Birth of a poet
The stink of ripe terrain had been glazed and dissipated by the chill of Autumn; the last of the Harvest. The parvenu - a peasant to her bones- crawled over the hard exhausted mud gripping her pains and calling out to be delivered of her child. She had prayed assiduously for another son, God was listening he would not forsake her, she became a little confused and called out Jean, her first born, the midwife rushed towards the wild animal wailings. A difficult birth for one so connected to the earthier things, hysterical in her vision, but lucid in the illumination. Her pain would be rewarded, at last, bloodied, entrenched in faith and human misery. God be praised, another son for Madam! The midwife rushes to call the priest , she is not sure what to do, Father, father come quick! Madam has not been forsaken: It is God's miracle, his son, believe in Him and the divine truth is yours. The priest glances slyly at the midwife, a half secret there, both unsure they too will trust in the Lord. It is sometimes difficult to say.
Soon after she employs a maid to deal with the bodily needs of her latest prodigy. This wet nurse has recently given birth to a son, she is a robust stupid country girl. She is told to dress the boy in the finery Madam has left out, like a little king, and install him in the fancy cradle. Madam is appalled on her return to find Jean Arthur crawling naked on the dusty floor whilst the village infant is pomped up, enthroned amidst an array of fine starched linen -mocking Madam's authority. The next birth nearly broke her. The son He promised did not come, resigned, the weakly infant was turned to her grave within a month, God's will then.
The father, mourned his little daughter not to be. Relations became fraught after that episode. In contrition they pray for more daughters and are thus blessed with two. The father goes off to campaign and never returns. It had been too much for him, the deception, the foolishness, the small town beliefs; he would rather deal with the reality of blown off limbs and bullets piercing through skulls.
Madam ups her station. She becomes a widow in the formal sense of address. She takes it upon herself to educate the children, soon she outgrows the provinciality of the village – more sly looks, whispers, only her faith sustains. Eventually she is forced to consider formal schooling for her sons, somewhere discreet, befitting such gentle men in the making, her priest organises their attendance at a jesuit preparatory. All is well. Her younger son is small, but with the prettiest blue eyes and a sharp mind to match any other student, he is also pious and trusts in God's Will.
In such surroundings there are many hushed tones: The swish of the stick, the cassocked skirts, the soft cloth cleaning out the blood of Christ. Whispers of the Eucharist, the confession, the penitence, the soft murmurings as the fingers gently glide the glass beads. Everything is a secret and an illumination at the same time! The crystal sharp colours of the stained window pierce through mysterious narratives. All is witnessed and all is sacrosanct. The large Christ in His agony carved from soapstone that adorns the main hall bleeds every so often -explain that?!
By 14 his prodigious talent for study is noted, he leaps ahead leaving the others behind, he is more than au fait with Latin, Greek, history. There is no more to learn here. Then the misery begins. Like Christ he bleeds, dark rivers of human gunk. He possesses the pain of humanity in his belly, was he chosen for this? He carrys his divine secret as a holy burden, to utter outloud is to scorn the name of God. He decides on a pilgrimage -to wander into the desert. He notes with accuracy the nights lit up by the moon and sees a pattern here -, to escape when there is light.
He also begins to realise that he wants the embrace of another boy, something he can't quite fix in his repertoire of feeling. A need that some of the other boys already recognise .
He remembers his father telling him of the war, the fighting, the sacrifice, he imagines the miasma of brutality and violence that must pervade the glorious battlefield, the black sea of blood and he feels sad. That he too must suffer this within him is almost too much to bear. Every month he reenacts the Franco-(P) Russian war. When all he wants is the tenderness of the other men, their love not this hot spikey hate of enemy invasion.
He writes it all down in code. Like the Bible - and like the pagans with their myths, the Celts and their fairy tales. He plans his escape, writes to others who know this tongue of angels, spirits,goblins who can help him. And a result! He takes himself off to be the invited house guest, youthful charm and precocity wins through. At last he is a poet.
The Gobelins adorn the corridors illustrating scenes from the Bible -the banishment of Eden. Not far industrious women work on silk threads, and he moves in a weaving manner, slipping in and out of experiences. Bound within the fabric but not a part of the tapestry.
The gateway to heaven
A foolish virgin, bride of Christ, how could this grown man not know -a father, a husband ,to be this naïve? This finely formed youth talks boyishly and authoritatively at the same time. A young adjutant or priest in the making he discusses with passion current affairs, religion, art. He makes for a good confidante, a batman, the second who will pass the pistol and then wipe the blood with measured decorum. An ideal companion in other words. And there is more! No holds barred, his generosity to give no bounds, and he is ecstatic as he allows the older man to explore beyond reason. He is adamant he does not wish his generosity to be reciprocated ,how could he, untainted, pure, yet the receptacle of humanity's woes, fears, animal passions allow himself to plunge into filth, chose to wallow in the mire? No.
The Bath House
It was the pagans, Romans, Spartans who bathed in order to participate in deplorable acts that they could wash away. Their deception to their Creator. Those true to God have no need to cleanse themselves from sin -the dirt that hung on the hair and rags of Christ were ever holy. He, who does not immerse himself in man- made corruption has no need for baths. How could he wash away the blood of Christ's suffering? But he was also aware God had made him differently for this very purpose ,he could not sit naked in the bath house with the others without exposing his secret.
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