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http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,15320.0.html (1-2)
http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,15300.0.html (3-4)
http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,15314.0.html (5-6)
http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,15330.0.html (7-8)
http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,15365.0.html (9.)
http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,15367.0.html (10.)
http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,15393.0.html (11.)
http://www.poetrycircle.com/index.php/topic,15413.0.html (12-13)
14.
In which Saints Helena, Zygmunt & Jeanne return with Gabriel“Mom! Mom!”
the Emperor Constantine cries out.
Wrapped in Gabriel's weblike wings
appear the saints who flew to Earth
for help.
Helena's radiant.
“Look! Look!” she shrieks.
“We have a letter from Obama!
And National Security Adviser General James Jones
met with Zygmunt—conflated him with Zbigniew Brzezinski,
but we ran with it.
Obama says his plate is filled
with bankruptcy and war on terror,
but Hillary might stop here
on her way back from Kabul,
kiss one or two malnourished kids—
you know. So, well, no concrete help,
but more expressions of concern than you could shake a stick at!
Plus we saw U2's bus, hurtling homeward.”
“Did you get to see the Michael Jackson movie?”
wonders Acca of Hexham.
“No, sadly not—all seven shows, sold out,” Helena says.
“Maban has gotten so bored with the choreography up here,”
Acca repines. “I'd rather hoped—“
“Stop! Hope no more!
The only shows they still had tickets for
were at 11:30 in the morning;
and not even Maban wants
to see the King of Pop
enough to miss his lunch.”
“How did the Humans take to seeing all of you again?”
asks Gomer.
“The Angel G here had a chance for a big entrance
but he blew it!” Zygmunt chuckles. “We arrive right
at the scene of the Annunciation, just in the middle
of their Candlelight Procession for the Beatification
of the Venerable Marie-Alphonsine Ghattás, founder
of the Rosary Sisters—and so what does Big G do?
He cloaks us!
He fucking cloaks us!”
“The only ones we actually appeared to,” Helena says,
“were Jones and that poor ticket girl at Gallery Place.
She didn't bat an eyelid, what with
A Christmas Carol,
Precious, Men Who Stare at Goats, Paranormal Activity,
Boondock Saints II, 2012, and Michael Jackson playing
on the same day! Not too much escapes General Jones—
he created MARPAT, that new pixelated camouflage
that the Marines use—but with his Commander's Cross
of the Order of the Lithuanian Grand Duke Gediminas
and the Grand Cross of the Knights of Saint Benedict
of Aviz, he never noted our outlandish garb and wings.
We all could easily live down there, with no problem.”
“Good," Ophrah says. “If Gomer's astronavigation
doesn't shape up in another thousand years or so
and get us back to Nin, Plan B is definitely Earth.”
“Nin?
“Yes, like Anaïs. Did you know her name is Angela?
Angela Anaïs Juana Antolina Rosa Edelmira Nin y Culmell.
Like she was, we are paradoxic: passive, autonomous;
our passion was aroused by what another was, and did,
but burned so hot, no one could cool or govern it."
“I'm curious,” says Helena. "My diaries, you know, were blue
enough to raise some eyebrows too: my early life
as a young stablemaid, a
bona stabularia as Ambrose wrote, and my successful
quest to find the Burning Bush—
unify it with the True Cross—
let supernatural sparks fly—
and bring pax to Rome
beyond imagining.
So your Nin
interests
me."
"One of our Siths contains that Golden Legend:
Adam, on deathbed, sends his third son Seth
to Michael for a seed from Eden's Tree of Life;
Seth puts it in his father's mouth; and sprouts,
from his grave, the shittah tree whose youth burned
bright on Horeb, whose adult wood Tyre's King
Hiram lent to Solomon to build a ramp to welcome
Queen of Sheba's feet; then is entombed until
its resurrection, to support Christ's crucifixion.
You'll see our Siths and other social institutions
just as soon as Gomer gets his act together.”
“You should have named your nation Nag,” It says.
"But look at you—it isn't far."
Her honey-hued complexion shimmers eggplant;
gray eyes tighten in their sockets.
“Let's stop now,” Helô suggests, “and make a plan.
We can't just drop out of the sky, a quarter million strong.”
“I'll fly ahead with Gomer for permission from my father.
He will never turn back other creatures seeking refuge.”
“Are we but
seeking refuge?” asks an archangel in the back.
“Does the death of God, who kept us from political self-rule,
now sentence us to more dependency?”
15.
In which the gates of Nin arriveBefore Ophrah finds the wits to answer,
a loud rattling—a screech—a thump—;
as if a ship makes dock in midnight fog,
not far away.
“Hello! Look here!”
a voice hails, a familiar
one, by her reaction;
joy blazons her face.
Her father smoothly glides
up from invisibility, and into sight,
as if a bubble blown
with oxygen of light,
burst from a world of ink
and broke
against the surface of the voyaged minds,
a shimmering sprite
on wings a deep metallic blue,
in sleeveless jumpsuit, plum;
hair fashionably spiked,
tips dyed to match—
far younger-looking and more avant garde
than loyal angels fresh from Heaven come,
who never aged,
but lacked all innovation in deportment,
clothes and hair,
and so resemble antiquary objets d'art.
“You emptied heaven, Ophrah!
I recall these faces
from pictorial histories,
old masters' paintings,
plates in
Paradise Lost.Welcome, illustrim, celebrim!
I'm Digel, handsome throne
who watchdogs Nin.”
The loyal angels gape;
they've heard of the debauchery
attending reproduction
beyond the birth control of God's authority;
of coarse food
chomped and chewed, like lower beasts.
But how the fallen grew mighty in style!
Ophrah leaps into her father's
well-toned arms,
and as she wreathes his neck with hers,
they see: she's in a period costume--
not the good, old-fashioned
angel girl they had believed!
What was she wearing underneath?
How provincial Heaven was;
a saint's retired life,
approximating angels.
Play harp? see God? wear white?
Better than being flayed by angry Huns,
but how much further could you take it?
“Here's the long and short of it,”
Saint Pete tells Digel.
“God died and Heaven turned to hell.
Can we live here?
If not, we can return to Earth.”
“We're kin,” says Michael
the archangel.
“Though we made war on you
and won,
if you had sued for peace
we would have granted it.
Now we sue for accommodation here.
We will negotiate.”
Digel lifts a shapely eyebrow
toward Helô.
"Would you mind opening
the handbag, ma'am?"
“It's Christ,” she says.
“Not what He used to be,
but Him.
I'll tell you right upfront,
He has to have carte blanche,
or we won't stay.”
“You've all
three spoken well.
Such ready frankness helps
to quell
the age-old
fears I feel.
Still,”
Digel
says, puffing his chest. “I'll
need to talk to Christ myself.”
“A bad idea,” says Helô. “He's—“
“Nevertheless.
"Ophrah, go in,
your mom
is in the kitchen.”
“Daddy, He's not Himself!
You always say that evil's
in the eyes of the beholder.
If you're not wise and bold enough
to welcome Christ unseen,
be bolder!”
“Well said: 'Be not afraid.'
But my responsibility to Nin
takes precedence to pride.”
“This is the Girl from Ipanema,
the song you say played in your head
the day you first saw Mom.
You can't believe that's a coincidence!
Let Helô vouch for Him, His innocence.”
“She may be right; I hope she is.
Our words of light are partly His.
Her testament is silver.
His is gold.
But how can I believe a pledge
I haven't yet been told?
Now go inside, child,
please!”
“What went ye to the wilderness to see?”the mite inside the Vespa squeaks.
“Suffer the little children unto me!
Arise, take child and mother, flee!”“Do you renounce renouncing us?”
“Man ought not live by bread alone!
Not my will but Thine own be done!”“All well and good. But what's your claim
on his creation since your father's death?”
"They have no wine!
Cast pearls to swine!
Give us this day our daily bread!
The dead will bury their own dead!”“On wings of blood and bile
we came here, almost dead,
and buried those who were.
This is no game to angels here.”
“O thou of little faith, why dost thou doubt?
If thine right eye offends thee, pluck it out!”“He's hurt, sir,” Helô begs.
“He means no disrespect.”
“A rabid beast is deadly twice.”
“Not rabid but harmlessly daft;
you would be too if each cliché
you ever mouthed was hailed.
He wants a cozy place to hide,
a nurse to cosset, dandle him,
and an occasional sweet snack;
no more than that.”
“How do you know what such a hybrid
creature wants now, or will want anon:
caprice his chief inheritance from God;
and who is less predictable than men?”
“The very hairs upon your head are numbered!
What God hath joined let no man put asunder!
The first shall be last and the last be first!
He that believeth on me shall never thirst!
I came not to give peace but the sword!
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor!
A bruised reed he shall not break!
Spirit is willing but flesh is weak!”===
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