Читать книгу St. Francis Poems - David Craig - Страница 6

How he was imprisoned during Assisi’s battle with Perugia and of the two visions he later had, wanting to become a knight.

He camped for his new peers,

as if he were that troubadour Bernart de Ventadorn,

fresh from the castle’s bread kilns: dancing, skirt lifted

on cold stones, singing too loudly to birds

out the small window, telling rhymes

of fearful Assisian Knights.

Why should he worry? The world was new enough;

every morning everywhere mists came,

only to be burnt away by the sun,

so many new people around by afternoon,

no one could’ve guessed.

And so when the weight of the hours

began to take the measure of one knight’s need,

Francis would not back down. He flanked the man,

feinted, sang in bad langue d’oc because he was

a merchant’s son: “What do you think will become of me?

Rest assured, I will be worshiped throughout the world.”

Eventually released, a dream would finally wake him:

past the castles it offered, the legions of runic, rubied arms—

surpassing even his carefully chosen own,

a walled field of shields bronzing sunlight.

Chivalry so moved in him the next morning

that he gave all his clatter away. Friends laughed,

wondered if his stirruped feet were (ever) on the ground.

But Francis, for his part, he figured, yes, yes,

he could give them this; he could give the answer

before its time, be its fool, its peacock,

anything to help them see.

When asked the reason for his glow, Francis

answered largely, as if he were one:

“I shall become a great prince.”

Why else were dreams given, but to make us princes

(and holy fools) before we would become one

(preparing him to turn the world upside down)?

He wondered, to what king?

And how could he be a knight and wear the holy ribbons

of Church too? What of his lady-

who-must-be-in-waiting?

The next morning came, and Francis, sitting on a stump,

rejoiced, kept that marvelous engine,

stabled best he could

in his junket-heart.