BASILIQUE SAINTE-MADELEINE





 

 

It is because of the inexpressible

in the end, that the world is resolved

(or resolves itself) into poetry;



 

only the large mirror (or the small)

is chaste, is just enough.  Disinterested

as gray pebble, humble word,



 

like a child chasing after his father,

gazing up at her mother, guilelessly

the poem rhymes with its theme.



 

So you attune yourself to sound

and imagery, just as you stand

before a Bruegel panorama:



 

just as Bruegel too stood motionless

while horsehair flickered (lightly,

across canvas) a world to life.



 

And these twin mirrors form a node

or square of light – a vanishing point –

where your heart goes out



 

to the intrepid harmony (Rostropovich

alone, at night, in the cold basilica

in Vezelay.  Wooden cello,



 

catgut strings, horsehair bow... and

Bach sails up into the stony choirs

forever and ever – inexpressible



 

communion, woven

of earth and heaven, laced – a unison

of heartfelt fingers, with – infinity) –