VALENTINE

Valentine is actually one of the more dour saints; he probably does not much look forward to his day. When he gets up, he can barely push his door open; each of the eleven thousand virgins who attend St. Ursula has left a piece of chocolate outside his room. (This happens every year; St. Christopher will come by later and carry the chocolates away). St. Sebastian will leave him an arrow, on which he’ll cut his finger; St. Apollonia will pass him in the hall; gaze at him wordlessly, and press a tooth into his hand. He will be besieged by prayers, which he will conscientiously try to answer, although he is fairly clueless on the mysteries of human love. This explains the number of puzzled looks one sees as the day goes on, as people find Valentine’s answers popping into their heads. “I find speaking about the martyrdom of St. Gelasius is generally a good way to break the ice;” “I believe you mean ‘inamorata’ – ‘inamaretto’ refers to someone who loves almond liqueurs, which is probably a sin and is, anyway, fattening;” “I asked St. Barbara and she said a howitzer is a small, light cannon used to deliver shells with a curved trajectory while a bazooka is a portable electrically-fired rocket launcher. Do your parents know about your interest in artillery?”

IN THE ATTIC LIBRARY

 A drift of feathers down the stairs 

Death has been here, waits here still

Half asleep among the books

Crowded on blue-painted shelves.

No hurry. The man whose books 

These have been has even now

A bit more dying to do. In a corner

A small green Buddha sits, waiting

For Death to stir himself and speak.

TIME

 Sometime in 1956 

The tailor's watch

Stopped. Since then 

It's been waiting for

The right 11:35.

WAITING

It's been three hundred and sixteen years 

Since the last authenticated sighting of St. Roch

Still, the waiting room is crowded with 

Bachelors, diseased cattle, dogs, 

Falsely accused people, invalids, Istanbulis,

Surgeons, tile-makers, gravediggers, 

Dealers in used goods, pilgrims and apothecaries.

Occasionally, they speak to each other 

A surgeon and an apothecary sometimes 

Do what they can for the sickest cattle

Dogs are everywhere. They usually have 

Problems of their own but bark amusingly, 

Trying  to cheer the glummest bachelors.

When the weather is good there may be

Impromptu parades. Dogs howl or walk

Upright, leaning on twisted canes;

Banners wave; sick cattle nod to the crowd

From floats advertising patent medicines.

The falsely accused help tile-makers and bachelors 

Carry invalids through the Istanbul streets.

(Being thoughtful people, the gravediggers 

Never offer to lend a hand.)

FAMILIAR

 A saint of some kind

But who? The features 

Are worn, the attributes 

A mere blur. A small animal

Follows him. A dog?

St. Roch, then. Ask

Him to cure you of plague.

A pig? St. Anthony, probably.

Ask help in finding 

Something you've lost.

Could it be a duck?

St. Cuthbert, surely.

He's between specialties 

But will chat for a bit.

If there's any chance 

It might be an urvogel

You are in deep waters;

Back away quietly.

BRIDGE

 

Since he lives on the street

Jerome's dreams often

Have trouble finding him.

Cold nights, they gather 

In dim parking lots 

Exchanging rumors.

The dream I know best 

Has him walking slowly

Over a bridge lined with statues 

Each one holds a lit candle

Blown out as the saint passes

ANNA

In her shining kerchief and shimmering  cloak

The very old woman peers at her Bible 

Trying to see if God has remembered 

To mention her. How handsome 

He was before the world was made!

How softly He'd sing under her window; 

She can recall every word. Ask her;

She'll sing a few lines, beating out time

With her puffed and swollen-fingered hand.