THROUGH ME YOU ENTER THE CITY OF DESOLATION
THROUGH ME THE ROAD AMONG THE LOST LIES
THROUGH ME YOU ENTER AGONY WITHOUT END
JUSTICE MOVED THE HAND OF MY MAKER ON HIGH:
BY DIVINE POWER AND SUPREME WISDOM I WAS FORGED;
I EXIST BY THE PRIMAL LOVE THAT MOVES THE SKIES.
WITHOUT ME, NOTHING WAS CREATED BEFORE,
SAVE ETERNAL. AND I ETERNAL REMAIN.
ALL HOPE ABANDON, YOU WHO ENTER.
Thursday, March 29
Here Follows Some Thoughts Upon Seeing an Icon of St. Luke
On Friday, some friends and I took a trip to the J. Paul Getty art museum, in order to see the temporary icon exhibit they have. It was, of course as expected, amazing. (We use the word "amazing" too much. I mean it literally--it was so wonderful [full of wonder] that my head, mind, heart, all my senses, were overcome as though I was wandering in a maze.)
One icon in particular, though, affected me particularly strongly. I looked at every icon in the exhibit, but I kept coming back to this one. I spent at least an hour in front of it.
It was an icon, not painted or engraved on wood or stone, but on paper. It was an icon within a book of the Gospels from Constantinople.
Now, my favorite book in all the Bible is the Gospel of Luke. This Gospel book was open to the first page of the Gospel of Luke and, facing it, an icon of St. Luke.
In the icon, St. Luke is giving Jesus a copy of his Gospel. Jesus accepts the Gospel, blessing Luke.
As a writer, this affected me profoundly.
My observations, upon standing there staring:
Christ was clothed in red, with a blue robe. St. Luke was clothed in blue, with a red robe. This, to me, signifies several things: 1) that Jesus is separate, on a whole other order than Luke; 2) though not being Christ, Luke imitates Christ; 3) Jesus, in His blue robe, is clothed in the heavens, while 4) Luke is covered by the blood.
St. Luke is positioned as kneeling; Jesus is standing erect. Luke is kneeling by bending his right leg, his symbol of strength, showing the totality of his humility.
Luke casts a shadow, Christ does not.
Luke's hair and beard, compared to Jesus', seem less full, and unkempt.
All of the above stresses the divinity of Jesus over the humanity of Luke.
But, what affected me so much:
St. Luke offers his Gospel up to Christ. In a sense, Luke is giving Christ what is already His---the text being divinely inspired, it was God who first gave the text to Luke. Yet the object in Luke's hands is a *book*, a leather-bound collection of pages written in ink. Without St. Luke, this book could not have been written, and Luke offers unto Jesus the work of his hands, the fruit of his labor, the result of his craft---for in my opinion, no book in the Bible is so much a "book" as we think of them as The Gospel of Luke, a historical account, is; in other words, Luke was consciously writing a "book" and not a letter or poem.
This aspect is borne out as Jesus takes the Gospel with His left hand, blessing Luke with His right. The right hand being regarded as "the stronger" hand, Jesus giving Luke His right hand amplifies the blessing, elevating the Gospel writer.
Between the two, held by both their hands as it is being passed, the book of the Gospel itself---it is small, humble; yet the artist has put it in gold-leaf. No paint, but actual gold, forms the Gospel on the page.
Like many icons, the air around the figures is gold---gold signifying the space of Heaven---but the Gospel is on the ground, where color is usually found. The use of gold-leaf in the Gospel mirrors the gold in the sky in appearance and function; to wit, the book itself---the work itself, the text itself---is heavenly. It is divinely inspired. Luke's book, the work of his hands, his mind, his pen, is a little piece of Heaven itself, and he is giving it to Jesus.
And oh! the blessing Jesus gives as He gladly receives the book written by His servant! His hand is outstretched, blessing Luke (it is moreover His right hand, as already noted), but being outstretched, since Jesus stands on the left and Luike on the right, draws the eye to the right.
Jesus is pointing to the text!
Jesus' hand, reaching out in blessing, points to the words on the next page, written in gold:
Epeideper polloi epcheiresan anataxasthai diegesin peri ton peplerophoremonon en hemin pragmaton kathos paredosan hemin hoi ap arches autoptai kai hyperetai genomenoi...
(and, what leaped out at me in that moment,)
...tou logou edoxe kamoi parekoloutehkoti anothen pasin akribos kathexes soi anothen kratiste theophile...
"The Word (logos) it seemed good TO ME, to WRITE..."
Jesus' hand points to the text, in one sense, simply because it is the Gospel. In effect, it simply says, "Read your Bible!" But in another sense, Jesus blesses the text itself, marking its divine authority. But on still another level, since in the icon itself Jesus is blessing St. Luke... by blessing such a highly personal text, approving the text as divinely inspired blesses Luke the writer of the words, more than anything else could.
And now, me?
Obviously, I cannot claim to write under divine inspiration. My words will never become Scripture. And yet...
...it is my dream, my goal, my soul's desire to drop to my knees before my Lord, my work in hand, and give it to Him, and have Him accept it.
It is my dream, my soul's desire, that He would take it and bless me.
And, dare I hope, that someday those who read it might catch a glimpse of Heaven---however distant, however fleeting---within its pages?
One icon in particular, though, affected me particularly strongly. I looked at every icon in the exhibit, but I kept coming back to this one. I spent at least an hour in front of it.
It was an icon, not painted or engraved on wood or stone, but on paper. It was an icon within a book of the Gospels from Constantinople.
Now, my favorite book in all the Bible is the Gospel of Luke. This Gospel book was open to the first page of the Gospel of Luke and, facing it, an icon of St. Luke.
In the icon, St. Luke is giving Jesus a copy of his Gospel. Jesus accepts the Gospel, blessing Luke.
As a writer, this affected me profoundly.
My observations, upon standing there staring:
Christ was clothed in red, with a blue robe. St. Luke was clothed in blue, with a red robe. This, to me, signifies several things: 1) that Jesus is separate, on a whole other order than Luke; 2) though not being Christ, Luke imitates Christ; 3) Jesus, in His blue robe, is clothed in the heavens, while 4) Luke is covered by the blood.
St. Luke is positioned as kneeling; Jesus is standing erect. Luke is kneeling by bending his right leg, his symbol of strength, showing the totality of his humility.
Luke casts a shadow, Christ does not.
Luke's hair and beard, compared to Jesus', seem less full, and unkempt.
All of the above stresses the divinity of Jesus over the humanity of Luke.
But, what affected me so much:
St. Luke offers his Gospel up to Christ. In a sense, Luke is giving Christ what is already His---the text being divinely inspired, it was God who first gave the text to Luke. Yet the object in Luke's hands is a *book*, a leather-bound collection of pages written in ink. Without St. Luke, this book could not have been written, and Luke offers unto Jesus the work of his hands, the fruit of his labor, the result of his craft---for in my opinion, no book in the Bible is so much a "book" as we think of them as The Gospel of Luke, a historical account, is; in other words, Luke was consciously writing a "book" and not a letter or poem.
This aspect is borne out as Jesus takes the Gospel with His left hand, blessing Luke with His right. The right hand being regarded as "the stronger" hand, Jesus giving Luke His right hand amplifies the blessing, elevating the Gospel writer.
Between the two, held by both their hands as it is being passed, the book of the Gospel itself---it is small, humble; yet the artist has put it in gold-leaf. No paint, but actual gold, forms the Gospel on the page.
Like many icons, the air around the figures is gold---gold signifying the space of Heaven---but the Gospel is on the ground, where color is usually found. The use of gold-leaf in the Gospel mirrors the gold in the sky in appearance and function; to wit, the book itself---the work itself, the text itself---is heavenly. It is divinely inspired. Luke's book, the work of his hands, his mind, his pen, is a little piece of Heaven itself, and he is giving it to Jesus.
And oh! the blessing Jesus gives as He gladly receives the book written by His servant! His hand is outstretched, blessing Luke (it is moreover His right hand, as already noted), but being outstretched, since Jesus stands on the left and Luike on the right, draws the eye to the right.
Jesus is pointing to the text!
Jesus' hand, reaching out in blessing, points to the words on the next page, written in gold:
Epeideper polloi epcheiresan anataxasthai diegesin peri ton peplerophoremonon en hemin pragmaton kathos paredosan hemin hoi ap arches autoptai kai hyperetai genomenoi...
(and, what leaped out at me in that moment,)
...tou logou edoxe kamoi parekoloutehkoti anothen pasin akribos kathexes soi anothen kratiste theophile...
"The Word (logos) it seemed good TO ME, to WRITE..."
Jesus' hand points to the text, in one sense, simply because it is the Gospel. In effect, it simply says, "Read your Bible!" But in another sense, Jesus blesses the text itself, marking its divine authority. But on still another level, since in the icon itself Jesus is blessing St. Luke... by blessing such a highly personal text, approving the text as divinely inspired blesses Luke the writer of the words, more than anything else could.
And now, me?
Obviously, I cannot claim to write under divine inspiration. My words will never become Scripture. And yet...
...it is my dream, my goal, my soul's desire to drop to my knees before my Lord, my work in hand, and give it to Him, and have Him accept it.
It is my dream, my soul's desire, that He would take it and bless me.
And, dare I hope, that someday those who read it might catch a glimpse of Heaven---however distant, however fleeting---within its pages?
In Love In Lethe
As long as I must,
I will wait for the same thing
Dante so hoped to see.
Though it shall slay me
(my own virtue have I none)
I long for Eden.
So baptized, I shall
stand unashamed before those
Eyes that pierce my sin.
I will wait for the same thing
Dante so hoped to see.
Though it shall slay me
(my own virtue have I none)
I long for Eden.
So baptized, I shall
stand unashamed before those
Eyes that pierce my sin.
Wednesday, March 28
In Homer's Shadow (conclusion)
I did not know where to look. Dare I look at the crown in his hand? Wouldn’t looking at his eyes be worse? And, oh! Calliope still standing there!
So I focus my attention on Minerva’s arrow pointed at my chest. “I do not need you to give me a crown,” I said to him.
“This is not just any laurel crown,” he said. My breath caught—instinctively, I knew what he was about to say. “This is his laurel crown.”
“H—Ho—His crown?”
Apollo and Calliope nodded together. My eyes started to drift to the crown in his hand. I tried to avert my gaze, accidentally turning to Calliope’s form. Shuddering, I dropped my gaze to her feet. Her shadow merged into the shadow that hung over me.
In that moment, I realized that I was mistaken. The goddess pointing the arrow at my heart was not Diana. I was in older myths, closer to the truth—and the masks the spirits wore on their faces were much thinner.
The lightning flashed overhead. It seemed brighter, knowing it was Zeus and not Jove who held it. Hera seemed more cruel and dangerous. Eros did not seem so innocent as Cupid did. Though it was not any closer, I felt as though Artemis’ arrow had already pierced me. I turned back to the god before me.
He laughed. “Yes, now you see. You stand in the shadow of Homer, poet. These are no Roman imposters before you. You stand before the descendants not of Saturn, but of Kronos. See Zeus and Hera, standing there. Neptune and Pluto are nothing; you face Poseidon and Hades.” He outstretched his arms.
“And I—I am Apollo! Apollo to the Greeks, Apollo to the Romans; Apollo who is the same yesterday, today, and forever!”
My blood ran cold.
“Accept my touch,” Calliope whispered. “You know the one you call Master does not deserve the title—not when compared with Homer. Homer loved me. Now cling to me, poet, as a man cleaves to his wife—love me as a god deserves to be loved.”
“You are no god,” I said, hoping I sounded braver than I felt. “I would sooner call you demoness—or worse. I could believe you an accuser, a serpent.”
“You call Calliope a serpent?” Apollo mocked. “Then serpent she is—and Homer the one who mastered her. And you are nothing more than a sown man, grown from the seed of the serpent’s teeth that Homer planted.”
“Are you content with that?” Calliope continued. “Step out of his shadow and cast your own. Accept the laurel crown that was worn by him and him alone.”
“I gave him this crown,” Apollo said. “No one has been worthy of it since him. You know this.” He waved the crown in the air.
“No man could write such a work alone,” I said. “It is as though he were inspired.”
“Inspired!” Apollo cried. “Exactly! ‘God-breathed!’ Kiss Calliope, kiss her hungrily and take her breath into you. Honor her in all things.”
“Were I to honor Calliope,” I said, “it would be lip-service only. She would never have my heart.”
“Your lips are enough. With your lips you frame your speech, with your mouth you make your words—and it is your words we desire.”
“Kneel to us.”
My legs felt weak. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, remembering the words of my Master—ignoring the whispered memories of Rage and Men, I remembered the stars. I could not see them beyond Zeus’ lightning, beyond Homer’s shadow, but I knew they were there.
And all the while, Dionysius danced around our circle.
They waited long for my answer. At last, the gods seemed to grow bored. One by one, they left. Even the Muses departed one by one until only Calliope and Apollo remained. She spat at my feet. Apollo shrugged. “The offer is always open.” He threw the laurel crown on the ground and walked away, arm around her.
I looked at the laurel crown on the ground and considered.
Then I sat in the dark of the shadow and amused myself by writing verses. The verses were empty and uninspired—as I intended. I looked up to the stars and prayed that empty verses might be filled.
Then, sitting in the midst of the shadow, I prepared to go to sleep and decided to start a fire.
Cupid in Chains
He took hold on me,
Wrapped me in chains,
Fed her my heart,
Conquered me with his art,
Binding me to her,
Chaining my eyes to hers,
Pulling on my leash
And throwing me down.
Then I arose,
Whipped his wings into submission--
I showed him true beauty,
Beauty bound in drops of blood--
I forced him to look at the dolorous feet.
I chained Cupid's eyes to the cross;
And so chained, baptized his bow.
Set Cupid free through chains.
Wrapped me in chains,
Fed her my heart,
Conquered me with his art,
Binding me to her,
Chaining my eyes to hers,
Pulling on my leash
And throwing me down.
Then I arose,
Whipped his wings into submission--
I showed him true beauty,
Beauty bound in drops of blood--
I forced him to look at the dolorous feet.
I chained Cupid's eyes to the cross;
And so chained, baptized his bow.
Set Cupid free through chains.
Tuesday, March 27
In Homer's Shadow (part 1)
There are things you know you should not want, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting them anyway. Case in point: I knew when she saw me walking that I should come no closer. I should have run, right then. A shadow seemed to fall over the area; I could have sworn it was brighter just a moment before. Even in the darkness, she seemed to glow more beautiful than anything I could imagine. She saw me, and stopped me, and asked me if I knew her name.
“I know,” I replied. “Perhaps I have always known it.”
She offered me her hand, but I refused to take it. She became angry, staring me down. “Perhaps you would prefer my sister,” she said, “for all the good she would do you.” I could hear the hatred and venom in her voice. Even that was not unattractive.
“She was Virgil’s Muse, after all,” I replied, “and Ovid’s as well.”
“Virgil! And who is Virgil?”
“Virgil was—”
“I know who he was, and what he tried to do. But in the end, what good was it?”
“Virgil—”
“If Virgil had done what he tried to do,” she said, “you and I would not be having this conversation.”
I looked up into the sky, at the stars, and focused on one—a little, flickering red star, high above me. “To answer your question,” I said, trying to take control, “I would not have Erato, either—or any of your sisters, for that matter. I would have nothing to do with any of you, were it up to me. You are nine in number, and the Greeks believed that to be a number of ill omen.”
“But the one you call ‘Master’ used it as a symbol of love, did he not? Why then do you not love us—why do you pretend you do not love me?” She reached out her hand again, and I pulled away. Her face twisted in rage (though it did not diminish in beauty) and she yelled at me in an angry, wounded voice: “Your sin against me is a greater insult than Madoc’s ever was.”
I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry. She held my gaze, eyes burning with rage. And she was so breathtakingly, agonizingly beautiful.
She must have seen the look on my face, confused at being compared to Madoc. “Are you surprised? You entered this world of ours when you first took up a pen.”
Suddenly I was surrounded—Minerva appeared out of the shadows, her arrow at my chest, ready to strike my heart. Jove was clearly seen over head, his lightning barely restrained above me, hiding the stars. Neptune and Pluto both came forward, standing far off. Juno looked at me with disdain. They were all around, the Muses ringing me—and Calliope still there, still utterly, painfully beautiful.
At the edge of the shadow, Dionysius danced around the circle, singing his song at the top of his lungs.
But I could hear Calliope all the same, offering me the world. Still I refused.
Then one of the gods stepped forward, and my heart sank. The Judge was there, the fullness of his light before me. He was standing just beside Calliope, the angry glare on his face matching hers. He held out his hand, and my heart jumped when I saw what he held. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded.
“It is a laurel crown.”
“Kneel before Calliope, kiss her, and I will give the crown to you.”
“I know,” I replied. “Perhaps I have always known it.”
She offered me her hand, but I refused to take it. She became angry, staring me down. “Perhaps you would prefer my sister,” she said, “for all the good she would do you.” I could hear the hatred and venom in her voice. Even that was not unattractive.
“She was Virgil’s Muse, after all,” I replied, “and Ovid’s as well.”
“Virgil! And who is Virgil?”
“Virgil was—”
“I know who he was, and what he tried to do. But in the end, what good was it?”
“Virgil—”
“If Virgil had done what he tried to do,” she said, “you and I would not be having this conversation.”
I looked up into the sky, at the stars, and focused on one—a little, flickering red star, high above me. “To answer your question,” I said, trying to take control, “I would not have Erato, either—or any of your sisters, for that matter. I would have nothing to do with any of you, were it up to me. You are nine in number, and the Greeks believed that to be a number of ill omen.”
“But the one you call ‘Master’ used it as a symbol of love, did he not? Why then do you not love us—why do you pretend you do not love me?” She reached out her hand again, and I pulled away. Her face twisted in rage (though it did not diminish in beauty) and she yelled at me in an angry, wounded voice: “Your sin against me is a greater insult than Madoc’s ever was.”
I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry. She held my gaze, eyes burning with rage. And she was so breathtakingly, agonizingly beautiful.
She must have seen the look on my face, confused at being compared to Madoc. “Are you surprised? You entered this world of ours when you first took up a pen.”
Suddenly I was surrounded—Minerva appeared out of the shadows, her arrow at my chest, ready to strike my heart. Jove was clearly seen over head, his lightning barely restrained above me, hiding the stars. Neptune and Pluto both came forward, standing far off. Juno looked at me with disdain. They were all around, the Muses ringing me—and Calliope still there, still utterly, painfully beautiful.
At the edge of the shadow, Dionysius danced around the circle, singing his song at the top of his lungs.
But I could hear Calliope all the same, offering me the world. Still I refused.
Then one of the gods stepped forward, and my heart sank. The Judge was there, the fullness of his light before me. He was standing just beside Calliope, the angry glare on his face matching hers. He held out his hand, and my heart jumped when I saw what he held. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded.
“It is a laurel crown.”
“Kneel before Calliope, kiss her, and I will give the crown to you.”
Monday, March 26
Mardi Gras in Downtown Dis, with Neon Blacklights in the Streets
Welcome to the Grand Bazaar,
Welcome to the Black Parade,
Welcome to the Axis of Evil,
We hope you enjoy your stay.
Welcome to Carnality Fair
Here we make our beds of bone.
'Ere long we shall escape thine eyes,
And say, "to each his own."
And if you'll rend a veil of flesh
And join this hellish carnival,
All words abandon at the door
And no more stories tell.
Welcome to the Black Parade,
Welcome to the Axis of Evil,
We hope you enjoy your stay.
Welcome to Carnality Fair
Here we make our beds of bone.
'Ere long we shall escape thine eyes,
And say, "to each his own."
And if you'll rend a veil of flesh
And join this hellish carnival,
All words abandon at the door
And no more stories tell.
The Cross of Ephialtes
May you find your rest,
Ephialtes; may you live,
and live forever!
The true King of kings
has understood your passion,
carried your burden.
Therefore, throw down your
spear, your shield at His Throne, so
He may lift you up.
Ephialtes; may you live,
and live forever!
The true King of kings
has understood your passion,
carried your burden.
Therefore, throw down your
spear, your shield at His Throne, so
He may lift you up.
Wednesday, March 7
A Mourning Poem for James
The clock is broken.
See? The maker is weeping.
Time walks; unfeeling.
Can one escape sin?
Time itself is a sinner.
The dying earth groans.
Can there be "good days"?
Each day longs for redemption---
Minutes on their knees.
See? The maker is weeping.
Time walks; unfeeling.
Can one escape sin?
Time itself is a sinner.
The dying earth groans.
Can there be "good days"?
Each day longs for redemption---
Minutes on their knees.
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