COUNSELLING

Being both a nun and a sorceress is difficult
But not impossible. D'Annunzio's aunt,
An abbess, could see into the future
By means of rare herbs and spells.
Scholars wonder why she did not
Use her athame on her nephew

Or give him some good advice

Gabriel! Break fewer hearts!

Be kind to Eleonora Duse!

D0  not cofound fascism!

PATRONAGE

Patron of the poor! Also of poets,
Poultry farmers, printing presses,
Fugitives, babies, scholars,
Mariners, midwives and milkmaids!
All these and more is Brigid.
Somewhere, a poor scholarly poet,
All agrime with printer's ink,
With a baby under one arm
And a chicken under the other
Looks to flee the midwives' wrath
By taking to the sea. Alas for him!
Brigid also smiles on nuns
And blacksmiths. Even now,
A burly bride of Christ speaks a name
To the red metal of a new-forged sword.

WATER

By a Welsh mill-race the artist Turner
Is watching the play of light on water
When Sancho and the Don drift by
In a small barque.The Don is speaking;
Sancho, more asleep than not,
Leans against a coiled rope. In those days
You might find anyone on the water;
A few years later Heinrich Heine
Saw Apollo on the Rhine, singing,
And knew immediately that a nun
Had heard that wonderful song
And fled towards it ever after.

DEMON

Long ago I heard or read the story

Of a nun who was possessed by a demon.

An exorcist was called, then two, then three

Then all that could be found in the province.
They labored long days and into the nights.

Crowds gathered; the Abbess threw the gates wide

Lest some child be crushed by those pressing

To see within. It wasn’t Easter but the bakers

Came selling hot cross buns. Under a tree

Puppet devils dragged puppet Faust to Hell.

At last, pale and shaken, the demon came forth

He fell on his knees and kissed the ground;

Would have kissed the Bishop’s hand too except

The Bishop slipped it behind his back.

“Thank you, gentlemen all! A little wine –

Not consecrated, mind you! – and I’ll speak.

Two years ago it was, at least; an August day;

A hot sun; the drone of pollen-heavy bees;

What wonder that I should lie down?

But gardens are dangerous to more then men.

“I am not a large demon; I made myself less

And settled on a lettuce leaf to drowse

Remembering inconsequential things

Musing, half asleep, I was defenseless

When that large white hand swooped suddenly down

Tore off the leaf, and me still on it,

And swallowed us whole! May you never know

The things I have seen, nor experience a tithe

Of my sufferings! Not for all Hell’s riches

Would I return, nor for a share of Heaven

Would I spend one minute more listening

To the dark whisperings of that nun’s heart!”