INDEX—My Poems about Art & Architecture

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Our catechists believed that if we kids
were made to emulate our namesake saints
instead of Spider-Man and Cinderella,
All Hallows’ Eve would once again become
a holy vigil, not a night of ghouls
and—more satanic still—pop culture icons.
At home, we told our mom, who rolled her eyes
and said the three of us were on our own,
because she’d sewn an Indian, a tiger,
and something else (a witch, I think) already,
and she was done with Halloween, she said.
As for us, we girls had no intention
of being seen outside on Halloween
in costumes that would surely guarantee
immediate religious persecution.
But neither could we join the church procession
as witch or tiger. Indian attire
might work, if one of us were named Kateri
(not yet called Saint, but close enough at Blessèd).
As it was, we girls were on our own.
Veronica, the eldest, had it easy.
She drew the face of Jesus on a cloth,
then did her usual primping at the mirror.
(She always had an image to uphold.)
Tamera Jean dressed up as Joan of Arc,
complete with homemade armor, sword, and shield—
her tomboy antics now endorsed by God.
So she was in her element as well.
But I was stumped. I’d never even heard
Saint Julie mentioned. Was there one? I asked
my mom. She said there must have been, because
the priest had let her baptize me that way;
but I’d been named for someone Mom once knew:
“No saint there,” she laughed.
                                                     “Just be Saint Ann,
since that’s your middle name. As Mary’s mom,
you’d really only have to dress a doll
in pink and blue, and carry it.”
                                                     I gagged.
I hated dolls, and even if I deigned
to carry one in honor of Saint Ann,
the few that had survived my parenthood
were too unclean to play the role of Mary.
My sisters said they’d never lend me theirs
at any price. So I was on my own.
Days went by, and I was getting desperate.
I borrowed Grandma’s well-thumbed book of saints
and found a ghastly Julie picture. No,
she wasn’t like Sebastian, full of arrows
whose archers must have climbed a lot of trees
and dug a lot of trenches, to achieve
those entry angles. (He was executed
by his fellow soldiers, and I knew
firsthand the lengths to which one’s peers might go
to punish non-conformists, so I thought
the painting lifelike.)
                                    Neither was she like
Saint Agatha, her breasts upon a tray,
and thus the patron saint of bread and bells—
two primmer explanations for the domes
she seemed to offer like a waitress.
                                                                No,
Saint Julie’s image left all that behind.
With swiftly-mounting horror, I assessed
her wimple and her habit. This was awful.
Saint Julie symbolized conformity—
the very thing Sebastian had resisted;
against which Joan of Arc had raised her sword;
the thing I feared would swallow me alive
unless I fought it fiercely every day.
Julie carried nothing to assert
her own identity—no broken wheel,
no pen and book, no lily. I imagined
the dreaded “Who are YOU supposed to be?”
bombarding me, unless I wore a sign.
Really, I’d do just as well to shout,
“My saint’s so dull, a nametag was required!”
At least she had a nickname, though. The caption
said Julie was “the Smiling Saint,” and yes,
she smiled, although she didn’t show her teeth.
She pressed her lips together and raised her cheeks—
a strategy I recognized, because
from first grade on, I’d smiled like that myself
to hide my snaggleteeth. Though that alone
would have made my flesh crawl, something worse
chilled me to the core: her white-rimmed eyes
ogled madly, stupidly, above
my own familiar, unrevealing smile.
That wasn’t merely creepy—that was more
disturbing than a tray of severed breasts.
My patron saint’s an idiot, I gasped.
There must be some mistake. I skimmed the text,
looking for an out: “...she founded an order...
the patron saint of catechists...” Aha!
Since boring and an idiot applied
to every catechist I’d ever met,
apparently she’d spread herself too thin
already. I’d let Julie concentrate
on that commitment. Catechists could keep
their patron to themselves—I’d pick another.
But I was out of names. Or was I? Hmmm.
I might carve something out of Steiner. Stoner.
Saint Stephen, maybe? No!—Your name is Rock—
Saint Peter! Yes, the hyperactive saint,
the saint who, just like me, could not sit still,
but rocked the boat to step out on the water
and try to walk to Jesus. Sure, he sank,
as skipping-stones eventually do,
and Jesus said he should have had more faith.
(That seemed a bit unfair, for, after all,
Peter set what faith he had in motion,
while the other saints just stayed aboard, like ballast.
But Jesus hadn’t penalized him, really.
He’d given Peter just what Peter wanted—
attention. Even negative attention
from certain special teachers was a prize
worth seeking. I myself had sought it often.)
I liked that Peter sometimes was so dense
he “really didn’t know what he was saying.”
Although compared to bedrock when he gave
an A+ answer (“You are the Messiah”),
he promptly missed the point, to earn a shocking
condemnation (“Get behind me, Satan!”).
He made a big faux pas on Holy Thursday,
regarding who should wash whose feet, and why.
And then, of course, there were those three denials.
A saint whose mouth could get him into trouble—
how could I not identify with that?
But here’s the clincher: facing crucifixion,
Peter chose to stand upon his head
to show that he was different. Just my style.
Just the saint to make this Julie smile.
I worked like mad, those few remaining hours.
I scalped my dolls to make myself a beard.
Construction paper waves went round my shoes.
I colored, shaped, and stuffed a paper pillow
to make a 3-D rooster of denial.
I taped a cardboard cross across the back
of Dad’s old bathrobe—upside down, of course.
I thought of making keys, but it was time
to go by then. I scrambled to the car.
At church, the kids were swarming. The procession
would soon begin. We tried to find our classes.
Veronica’s was easiest, because
no fifth grade kids wore costumes. Roni crammed
His image in her pocket, before the teasing
even started. She was not a martyr.
Tammy’s grade was next. A motley crew—
Theodore, George, three Michaels—greeted her
with swordplay, which she happily returned.
I hurried to the second-graders, sure
they’d all admire my rooster and my shoes.
The dreaded “Who are YOU supposed to be?”
began at once.
                            “Saint Peter!” I replied.
I raised a foot. “You see? I walk on water.”
But no one listened. “Peter? YOU can’t be
Saint Peter! You’re a girl!” Saints Monica,
Elizabeth, and Mary looked askance.
Saint Brigit plucked my beard: “What’s this? It’s...doll hair!”
Saints Monica, Elizabeth, and Mary
shrieked and tried to shield their haloed offspring.
The boys stepped in. “Your name’s not even Peter!
It’s Julie!” “You’re a girl! It’s just not right!”
Saint Francis made a fist. “Well, anyway,
she’s not Saint Peter—not without the keys!”
“That’s right! Saint Peter has to carry keys!”
I said, “I’ve got a rooster—just as good!
And look, I walk on water!”
                                               They remained
unmoved. “You need the keys.” “No keys, no Peter!”
“Idiot! You have to be a boy!”
At that point, we were herded into church.
Still trying to make sense of what had happened—
It hadn't been enough to walk on water?—
I fell behind them. I was on my own.
With all the desperation of the drowning,
I grasped the thought I wasn’t on my own.
I floundered toward the Lord along with Peter,
along with all who floundered toward Perfection...
and touched Perfection only when they failed.
Sebastian, also the target of his peers...
and Agatha, whose props weren’t quite the thing...
and even Julie...Julie, who, like me,
had recently been deemed an idiot.
They’d shared my journey. I was not alone.
Joining the procession, I made peace
with Julie, trading in my blinked-back tears
(which, if my classmates saw, meant certain hell)
for the safety of an unrevealing smile.

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EMERGENCY: This sculpture is alive.
The subject is a mother and her child—
     [+12 lines]

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Some haywire instinct makes me want to yell,
Hey, kids! That’s dangerous! Come down from there!
     [+12 lines]

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It’s—simply put—intoxicating. Tots
press noses to the glass, and sometimes tongues,
     [+12 lines]

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“She lived, you know.” I’m speechless when I hear it.
Not at the news itself (which isn’t new
     [+12 lines]

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January: Agnes—her name means “Chaste One”—
holds a lamb (a pun on the Latin agnus).
Note the flowing streams of her hair, which hid her
     twelve-year-old body,
naked, on parade to a Roman brothel.
Note the sword employed when her would-be rapists—
like the flames lit later—refused to touch her.
     Notice the palm branch,
signifying martyrdom. Note her crimson
robe, another emblem of Christian martyrs.
Patron saint of victims of rape, Saint Agnes,
     ora pro nobis.

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February: Agatha—Greek for “Good Girl”—
bears her severed breasts on a plate, serenely.
Tortured for her chastity. Never raped, though.
     Virgin and martyr.
Spared the degradation of rape’s defilement,
though she died a sexual sadist’s plaything.
Lesson: God won’t tolerate rape’s pollution
     tainting a Good Girl.

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Skip ahead. Miss May is Antonia Mesina.
Head and face smashed in in the nineteen-thirties.
Age sixteen when brained by a thwarted rapist.
     I was a teen, too,
when the Pope beatified her. Another
virgin-martyr patron of rape survivors.
Verified as virgo intacta—something
     ever-so-private;
something that her modesty wanted shielded;
something she had given her life defending;
something that her coroners broadcast widely.
     Waved in our faces,
alleluia. See how the Lord protects His
favored ones from genital violation?
Doctors’ probings proved that she’d kept her hymen.
     Proved she was holy.

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Moving on: Maria Goretti, farmgirl.
Miss July. In 1902, a neighbor
stabbed her fourteen times when he failed to rape her.
     She was eleven.
How had I offended the Lord at less than
half her age—allowed to be raped, not murdered?
Even in my innocence, I was guilty.
     I was unworthy.
God withheld divine intervention, proving
I was not an Agatha, nor an Agnes.
I’d deserved what happened to me, like other
     rape-punished children.

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Pray for us. And pray for a Church whose members
help abusers stigmatize rape’s survivors,
though Augustine’s City of God said virgins
     raped are still virgins.
Pray for us. And pray for a Church more heartless
now than when Aquinas affirmed that raped nuns—
even those impregnated—still are virgins:
     mind over matter.
Pray for us. And pray that our Church recalls that
Miss December—virgin and martyr Lucy—
claimed a second heavenly crown would honor
     those who’d been ravished.
How it would have helped me, to hear that virtue
wasn’t something stored in a telltale membrane
someone else’s lust could destroy, forever
     leaving you lesser.
How it would have helped, to have heard this message:
Virtue—male or female—cannot be graded
pass/fail, based on criminals’ choice to harm you.
     (Gruesome injustice!)
How it would have helped, to have heard Survival
isn’t proof of sinfulness. Share your burden.
Minus that, the upshot was Hold your tongue, or
     all will condemn you.
Rapists want the world to despise their victims.
Shame buys silence. Shout! Let the Church proclaim this:
Rape indeed does happen to blameless people.
     Calendar, update.

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“Where was your sculptor from?” “Sicyon.” “What did they call him? “Lysippos.”
          “Speaking of names, what is yours?” “Time, the All-Conquering Force.”
“Why do you tiptoe?” “I’m sprinting—as always.” “And what are your wings for?
          Each of your feet has a pair.” “Wind-borne, I flit here and there.”
“Why does your hand hold a razor?” “To be a reminder for humans.
          This is my likeness in life— keen as the sharpest-edged knife.”
“Why is your hair in your face?” “To be seized by the ones who approach me.”
          “Why, then, by Zeus, do you lack any at all at the back?”
“Once I have passed on my swift-flying feet, I’ll be captured by no one
          longing to make me rewind, reeling me in from behind."
“Why, and for whom, did the craftsman create you?” “My lesson’s for your sake,
          stranger. For you I was made. Here, on his porch, I’m displayed.”

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α. Τίς πόθεν ὁ πλάστης; β. Σικυώνιος. α. Οὔνομα δὴ τίς;
          β. Λύσιππος. α. Σὺ δὲ τίς; β. Καιρὸς ὁ πανδαμάτωρ.
α. Τίπτε δ’ ἐπ’ ἄκρα βέβηκας; β. ’Αεὶ τροχάω. α. Τί δὲ ταρσοὺς
          ποσσὶν ἔχεις διφυεῖς; β. Ἳπταμ’ ὑπηνέμιος.
α. Χειρὶ δὲ δεξιτερῇ τί φέρεις ξυρόν; β. Ἀνδράσι δεῖγμα,
          ὡς ἀκμῆς πάσης ὀξύτερος τελέθω.
α. Ἡ δὲ κόμη, τί κατ’ ὄψιν; β. Ὑπαντιάαντι λαβέσθαι.
          α. Νὴ Δία, τἀξόπιθεν δ’ εἰς τί φαλακρὰ πέλει;
β. Τὸν γὰρ ἄπαξ πτηνοῖσι παραθρέξαντά με ποσσὶν
          οὕτις ἔθ’ ἱμείρων δράξεται ἐξόπιθεν.
α. Τοὔνεχ’ ὁ τεχνίτης σε διέπλασεν; β. Εἴνεκεν ὑμέων,
          ξεῖνε· καὶ ἐν προθύροις θῆκε διδασκαλίην.

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“Sculpture by…?” “Phidias. His was the image of Pallas Minerva.
          Jove he made, also. And me. I am his Feat Number Three.
I am the goddess Occasio, noticed by few, and those rarely.”
          “Why do you stand on a wheel?” “Well, I can never stand still.”
“Why do your sandals have wings?” “I am flighty. Though Mercury scatters
          prizes, it’s I who will choose—guided by whim—which is whose.”
“Why hide your face with your hair?” “I dislike being recognized.” “Hey! You’re
          bald at the back of your head!” “Thus, I’m not caught when I’ve fled.”
“Who’s your companion?” “Let her do the talking.” “Explain who you are, please.”
          “I am a goddess whom famed Cicero’s work never named.
I am a goddess who punishes deeds that are done, or are not, by
          making folks sadly upset. That’s why they call me Regret.”
“Over to you again—why does she join you?” “Whenever I fly from
          people I’ve passed, she’ll remain. Her, they will have to retain.
Likewise will you. Though you pester and probe, though you stall with your questions,
          still, I have now slipped away—right through your hands, you will say."

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Cuius opus? Phidiae: qui signum Pallados, eius
          quique Iovem fecit; tertia palma ego sum.
sum dea quae rara et paucis OCCASIO nota.
          quid rotulae insistis? stare loco nequeo,
quid talaria habes? volucris sum. Mercurius quae
          fortunare solet, trado ego, cum volui.
crine tegis faciem, cognosci nolo. sed heus tu
          occipiti calvo es? ne tenear fugiens,
quae tibi iuncta comes? dicat tibi. dic rogo, quae sis.
          sum dea, cui nomen nec Cicero ipse dedit.
sum dea, quae factique et non facti exigo poenas,
          nempe ut paeniteat, sic METANOEA vocor.
tu modo dic, quid agat tecum, quandoque volavi,
          haec manet; hanc retinent, quos ego praeterii.
tu quoque dum rogitas, dum percontando moraris,
          elapsam dices me tibi de manibus.

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“Who are you, endowed and adorned with more
heavenly grace than mortal woman’s due?
Why fidget? And your feet have wings. What for?”
“I’m Opportunity, perceived by few.
The reason I keep moving? I’m on one
foot. (And stand atop a wheel—that, too.)
My flying can’t compete with how I run;
my wings, though, boost my feet’s efficiency
to blinding speed—en route, I’m seen by none.
I keep my hair in front, where it can be
spread out to cover me from chest to face,
so when I come, none recognizes me.
The back part of my head lacks any trace
of hair, so people scrabble uselessly
when I’ve passed by—or turned, if that’s the case.”
“But tell me: coming after you, who’s she?”
“Regret. Take careful note! Get this down pat!
She’s kept by those who can’t keep hold of me.
And you yourself, while wasting time in chat
and occupied with idle thoughts’ demands,
don’t see, poor soul, and don’t yet fathom that
already I have slipped right through your hands!”

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“ Chi sei tu, che non par donna mortale,
di tanta grazia il ciel t’ adorna e dota ?
perchè non posi ? e perchè a’ piedi hai l’ ale ? ”
“ Io son l’ Occasïone, a pochi nota ;
e la cagion che sempre mi travagli
è perchè io tengo un piè sopra una rota.
Volar non è ch’ al mio correr s’ agguagli ;
e però l’ ale a’ piedi mi mantengo,
acciò nel corso mio ciascuno abbagli.
Gli sparsi miei capei dinanzi io tengo ;
con essi mi ricopro il petto e ’l volto,
perch’ un non mi conosca quando io vengo.
Dietro dal capo ogni capel m’ è tolto,
onde in van si affatica un, se gli avviene
ch’ io l’ abbia trapassato, o s’ io mi volto.”
“Dimmi : chi è colei che teco viene ? ”
“ È Penitenza ; e però nota e intendi :
chi non sa prender me, costei ritiene.
E tu, mentre parlando il tempo spendi,
occupato da molti pensier vani,
già non t’ avvedi, lasso ! e non comprendi
com’ io ti son fuggita tra le mani ! ”

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I didn’t do my homework very well.
The sylvan-looking setting of the chapel
in photos cautioned, “Don’t ask Mom to grapple
with bus stairs, twice, to see this. She’ll rebel.
No woods are walkable from your hotel.
Within the crowded Old Town walls, the map’ll
offer lots of plums. Forget this apple.
It’s out of reach. Give up. It’s hopeless.” Hell,
we’ve walked right past it several times today!
I can’t believe it’s only blocks away.
Or bricks away, as—ticketless—I lay
my hand on walls that hide what they display.
That angel’s grimace (Anguish! Grief! Dismay!)
I cannot see says all I cannot say.

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ancient
pixels'
fragile
glass
contra-
dicting
"all things
pass"

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For years I’ve been your fangirl, from afar.
A hundred million smalti, sparkling gold,
cannot upstage the spectacle you are.
You’re absolutely fabulous—threefold!
You’ve stepped in sync through eras. Strutted. Strolled.
Tight pants in triple shades of leopard skin
show off the way each well-turned calf and shin
remains unique, despite same-swiveled hips.
I’d hoped to see you, live; that’s hit the bin.
Your thrills will have to be another trip’s.
Your Phrygian caps (rust-red, not cinnabar),
said “Persians!” once, though modern eyes are told
“The Smurfs!” or “Santa!” In the repertoire
of flourishes your cape-hems have unscrolled,
one hears “Magician!”, mostly—but I’m old
enough that my pop-culture-reference din
adds “Liberace!” “Presley!” “Brown!” I grin.
Those Vegas vibes enhance, and don’t eclipse,
your splendor. Sigh. My starstruck smile turns thin.
Your thrills will have to be another trip’s.
Although I’ve failed to see you, au revoir.
Who knows how your finale might unfold?
Christ’s mother might be offered caviar
from those impressive vessels that you hold,
or Tuna à la King, glam-casseroled!
I’ll miss it. Mom is set on turning in.
Blame jet lag. (I admit, to my chagrin,
I’m sleep-starved, too.) Though FOMO whines and nips—
it knows I’ll never pass this way again—
your thrills will have to be another trip’s.
Your Majesties, please tell my friends within
the chorus line of virgin saints you spin
before (Epiphany/Apocalypse?),
“She’s sorry, but she’s short adrenaline.
Your thrills will have to be another trip’s.”

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Dance, you wingèd waif,   across these wood-floored meadows.
Your skinny arm, when placed   in line with strict tradition,
connects your weight with flight,   to balance those, to wed those.
I wish you—I, who know!—   a life of recognition.
Graces, Nymphs, come down   from legend’s lofty shadows;
Taglioni, too—   Arcadia’s princess. Listen:
exalt and train   (while chuckling at)   my choice for kudos—
this little presence, new,   of plucky disposition.
Montmartre gave to her   both cockiness and kin,
and Roxelana, nose,   and China, eyes; but in
your own turn, Ariel,    now give to this recruit
your lightness, day and night,    your lightness on your feet...
But still let—to my taste!—   her wine smell like her fruit,
keeping, in golden courts,   the vintage of her street.​

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Danse, gamin ailé, sur les gazons de bois.
Ton bras maigre, placé dans la ligne suivie
Equilibre, balance et ton vol et ton poids.
Je te veux, moi qui sais, une célèbre vie.
Nymphes, Grâces, venez des cimes d’autrefois ;
Taglioni, venez, princesse d’Arcadie,
Ennoblir et former, souriant de mon choix,
Ce petit être neuf, à la mine hardie.
Si Montmartre a donné l’esprit et les aïeux
Roselane le nez et la Chine les yeux,
A ton tour, Ariel, donne à cette recrue
Tes pas légers de jour, tes pas légers de nuit…
Mais, pour mon gout connu ! Qu’elle sente son fruit
Et garde aux palais d’or la race de sa rue.

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     (Noam Chomsky’s famous example of a nonsensical sentence
     with impeccable grammatical structure)
I don’t know what I’m looking at. I’ve seen
memorials before: train stations here
recall the Jews they caused to disappear
when I’m about to board the same machine.
This takes me nowhere, though. A wall of green
glass conducts me down to an austere
and claustrophobic courtyard, where I peer
at signage. What’s this place supposed to mean?
“Nine-Eleven.” What? Why here? That’s not
transparent, though this structure’s steel-webbed glass
and giant letter-slot let daylight pass.
The rusty beam they crucify is caught
in time, but cockeyed. 2-D towers rise
to form an open book that mocks my whys.
       —Memoria e luce: 9/11 Memorial in Padua, 2005,
          by Daniel Libeskind (USA, b. Poland)

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Light’s enemies—reclusive indentations
and entrails—take the stage for their premiere,
in lurid, horrible hallucinations
of dreadful truth and bonfire-flaring fear.
Candescent ochres; carmines, hot as flame;
soft ivory- and rose-tinged subtleties:
these left the gilded chapels, and became
death-pallor, blood, and pustulent disease.
Rembrandt—he whose name earned global kudos,
that awesome, venerated artist—he
was paintbrush-poniard of these sinews’ luster…
Rembrandt—conqueror of light and shadows.
And pain first had its portrait; and misery,
its painter worthy of the title master.

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Los enemigos de la luz—rincones
y entrañas—surgen por la vez primera,
en tremendas y fúlgidas visiones,
de atroz verdad, y resplandor de hoguera.
Lumineos ocres, cálidos carmines,
ebúrneas y rosadas morbideces,
dejaron los dorados camarines,
para ser sangre, podre y livideces.
Fué Rembrandt, cuyo nombre al mundo asombra,
artista poderoso é insensato,
pincel-puñal de palpitante nervio…
Fué Rembrandt, vencedor de luz y sombra.
Y el dolor tuvo su primer retrato,
y la miseria su pintor soberbio.

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Nature takes her time,   perfecting each design.
To sketch the shape of breasts,   she stood well back, and made
the oceans undulate,   and once that surface swayed,
made mountains elevate,   and basin-forms incline.
Preparing to create   hearts’ softly cushioned shrine,
she curved and curved the hills,   their profiles charm-inlaid.
Who knows how many drafts—  a feminine parade—
she formed of lilies first,   while breasts were next in line?
Of all her long attempts,   the last one wasn’t Eve.
Her masterpiece,   and beauty’s, too,   she’d not achieve—
awaited age by age,   emerging woman by woman—
till one great specimen:   triumphant, Art could trace
a perfect human body—   its contours, superhuman.
This model was, O Greece,   the flower of your race.

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La Nature accomplit lentement ses desseins.
Elle ébauchait de loin la forme des poitrines
En faisant onduler les surfaces marines,
Se soulever les monts, se creuser les bassins ;
Elle apprêtait aux cœurs leurs suaves coussins
En courbant les profils enchanteurs des collines ;
Qui sait après combien d’esquisses féminines,
Au temps des premiers lys elle moula les siens ?
Et de ses longs essais le dernier n’est pas Ève :
Son chef-d’œuvre attendu d’âge en âge s’achève,
Et de la beauté, de femme en femme, éclôt toujours,
Jusqu’au type suprême où l’Art triomphe et trace
D’un corps humain parfait les surhumains contours,
Et ce modèle, ô Grèce, est la fleur de ta race.

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I’m not a prude,
but having viewed
this multitude
of nude, nude, nude,
I'm in a mood
that’s far from lewd.
My attitude
is “Really, dude?”

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This thing you see—this colored fraudulence
that shows the heights that Art aspires to
by means of specious arguments of hue—
is but a cunning scheme to swindle sense.
This thing—within which, flattery’s pretense
forgives the horrors that the years accrue
and, vanquishing what time’s ordeals can do,
defeats old age, and fame’s impermanence—
is but a futile, toil-filled artifice;
is but a dainty flower the winds distress;
is but a frail defense from Fate’s abyss;
is but a foolish errand, meaningless;
is but a failed attempt, and—viewed like this—
is corpse, is dust, is shade, is nothingness.
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, translated by Julie Steiner

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Este que ves, engaño colorido,
que del Arte ostentando los primores,
con falsos silogismos de colores
es cauteloso engaño del sentido:
éste, en quien la lisonja ha pretendido
excusar de los años los horrores,
y, venciendo del tiempo los rigores,
triunfar de la vejez y del olvido:
es un vano artificio del cuidado:
es una flor al viento delicada;
es un resguardo inútil para el Hado;
es una necia diligencia errada;
es un afán caduco, y bien mirado,
es cádaver, es polvo, es sombra, es nada.

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This Night you see asleep in soft obliques
of sculpted stone? An Angel was her maker.
And since she sleeps, she must have life. Just wake her,
if doubtful; you’ll believe it when she speaks.
Giovan Battista Strozzi, ca. 1544, translated by Julie Steiner

“Sleep’s dear to me—to be of stone, yet dearer—
when what goes on is shameful and distressing.
Not seeing, not perceiving, is a blessing.
Don’t wake me, then! Speak low, and come no nearer.”
Michelangelo Buonarroti, ca. 1545-6, translated by Julie Steiner
Belly in folds, stone breasts skewed left and right,
I, too, have slept propped awkwardly, exhausted,
oblivious while chaos has accosted.
Your limbs speak new-mom semaphore, good Night.
Julie Steiner, 2026

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La Notte che tu vedi in sì dolci atti
dormir fu da un Angelo scolpita
in questo sasso, e perchè dorme ha vita :
destala, se nol credi, e parleratti.
Giovan Battista di Lorenzo Strozzi
~
Caro m’ è ’l sonno, e più l’ esser di sasso
Mentre che ’l danno e la vergogna dura :
Non veder, non sentir, m’ è gran ventura ;
Però non mi destar, deh! parla basso.
Michelangelo Buonarroti

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The first. Ground Zero for this sort of thing.
A crater of ellipse-shaped, terraced floors
     [+12 lines]

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Alone this afternoon, I’m torn between
basilicas: repeat St. Anthony’s
(both masterpiece- and tourist-packed), or squeeze
in one more trip to that of St. Justine?
     [+10 lines]

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The lectionary leaves him out, and that
is why I heard his story up the street,
from neighbors...not proclaimed at Sunday Mass.
     [+247 lines]

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     ...said the guidebook about the Basilica of St. Anthony of Padua,
     when visited during 2016’s Jubilee of Mercy.

romanesque redbrick     barn façade
byzantine bubbledomes     silostacks collide
steamwhistle minarets     goth arcade
jubilee holydoor     detour (side)
     [+4 quatrains]