Lanthanum 11.22

22

When the mist cleared, and I saw blue sky again

I found myself in the shadow of that tall oak

where Natasha & I had squirreled, in Prospect Park.

Then I saw a solitary cloud suddenly halt – descend

just overhead.  It was that Cumulo-Muse herself,

in her C-boat : she stood in the cockpit, smiling,

by a sunny Son of Man – their arms embracing

one another’s shoulders as they piloted a swift

approach.  You’re free now, Henry, Natasha said;

your burden of light lifted, the Way lies open.  &

you no longer need my lens – power of vision

is your own.  Look back toward that river road –

see for yourself.  I turned again toward St. Louis.

Saw an Arch beside the river – its substance now

pure rainbow, while a majestic evening sun, low

in the sky, looked back... radiating calm & peace

in azure & vermilion waves.  When Man returns,

& reckons rightly his redemption, & the Love

from which it stems... then all shall be saved –

Earth will rest, enfold a planetary equilibrium.

We must leave for a while, Henry – you have

yet more to learn now, on your own. & so

off they flew.  I stood there, watched them go...

yet sensed, somehow (under the architrave

nearby) I was not alone.  & then the granite

face of Roger Williams slowly, slyly. slightly

swiveled... smiled... at me.  Hail, Henry, my

friend, the Founder said.  You’ve put it right –

my gospel – all along.  The Father has instilled

the Golden Rule for all mankind to share – none

shall tyrannize over a neighbor, who has known

that Law within.  So Providence will be fulfilled –

when every child imbibes the milk of Agape,

& every soul repents, turns back, is healed.

At last, each one must face his own congealèd

sin : O city corrupt – dark as any sullen satrapy;

& only through that marrow door

can we find wisdom : equilibrium

to wed vocation to res publicum

with conscience – soul coraggio –

a limestone liberty.  Roger lifts an open hand

& waves... & then returns to his engraved

eternity.  Felt, strangely, in my soul, strafed

with deeds misdone.  High tides of suffering &

pain, inflicted on those near to me... neighbors

in life.  Only God’s mercy might redeem my soul

from utmost darkness, desolation.  This the whole

of that beginning of wisdom then : a true remorse.

I closed my eyes.  Seemed to be afoot in dream,

up Morris Avenue, past Temple Emanu-El.  Gold

honeycomb... a sunlit salience, prized as of old

in modesty (‘mid Babylon trials).  Into some

anointing oil... some olive grove.  As if my soul

became a sketch... Cézanne, Bruegel... The Road

to Calvary.  A crowd of peasants, soldiers, rude

jongleurs... hustling a fragile reed into his role

(bent, broken, crucified).  We can’t know You

as You are.  Only a man destroyed by wrong.

Only lamb, splayed for hangry-raging throng...

human emblem of self-murder.  Imago (blue).

I opened my eyes.  I stood on a wide steppe

or prairie, not far from home.  Old Black Elk,

the Catholic Lakota, was making signs (Milky

Way, Evergreen) with his friend Martin (steep

soul of Atlanta).  & then he lifted his clay pipe

toward the six directions, in a diamond shape –

silent, smoky salience; took me by the nape

of my neck – turned me toward the gap

in a rainbow.  Toward the West (beyond Volga

& Dnieper).  Go into the forest now, Henry –

the wilderness.  I follow his peremptory

& fatherly command... into Romania.

Where was I?  Not in Providence Rhode Island.

Infinities of leaves rustled above my head, &

all around.  Shade was dense, trackless.  Thin

bands of light shivered beneath enormous stands

of beech & pine.  I followed a hum of fluting

rills, that seemed to bend & fork into one

stream.  The light intensified... the sun

winked through the branches... something

droned, far off – kaleidoscopic, piercing clang

sustained in waves across sea-slanted prows

of trees.  & then I came into a clearing.  Now

the source of all that sound appeared.  Clad

all in wood, the timber gathered to a peakèd

crown, hid from rude men.  Its wall is icon –

every wrinkled seam & weathered grain sown

with inwoven blessed acolytes.  King David

tunes his psaltery, Maximus gables his book;

Plato & Socrates... Moses & Joan of Arc...

tendrils of grapevines twirl around their walk

through shady sylvan grave (to Jordan-brook).

      6.6.12