with pigeon feathers for stone walls

SPRING BREEZE

As in one of those primitive

Sienese masters,

a pained St. Francis

fits inside a pastel arch.  Give

me your poor, your huddled masses

yearning to breathe free...

Over there stands Liberty

vaunting her mural crown (tresses

awash beneath W.P.A. murals).

Sister to Columbia,

dove-principezza

with pigeon feathers for stone walls.

They’re tripping a Troy-town maze

around the cave entrance;

priming some freelance

to buzz the Republic’s toxic haze.

Where Everyman is king

no man is king.

To the sheep he’ll cling,

to the underside of everything.

Like the span of a soft retina

in Providence, RI.

Like the women nearby

when they crucified the guy, selah.

Man or woman, brother, sister...

hearken to the wind.

Spring breeze, unwind –

a breath of renaissance, tongue-twister.

12.13.18

figure for equality

DOUBLE LINE

The Mississippi mottled with ice

a milky translucence

in the limpid air.  Sense

of coral rings solidifying.  Twice

& twice... smoky astigmatism

of a sundog rainbow.

Miss Destiny, Hobo.

Frescoed Siena formalism –

sweet couch of Pax, Justitia,

grave horsehair salience.

A gray circumference

of flags, targets... the palm of Jonah

read into fragile cat’s-cradle

or spiderweb.  A disk

of gold nailed to a casque

(louis, doubloon) – mandala-medal

for Hamlet’s mettle (or Macbeth).

Time circles on a nail;

therein hangs a tail.

Serious blasts off the mast of death.

The little copperplate landscape

of Tower Hill (the Witch’s

Hat) my mother etched

reminds me of Big Bear’s last scrape –

Henry’s author – the buried man

on Arthur Ave.,

#33 (just below

that rise) – black Denmark sun

                   *

son of Dragon Pen.  & round

the table in my heart

Little Bear will shout

for joy – recomposing the sound

of Mendelssohn, his neighborhood

(old Arthur St., where

we’d begun).  Circular

the agate labyrinth, dark with the blood

of Jonah Fisher-King.  The gray

bird croons in the tamarack.

The rigid Minotaur is back –

orange Leviathan in search of prey;

only a copper penny in a well

might draw the milky-grey

dolphin to leap this way,

& breach his livid traitor’s spell.

Only a moon-shot Camelot;

only a breathing dream.

Green island scheme

lifted from pyramidal plot

to float – an almond eye within

a double line, one lofty

figure for equality.

Sign of a Jonah resurrection

(life-saver up from hurricane). 

So pearls shine from a shell

beneath deep ocean-swell,

Earth circling Maypole again.

2.5.17

Dreamsong heads downstream

FRAIL SKY

The sheep in the mosaic, in Ravenna.

Ravens in the scroll,

in the temple (Emanu-el,

off Morris Ave).  & in Siena,

Lady Pax, lolling like Jenna

on the couch, beside

Justitia.  Wide

open, now, your Burchfield scena –

wind, grassland, heartache.

What brung them blues, O shy

bird bro?  Frail sky

disintegrates in Birdy’s eye, beak

cradling bright penguin soot of Man.

Handing his crozier

gently to its heir

a sheepish Father Also-Ran

smiles, mild as any lambkin

Pontifox.  Herder-

gypsies circle ferder

into desert places.  Julius Putin

frescoes chimp dominion, over

stalag mites hiked to hell –

old human story (well,

there goes the antelope).  Clover

for meadows, cottonwood for bison...

Amaranth? – or pick

your poison, Hobo Dick.

I’m rippling a dreamsonge Union.

2.29.16

Here is a cluster of Index labels under the subject : painting (label : subject/painting).

I haven't linked to every term in the numerical series for some of these labels (i.e. criticism2, criticism3...), but only to the initial term (i.e. criticism). (See Index for more on this.)


There are many others...

17  
     Aquila grandis diceris puella,
     baiulans rostro ramulum virentem,
     nostrorum dira qui devicit bella.
        Salve regina
 
The painters whisper to each other
across the susurrus of the horsehair.
Uproar in the Campo - folded in a mirror
of brittle fresco (where light rays converge).
 
On the tender brow of reality (yellow-veil
female) - eagles, in roundels.  Somehow
got Coppo out of Ghibelline gaol
(burden of my song) to paint beyond the pale
 
of the Commune.  Some oscillation
signified (red, blue, imperial purple);
meek spectrum chanted beneath steep
glance of raptor-Madonna, in suspension
 
between splayed feet of Infant J
encircled by her fingertips - a
nailed impression of Apocalypse
whose furrowed brow echoes aquila-

span.  It doesn't matter,
in the end, who rules Siena,
Guelf or Ghibelline.  Janus-Julia
reigns in the deep (a mutter
 
from the Southern Cross).
The constellation of the Bear
or shining Virgo in autumnal air
reflect upon that earthy ruse
 
- burden of my waking muse; and
Easter's aubade will rouse those feet
to step the vernacular Paraclete
to lead the nine around (O brown recluse).

cf. a painting by Coppo di Marcovaldo in the church of Santa Maria dei Servi, called the Madonna del Bordone  ("Virgin of the Burden") - "burden" referring to the drone-accompaniment to medieval melody. Gianna A. Mina (in Art, Politics and Civic Religion in Central Italy 1261-1352, Ashgate Publ., 2000) argues that the title refers to the fact that the friars of the Servite Order - specially devoted to the cult of the Virgin - chanted their hymns in front of the image.

There are clusters of unfortunate obscurities in this poem, which Mina's excellent article (about a very important painting) can help elucidate. She discusses the tiny round eagle-emblems hidden in the Madonna's veil (imperial Hohenstaufen symbols, or subtly anti-imperial (Guelf) scriptural signals?), the way various elements of the painting (including the posture of the infant Jesus's feet) prefigure the Crucifixion and resemble or allude to elements in other paintings by Coppo, etc.

- slowly, slowly, he bumbles toward some meaningful expression...

15

 
See how those Tuscan cities rise
like dandelions in the April sun,
ablaze with pollinated ben comun,
the solidarity of parish bees

 
sworn to barn-raising (in sweet 
conventicles).  Across a burnt-
sienna chessboard, over gaunt
republican piazzas, the Paraclete

 
(pseudonym for tennis bum
or mild-eyed hobo) poses a zig-
zag clue (lilac for fig), figuring
clematis, climax forest (arboretum

 
allegoricum).  Red bloom
with dusty feet, thorns -
Assisi vagabond (he scorns
not Poverty) - bridegroom

 
dawdling (someday... eternally).
In sheepish green
of roadside weeds - in San
Francisco (Ramirez portfolio).

14

 
A little hilltop town somewhere
in Tuscany modelled the Mount
of Earthly Paradise.  When Dante
and his antique guide slowly felt their

 
way (blind men, circling around
the ruined breastworks of a ridge,
following a scroll over the edge
of the known universe) they found

 
themselves humming a familiar tune
(the way potter X's fingers flicker
aslant a red-leaf bole - quicker
than thought figures an X-strewn

 
cosmos).  Love, the rest note
at the foot of ranging harmonies -
the knot in incunabular interstices
of ink, time, jealousy.  The mote

 
in the builder's eye, the tear
in the mosaic... pervasive
octave-frequency, alive
and breathing (here, here).

I think the books I've been reading over the last few months - about Dante, Siena, theology, & etc. - are helping me crystallize some ideas, figure out what I'm doing. A little light seemed to go on last night (I could be fooling myself).

It's not so much a new set of ideas, as recovering a certain trajectory which seems to appear & fade intermittently.

I'm sort of a transcendentalist. For whom - prior to the details of any religious tradition - there is a more basic orientation : that of the human being facing the fact of a higher consciousness (the "ground of Being", & etc.). (Thinking of Hart Crane, out cold in the dentist's chair, hearing a voice repeating "you have the higher consciousness! You have the higher consciousness!")

And I've become preoccupied with the notion that this kind of orientation has become unfamiliar - difficult for us to grasp. It might be said that the 20th century replayed (in its own fashion) the cultural-psychological egocentricity which so strongly marked the Renaissance. Our civilization has no formed "theodicy" - no way of speaking about God (beyond a sort of religious positivism constructed out of magic verbal formulae). (By this I don't mean to denigrate anyone's faith, or any of the valid cultural phenomena. What I mean is that our civilization is not intellectually comfortable with a transcendentalist viewpoint. The travails and horrors of the 20th century made 19th-cent. Romantic idealism obsolete; but the root of it all - the basic stance toward reality - stepson of earlier stances, which can be placed under the general designation "piety" - has not been effaced.)

The differing entailments for one's sense of life and reality, stemming from these two paths - the one, in which the ground of being is centered in the psychological self, and the other, in which the ground of the self is located in some kind of higher spiritual-intellectual source - seem quite serious (while remembering that consciousness itself is a riddle, and that the boundary between subjectivity & otherness is more like quantum spookiness than Euclid).

Various forms of materialist philosophy & psychology have found ways to avoid this issue, or dismiss it. But I can't avoid it myself.

The little light that went on for me last night was a kind of retrospective grasp of previous notions regarding the socio/political/historical/literary consequences of this basic "transcendentalist" position. I have some ideas (or share some ideas) about the mystery of the shaping role of "the Word" - how it intervened in human history, how it is fulfilled (recapitulated) in personal, individual experience - which I want to set forth as poet and in poetry.

I think of poetry as a form of expression which is specially adapted to reflect the "elan vital" of this stance toward reality. Dante, Blake, Whitman, Hopkins, Dickinson & many others - via many different tonalities - worked in this vein.

The bland little poem posted below - "Riddle of the Ridda" - really is a riddle (a riddle which is not a riddle!). Its submerged meaning has to do with what I see as that underlying form of human life and the history of the world, under the sign of the circling Verb. The "riddle" is sort of shorthand for themes I want to investigate more specifically as this poem develops. ("Ridda" - traditional Italian folk dance - shown in the Lorenzetti fresco in Siena.)

12   The Riddle of the Ridda

 
An eagle slants above a circle of walls
surrounding a ring of dancing maidens
singing a round, around, around (hidden
in shade of a painted Town Hall).

 
The wheel of the Nine (town volunteers
elected every other month) follows
the seasonal round, around - fellows
in harness, their creaking axle veers

 
perpetually.  And the shapely word
drapes a fleeting frame as she pivots
around, around, around - one bare foot
suspended (bright glance of orbiting bird).

The poem seems to be shifting gears somewhat, so I've taken off a couple sections I just posted... (they may be back).

Reading (again) Erich Auerbach's Dante, Poet of the Secular World. He sets a very high standard (one of the great readers & critics of all time). Still, even after reading Auerbach, I feel OK (for the time being) about this Fonte Gaia poem.

Dante & Henry VII - literary strange attractor localized in Siena.

Good reading on Sienese art & the cultural-political background - Sienese Painting, by Timothy Hyman. Very helpful to me. (I know I've mentioned this before.)

City-republic vs. politics of Empire, Aristocracy & Church. The comune of "the Nine". Art history from the Sienese vs. the standard Florentine perspective (Vasari).

Duccio's art was the last of the Byzantine & the first of the Italian. Sienese fusion of mystical remoteness and urban street vernacular.

I'd like this Siena to take shape as a metaphor for America (& for Providence, & for experience generally).

Byzantium : Mankind is the imago of God. Siena : art is the imago of humanity. The dialectic of these two positions, played out in the symbolic-psychological sphere of religious ideology (iconolatry, iconoclasm, idolatry)... still with us today. (ie. are the words of "sacred books" to be taken literally or symbolically? Or somewhere in between?)

Red-blue states. Imperial purple. On the nether side of Duccio's Maesta altarpiece, in the scenes of the Passion narrative, Christ's garments are always red & blue (except in the Transfiguration & post-Resurrection scenes, where they are gold).

Think I'm going to call this poem-in-progress Fonte Gaia.

Siena has always had problems with water supply (not near a river; up on hilltop), so when they managed to siphon it to the town square (via large tunnels called "bottini", dug between the soft sandy soil (tufa) and the hard clay layer beneath it) - they had a big celebration in the Campo. Hence the name given to the fountain eventually built there ("Fonte Gaia").

I'm celebrating the end of a long dry spell myself.

10

 
The shadow of the campanile (Torre del Mangia)
sweeps across the Campo, a silent sundial.
The soaring tower, the feminine seashell...
and at the crown of the piazza - Fonte Gaia.

 
Through Roman bottini (clay and yellow tufa)
they channeled water, finally, uphill (1342) -
and danced and sang around the fountain - Fonte
Gaia, Fonte Gaia! - bubbling up - miracola!

 
Tower and seashell... apposite coniunctio
where snorting horses of the Palio
rush round and round... a rondo
or riddle (for braincells in the Palazzo).

 
Dante, Plato, Aristotle too -
what set of all sets contains itself?
What infinite eagle's wing serves as parent-
parenthesis (under what oaken aegis, bow of yew)?

 
Blood surges through the crippled horse's neck
and through the local channels of the soil's
prolific prodigal (hill town) : soul's free potential,
Aristotle notes (Thermopylae to Alexander's wreck).

 
Freedom burbles in the wellspring (Fonte Gaia,
Fonte Gaia!) of the spark of understanding
as the utter Indeterminate, the winging
Unaccountable (king-servant, shepherd-pariah)

 
folded into the heart of an origami bird
or papyrus flight.  Distant voices (Fonte Gaia...)
from a frozen waterfall; far reaches (Primo
Mobile).  Alter ego of an altar (trumpet-word).

8

 
Think of it - in the heart of town
in the well of the piazza's madeleine
in the inner chambers of Siena's
nerve center : a fresco-sun.

 
Shines through the Black Death night
(vale, Brunetto).  He was a bookish
city journalist, his panoramas flush
with tags, encomiae, Italo-Latinate

 
cartoon balloons... memos for precepts
to be kept in mind, aides-memoire
for puffy counselors (collected there
within the glow).  Dream-ships -

 
papyrus-barges of the word (parchment
and ink the lifeblood of the civitas);
packets of ben commun, epitomized
in pithy brush-light (air apparent).

               
               *

 
Shines through the Black Death night
an image of measurement (wisdom's reproof).
The mind (unclear, uncertain... pregnant, aloof).
And it is not enough.  The anchorite

 
in solitude, the nurse in the Baghdad ward
reach understanding in extremity
deeper than any rational city
can celebrate (cerebrally).  Hard

 
is the path, and narrow is the way
- or Ramirez, the immigrant
in the mental hospital (with his crayon).
In the Beginning was the Word, Jose.

7

 
The little city-states were local politics,
the politics of local knowledge, local pride.
The brick town blossomed on the green hillside
empurpled like a bursting grape.  Natural genetrix


 
or gesture of dominion, the campanile soared
toward imperial skies (burnt sienna blaze
of civic energies) to match that enterprise -
a local rebuke, rooted (immemorial, round).


 
There, in crested shields and emblems,
dragons, eagles, intricate insignia,
the might of unaccountable dominion
met midget heralds of a parish realm -


 
the merchants of the Nine - and lost
their sway (temporarily) to a democracy
(partial).  Upstart, vain, swaggering city
complained Dante (from a rival Boast


 
of Italy) - forever seeking access to the Sea
(irascible wasp still whispering denunciations
in the shade of an eagle's pyrotechnic turns)!
Meanwhile Lorenzetti freres (in their piazza


 
seashell) turned sunlight inward (against
the walls of the Palazzo).  Soothing massage
of frescoed radiance framed a stern message
for elected lords : rule by violence


 
results in anarchy (and desolation,
finally); rule by justice (on the other wall)
results in joy.  It was a note to the imperial
Henry (in the end) : peace is earth's foundation.

...talking to myself again, through you (& vice versa).

6

 
As he brushed in the crown of the steep-
combed hills' rust-green, Lorenzetti
must have felt like those travelers he
scribbled across them (ready for sleep

 
in his own bed, finally).  And when Martini
(daubing patriarchs, bordering the Virgin
Maesta) scrolled a miniature stern
warning for all subtle, muffled mutiny -

 
malevolence against the commonweal -
there in Palazzo Pubblico (Sala
del Mappamondo) - he spoke through Maria
herself (like an infant Word through the royal

 
She).  Pure color glows like a proverb;
the gesture represents what's bent
too shy for speech (abiding, swelling up
sometimes).  Angels lift bowls of herbs

 
and flowers toward them, under their canopy
of red and white, of royal blue.  The sky 
is midnight.  A mirror of the old country
glimmers (signing) in your old unhappy

 
heart.  The sun shines there, also -
intermittently.  Your heart's a mappemunde
(scan it and weep).  Where the sea resounds;
where your hand reiterates a silvered blue.

more perturbed quietude from Siena...

5

 
When droning sages dared to speak of God
they seared their tongues (sappy mountains
of audacity).  They stumbled - they incensed
the panicky demons (with their babble-screed).

 
God shrugged, and turned his back.  A vast
crescendo of dry leaves (frail Armada) sailed
out of the library.  Humble, inconsequential,
the serviceable word.  It accumulated (ballast).

 
Words and spittle split the world's contempt.
Only harsh masonry of absolute dream
(prestidigitation, Midas massage, scam
of platre-de-Paris effigy) appeared exempt.

 
From anemone-whorls of spooky midnight blue
on the edge of the highway, to zebra-
stripes of an ineluctable cathedral
the dumb world answers back (I see you) -

 
I see, I see chants Dante too
in the celebrity fresco of Ambrogio
- there like an angry bee (gone solo)
thrust from the hive, pacing his peripetio

 
(longhouse-home).  Playing hide-and-seek
in marble rafters painted with images
of marble rafters, in the troubadours'
hill-town nestled (hidden) in peaks

 
of hills (with Beatrice).  Horsing around
with pals of Palio - cantering across his
can-can-cantos - toward a Ramirez ferris-
wheel, in Mexico (tiered vale of Jehoshaphat).

(... that's "Pax", reclining there, from Ambrogio Lorenzetti's "Good Government" fresco in Siena.)

Texts that have made life difficult for me over the years :

The Bible
"Cowboy Bob" series from Hopkins Public Library (that dates me)
Shakespeare's Sonnets
Catch-22
60s NY School anthology (red cover)
Vlad Nabokov books
Most of the paperback novels of the 60s

18

 
The old maps of the world were circular.
As on a ferris wheel or carousel
each coracle, carrack and caravel
defied the stormy ocean in the mirror.

 
Upstairs, in the house next door, a woman
singing, practicing her scales, reminds
me of a world in balance (as it happens).
So on the walls of city hall (Siena)

 
Justice, buon governo, reigns (in pastel)
on her throne - the scales of equity
hoisted in hand; and on a busy street
below, calm maidens mime a sweet rondel,

 
a rondo in a rondure, round and round.
We know the ferris wheel is iron, not gold,
yet this the Oro Pendula has not been told -
she skirts a circuit-plumbline off the ground.

 
The displaced mowers on a wide prairie
are not quite ready for a painted hallelujah.
And shall they never find their home?  Selah
shalom they shall goes murmuring Windy Mary -

 
out of the womb of her anemometer
in a mazy mummer's Amazon.  She figures
the breeze as a sigh between even shares
of scythe and sky, down to the caterpillar.

 
Sing-song, goes the wind, pitter-patter
comes the rain, the rain that raineth
every day.  The ferris wheel complaineth
not; the swingset is a kingly litter.

Reading fine book, Sienese Painting, by Timothy Hyman (a painter himself). The miniature narrative images - saints' lives, journey of Dante, Virgil & Beatrice - resemble graphic novels of today. In one scene, reading from left to right, you'll see a figure in three different actions (falling sick, visited by angel, cured...), like a cartoon.

Siena loved the Divina Commedia (maybe partly because Dante was so hard on his home town Florence). Public readings were given outdoors on feast days.