Aria One.
One
snowy winter night a poet walked
through
the crunchy ice down the old laneway.
He
had heard the voice of God in his day,
and
believed this deity spoke and talked
with
those who composed song and word, the joys
of
the realms above. Yet, this cold evening
he
heard nothing, knew no glorious ring,
and
his melancholy, dismal alloy.
No
combination of note and wisdom
could
alleviate his inner torment
from
decay to risen hope in this time.
There
were decorations of the season,
but
they did not raise his spirits; lament
was
the only note on his tongue, not rhyme.
Strumming
his guitar, he sang of Moss—girl
down
the road that he imagined was saint
as
she was still young, with long dark hair plaited
as
if in a Renaissance painting, pearl.
Her
purity was lovely as her skin,
freshwater-pale
with such lustrous
lines
that local others were covetous.
Singing
the Christmas story of her kin,
now
shepherds of the street with their niche,
to
denote a few of those who blithe cared
to
visit her Mary under the eaves.
Where
she sat on the porch, with smoky titch
of
a cigarette in her hand, she fared
as
a child ’neath a tree of tattered leaves.
Yet
one tree in her mind stood against blue
frosty
sky, and the stain of its glass-like
open
air—with a church, its streaming light
down
the road, door swung open, misconstrued
altar
call that one could see to the cross.
Somehow
the janitor had forgotten
to
lock the door: Virgin’s new begotten
babe
Jesus was bright visible to Moss.
She
languished there that she was invited
to
heaven, where icons forever lived,
and
her birth father’s petty thievery
was
overlooked, by someone short-sighted;
the
scooped chocolate mint ice cream was craved
by
her mother, who scolded peevishly.
Moss
hung her head in shame, the church door swung
shut
in disbelief, that any pure would
enter
its fold, as sheep to a shepherd.
The
call had mercy-come. The bells had rung.
Her
mother and father must have then made
her
exempt to salvation. If only
this
combination—bright-eyed love, souly
stealth-given
to any eager patched-faith
passerby
as a form of last bitter
penance
to sit on the stoop, eventide
and
the chastened violet time of the end—
made
the people’s street poet a writer:
who
stared vacantly blue until he sighed,
and
began again to compose his God-send.
When
all earth reposed, and the world languished
in
silence—there was a hush, and snow fell
on
evergreens, crystal sparkles would tell
of
how both hope and joy were long banished.
Here
were hearkened to this abandoned place
the
angels of shining realms staccato,
and
Gloria, they sang as piccolo—
result
be farmer’s fields of snowy lace.
Onlookers
down below removed their hats,
and
scratched their heads: they had not before seen
such
things. Celestial glorious song
streamed
down, and gentle words of heaven last
could
not help but render the shepherds’ green
pastures
a wider thoroughfare along.
Beneath
this star-filled night, and ever-near,
drew
close to straw manger of a stable,
the
shepherds of rustic lowly hovel
where,
dim in shadows, poverty their tears.
Here,
they gathered dressed in shepherd’s rough cloaks,
and
baby’s song was new and innocent:
to
their wounds, cloth and cooling liniment,
the
crux of restoring, to their cries; smoke
rose
from the fire. They held their hands to warmth,
they
grinned from ear to ear, now excited—
life
and love had sounded their calling to the poor.
Witnesses entered new sacred re-birth,
from the child Emmanuel, once blighted
under
an oppression to dusty floor.
Here,
one babe anew would enter this light
pronouncing
browned ragamuffins worthy
of
redemption, despite faces swarthy.
Abundant
harvest trumped the dark earth’s blight.
One
trumpet-shaped flower would sound its horn,
and
with its solo shape the hearts accrued
of
women from flagrant to wanting true,
of
men from lust to cherishing pure morn ...
White
curtains in the window were hung bright,
and
Moss had a ring on her finger shine.
The
subtle diamond spoke of a poet
who
lived down the street, was walking one night—
the winter moon shone through the needled pine,
Christmas
Eve, when presents occupied most.
Aria
Two.
Far
in the East, they travelled through the night—
Magi
who followed the star to the child—
astronomers
who were learned men, mild
was
the kingdom they sought by this pure light.
In
regal clothing of kings, they passed on
through
town and country, all in desert line,
their
gifts to present, gold and perfume fine:
frankincense
and myrrh to the Virgin’s son.
What
would they give, beyond the holy grail?
Could
wise men so wealthy now give their hearts?
What
would be their ebony life’s true call?
Was
there a king, who, without gifts, looked frail;
and
usually his donkey drew a cart.
With
their off’ring he triumphed o’er the fall.
Precious
oil streaming down at such a thing!
His
radiant face to be found by men:
amid
the turmoil of the furthest sin
and
farthest country’s scarlet heart, beating.
Studying
the dark sky would lead them on
through
forest and over river, through field;
he
was a truly long awaited child,
the
ancient Holy Scriptures from of old
predicted
it, had prophesied a King.
This
new King would be a King over all,
his
reign would extend to the far countries,
to
the ends of the earth, where children sing
of
his love, women—lullaby, cradle—
and
men at this great act of mercy, weep.
Through
thicket and thorn, men will seek him still,
dressed
in all garments, rich, and poor, comely
child-king
with a voice that calls out, lovely
on
the mountains, deep and rich in the hills,
and
in the valleys like the smoothing wind,
blowing
the cypress here and there, soothing
our
distress: coming to earth, repealing
our
sentence from a curse, and rescinding
the
Jewish Law for our sakes, our old chains
that
would convict us, enemy seers
instead
of friends. Loss of that enmity
allows
us to behold his face and reign,
adopt
his patterns, running like the deer,
falling
rain into the desert. Glory!
Like
myrrh in your being, Emmanuel,
you
are being accustomed to kind love,
that
you are Christ-child from the realms above;
those
who adore you carry your sandals.
Those
who are trained in classical arts paint
you
in the halls of palaces of earth;
you
reside also in the homes of dirt—
for
there, joy—laughter is heard of the saints.
Here
now, you have holiness ascended,
you
have risen into all earth’s glories,
you
have taken our evil by surprise.
From
shining Jacob’s Staircase descended,
while
the hero of our children’s stories,
the
feature of our aching thoughts, surmise.
Like
frankincense, you are prepared for life
and
for death, you are entombed and adorned
with
lilies around your neck, and the horn
of
plenty accompanies us: believe
that
I who was protected and kept safe
will
also keep you. In the depths of care,
you
are fragrant bathed, dried in my long hair,
also
prepared as a warrior for strife.
You
next—loudly sound my trumpet of war—
for
you are armed as if by fine silver;
the
very eyes of Christ can see in you.
His
retinas of blue tansy are aware
that
his life in you will be a river;
living
water that refreshes your soul.
Like
gold, you are costly and of value,
for
eternity, you are accepted
as
one—by my great wealth—now provided
for,
and my kingdom of heaven, to sue
for
divorce the old realms of want and fear:
the
curse on humankind has now been stayed.
Divided
in mind between plenty’s face,
and
water and blood, there is a thorn-pierced
Saviour
who shed his cloak for this dark world:
his
crimson blood poured out, his love now streamed
unrestricted,
censored, too explicit—
in
purity, a wild lily, a pearl,
too
stricken on the cross of Calvary,
and
in his dark, obscene death, complicit.
Moss
looked up from the altar where she knelt,
the
shepherd had opened the door again
to
the sanctuary, leaving Satan,
as
this Jesus in his church was heart-felt.
The
devil sat on the dusty doormat,
to
be rejected, as some called Jesus
to
turn water into wine, for reasons
unknown,
to fill the copper wedding vat;
and
to walk on water, to be stable,
to
wax eloquent in verse—the poet
concluded
now—in pen, with a flourish
on eloquent parchment on the table.
Here
was where winsome bride of Christ lowered
her
sea-eyes, and held out her hands, nourished.
Aria
Three.
The
poet opened his scroll, this favourite,
he
read again of how he had been saved
from
the fire of purification, slave
to
sin, he had needed a pure Saviour.
His
spirit had rejoiced that Moss was now
as
beautiful as the Virgin Mary,
out
beneath the night where she was starry—
she
twirled under the snowflakes falling down.
The
church kept Moss beneath their feathered wings,
taught
her how to practice lent and goodness,
how
to be a Christian wife with hands out—
she
worshipped at the Saviour’s feet,
a
woman with her head covered, modest.
The
poet reading, her husband, had clout.
The
steaming world would not come to an end
without
the poet having the last word:
a
gnarled pear tree grew up in the sheep fold,
with
fruit for all that travelled ’round the bend—
wizened
road—it was a juicy harvest.
All
those sheep who would enter this domain,
under
the shepherd’s direction remain
(with
bent crook and navy corduroy vest).
The
poet’s chivalrous words would rivet—
Moss
now wore dresses to the fire-warmed floor—
she
was his queen of an eternal vein—
in
linen and in emerald velvet:
dame
in stone castle of words unspoken,
and
he was builder of the last door’s frame.
The
poet and Moss dined on wine, coarse bread,
drizzled
with olive oil. Stew with onions,
sheep
feta in salad with tomatoes and scallions,
she
sewed their soft clothing with silken thread.
The
hunters brought them their caught hares, wild game,
from
the ceiling the brass pots hung, glowing,
teapots
for Moss to pour black tea, steeping;
she cooked savoury soups, with cream and sage.
Silk,
linen fabric was the mainstay, life
weaving
away—the making of clothing
brought
coloured material from afar,
and
its folds made her slender form a wife,
she,
lighting beeswax wicks, needed nothing,
her
private smile indicated no scar.
Moss’s
hands were blessed with the making of fare,
her
husband was well kept and undefiled,
and
in due time she swelled with child.
They
both grew sleek upon the woolen pears
dripping
juice—they drank, without e’er lacking,
and
their wounds of life no longer blistered:
life
on the porch had been traded for bliss
instead
of a surreal horrifying
reality
that could degenerate
on
any day into despair. Jesus,
not
fortune’s fine lady, smiled on the folk.
Later,
the poet had been handsome paid
for
his artistry, eight million pesos ...
and
on into infinity he wrote.
On
the day her son was born, Moss spoke—
she
had kept her silence all those years, then
singing
to herself when coins were bare spent,
weaving
on through time with unflinching hope—
she
called him “Barron Cypress,” that he was.
He
was to inherit their good castle,
so
his mother stroked, sang him wassail
songs
from the cradle—where he saw
her
kindly nature, and knew repentance.
He
grew in the shadow of the stable,
the
poet wrote pristine words of glass-blue,
and
all who entered there, graciously blessed,
for
they shared repast at his wood table,
and
talked into the night, prayed to be new.
Barron
Cypress studied equally hard
as
his father had, and literature
became
his pursuit. Even he matured
to
a man with chestnut horse, and unmarred,
he
approached the world with serenity
like
a swan in dark waters that swims ’round
the
pond with calm resilience on his brow,
in
firm peace, with frugal regality.
His
volta resounds throughout the poem
of
his father, wisened through many years
of
comforting his wife and lively son,
of
banishing the death from the grey stone,
of
loving God and people through their tears
until,
from the clouds, emerged yellow sun.
The
poet, now aged, carried a cane;
his
hair, fiery white, to platinum rings.
As
he entered the palaces of kings,
and
people stared at him as he was lame.
He
was still something of an oddity
with parchment scroll in hand, bound with leather,
around
the house Moss had planted heather,
told
to demurely fast and when to eat.
For
God still spoke to her oft while in dreams,
when
she was awake she could hear his sound—
insistent
and endearing, he was choice,
only
in her devotion to his means.
When,
on her son’s return, his cry was loud:
as
she lay cold and still, the poet’s voice.
