suitor denounced her as a Christian.)

The celebration of St. Lucia's Day in Sweden traditionally begins with a daughter waking her parents and serving them coffee and saffron buns (saffraan broodjes) for breakfast. This child (Lussibrud, which means "Lucy bride") wears a white dress with a red sash, and a crown of greens and lit candles.

Lussibrud

Trembling
with concentration
she carries her head
as if the candles were
not battery powered.

Innocent
but no martyr, she
will have her share
of sweet buns before
catching the bus.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

Carl Larsson, "The Feast of St. Lucy on 13th December, 1916."
As a result of the events of last Friday, I found St. Lucy in my thoughts and wrote this, obviously not in the same spirit as the poem above:

The Day After St. Lucy's Day, 2012

Lucy, your holy-day passed
quietly, unnoticed by most,
and the day that followed
put an end to any thoughts
of the forthcoming light.

A crushing, unrelenting
hopelessness fell upon us,
like it must have come upon
you as the judge ordered your
eyes ripped from your skull.

Who was there for you, Lucy,
enduring your screams? Don't
tell me your God! It was
your mother--only she could
look in your face and not recoil.

Your blindness is your faith.
Your faith is your blindness.
If our vision is to be restored
we will need more than light--
we'll need a mother's selflessness.

You're free to pray, Lucy,
but we have mothering to do.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

18th century oil painting, probably Peruvian, courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Heidi is hosting a special celebration of the solstice and rounding up all the Poetry Friday posts. Visit her at My Juicy Little Universe.

Poetry Friday--St. Agnes

Painting by Domenichino (1620)
Last night was the Eve of St. Agnes.

Stanza VI from the 42-stanza poem, "The Eve of St. Agnes" by John Keats, explains the significance of the night

VI.

They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey’d middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

Imagine sending a young girl to bed with promises of dreaming about her one true love--what maiden wouldn't want to go to bed?

So, who is Agnes? Agnes is the patron saint of virgins. Poor Agnes, a mere girl of 12 years, refused to take part in a unwanted marriage since she had already sworn herself to Christ.

Here's the scoop from A History of the Holy Virginity and Blessed Martyrdom of St. Agnes by Honyel Gough Rosedale (1902):

One day, as she was coming from school through the streets of Rome, the son of the chief magistrate met with her; and, casting his eyes upon her countenance fell in love with the maiden. Not knowing who she was, he got his parents to find out, and to ask her in marriage for him. This they did, and at the same time sent her a great many love-tokens, and promised still more. Some most brilliant ornaments the young man bought himself, such as charm the fancies of young girls: but all were thrust aside by the Blessed Agnes, as if they had been so much dross. It was no part of her study, indeed, to please by beauty of body. But she could not but shrink from the thought of being displeasing to her Lord by any uncomeliness of soul, brought on by her own unfaithfulness to Him.

After much effort on the part of the magistrate's son and his family, Agnes still refused to marry the boy. For her refusal, Agnes was put to death on January 21, just a week short of her birthday on January 28.

Here's my take on Agnes:

Happy Birthday, Aggie!

Twelve years old, just the age
when adolescence begins and
an interest in toys wavers,
eclipsed by a yen for the divine.

Aggie refuses to submit to
the tyranny of hormones
disrupting her dreams and
turning her body against her.

Concerned adults try to mollify
Aggie with baubles. Promises
are made that estrogen dominance
can't begin to reconcile.

Aggie will only refuse! No
trinkets! No! No amity, no
capitulation. Just stubbornness.
Unholy, impure, stubbornness!

Aggie's got a brand new toy.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved

This week Tara at A Teaching Life is hosting the Poetry Friday Round-Up.

The Story of Saint Ursula

After Friday's post I decided to do a little research on Saint Ursula. There's a Wikipedia entry and many other sites. One thing is pretty certain, most of the Ursula story is legend. Here's one short biography from Catholic Saints:

The story and history of Saint Ursula. The legend of St. Ursula and her 11,000 virgins has been greatly modified in modern times. It is suggested that instead of ten companions, each with a retinue of a thousand virgins, she had but one companion, named Undecimilla, and that this name was originally mistaken for undecim millia, or 11,000. Whatever may have been the real facts, it is certain that the church dedicated to St. Ursula at Cologne contains more tombs of virgins than can properly be accommodated. The revenues of this church, which are considerable, belong to an abbess and six canonesses, who, to do honour to the saint must all be countesses. The Legend of Saint Ursula is considered to be fiction and in 1969 Pope Paul VI removed her name from the 1969 revision of the the universal calendar of the Catholic canon of saints.

Here's my take on it:

The STORY of Saint Ursula

Ursula, martyred by the Huns, was
massacred along with eleven thousand
virgins. Eleven thousand! Imagine
these thousands of handmaidens screaming,
pleading, praying, hoping to catch the ear of God.

Imagine the Huns. Burly men, hour after hour
lifting axes, slamming them down, cleaving
bone and sinew. Blood spurting, splashing.
Up to their knees in it, yet, powered by evil,
they remained able to complete the vile deed.

It does not have the ring of truth like the
report of an eleven-year-old girl, murdered.
But, where is the STORY in truth? Hmm...eleven?
What if we say Ursula and eleven others?
Better yet, eleven thousand! Make them virgins!

One innocent child murdered? Sad, but
it happens every day. Virgins decapitated by
ruthless barbarians? Sex and gore magnified!
Throw in God and you've got the medieval
equivalent of the Hollywood blockbuster.

Ursula, baby, it's all about STORY.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved

Vittore Carpaccio created an entire sequence of the "Life of Saint Ursula" paintings. You can find them here.