Читать книгу St. Francis Poems - David Craig - Страница 7

How the Lord visited Francis’ heart for the first time filling it with marvelous tenderness that gave him strength to begin to progress spiritually in looking down on himself and all vanities, in prayer, almsgiving, and poverty.

A party for the new money, and more,

from the very stems of delight: ladies—

each of his pals, now enjoying what was left

of the tipsy night, some steps in front of him,

their misplaced lives, as ever, just out of reach.

Francis, ever the jester, chose to walk behind,

scepter in his hand, dressed as he was,

in silks and tatters, knowing by now that rags

really were riches, either way: metaphor for the chase,

the shell games of wealth and fame;

for that, or for the more quiet, obvious need.

But how could he get his friends to know

what was real, and missing,

what demanded so much?

They came back to him, their captain in mirth

elsewhere, looking up, seemingly lost

in the glorious conflagration of stars.

Was he mooning over the crimson stomacher?

“Yes, you are right!” he answered.

“And I shall take a wife—more noble, wealthy,

and beautiful than any you have never seen.”

But they didn’t laugh when he said, “Poverty . . .

the one we all chase without knowing it.”

And after that day, he never denied an alms

to anyone who asked in God’s only name.

Heaping his absent father’s table with begged bread,

Francis piled his want high in joyful exasperation,

(in front of his grieving mother: that the world would,

too soon, begin hammering away

at his white-hot enthusiasms, bend him—

all out of shape).

But Francis was, as ever, elsewhere: pressing his face

between Rome’s bars, his last flightless bird,

bag of coins, naming Peter’s tomb.

And swapping clothes with a beggar,

he tried on his life. Yes! Yes!

These would help him keep himself in a line,

would help him push the world far away,

with its trumpets, bandied names!

This way he’d never confuse himself again.

He’d wake up next to new brothers: lepers,

dew on his rags, soiled feet.

He sang loudly, played fiddlesticks on the open road,

so that the world would be forced to mark him,

hold him to what mattered.

Once back, he didn’t share his secret,

because he was betrothed to a lady, Poverty,

a women hidden in so much beauty

that a look from anyone at all

would have violated their first

intimate steps.