Four Poems

Chorus

Hildegard of Bingen and Anonymous Monks

It’s 1152.

Perspective hasn’t been invented yet,
on canvas nor the place this one depicts.
There’s no blue behind this ring of flat angels,
just gold. It could be endless or a wall.
They have faces like us though,
most in the usual spot, some with an extra
on their chest, or eyes on hands and wings.
The ring’s center so full the monks left it empty.

Now it’s spring. The glass-top dining room table
shows our faces and dark wood behind.
It’s spring: in the window hand-size angels compete
with sun turning green leaves gold, and branches
curving to an orb. Our paper cut-outs have no faces,
and to a child even trees are strange.

Advent Ode in Four Harmonies

Start by assuming the calendar is circular.

In the language of recurring turns,
which does lead into itself, looping tightly
like a traffic circle
with a patch of brush in its center,
when for a moment from the driver’s seat
the curve is un-felt by stomach and head,
and it seems the road is straight, pointing outward,
the this is being said.

In the landscape of recurring turns,
the three-yard by three, knee-high garden squares
that line the fronts of houses up and down this street,
that now may be twiggy, brown, thin,
brittle in the cold grey cement morning, or
thick and green, the brown instead soft
in topsoil—the recurrence of plants
is normally known through seasons, but
in this case through creation and upkeep.
Before yards came tall trees deep in winter,
their bare branches up against overcast sky—
people were wise to pay attention,
as we agree ourselves bringing trees inside.

In the larceny of recurring turns,
the first theft, which opened the door
of not only some anonymous citizen’s apartment
but also the door to more theft,
in this first attempt
there was not much to take after peace of mind
fled from all who use doors.

In the love of recurring turns,
there was, is, much to say,
despite the shorthand of the word divine
growing shorter, into the hand
of an actual child, too small
to hold a steering wheel,
garden trowel, or doorknob,
let alone lift hammer and nail
to wield their weight and point—
but, to the wonderment of nature,
relieved at no longer providing awe
but being awed itself, become object
of their thrust.

The Part with Saint Francis

He’s walking to Mass near the woods, a wolf
creeps out and snarls a cave with its mouth.

I roll over in bed, a screen
lights up to say that soon
the earth will be dead.

He stoops, rests his palm on its head
and it whimpers, heels, barks for treats.

Weeding the garden out back,
I uproot pinpricks of the earth
and learn nothing of its health,
while it pulls half of me down.

They part with wind’s conviction: he indoors,
the wolf, its fangs grown back, to the woods.

Some Notes for the Epic of Peace

If the epic of peace were to take place
anywhere other than heaven,
it would have to have a fifth season in it.

Instead of feeling it through temperature,
humidity, or windiness, or seeing
what time it gets dark, or

how much the animals
sleep in a day,
that season’s only known

in a forward throw of—no,
not what a guessing ghost happens on.
Not what hearts hear.

But snow on a bright beach.
Green leaves all over the ground,
that sprout orange from their buds.

____
Paul Lomio is from New Jersey and lives in Virginia.