OPERA ANGELORUM

CANTO I.

THE SPIRIT SPEAKS

IF I wander too long upon my words

Forgive me, my silence will now be dumb.

So often in my life have I been told

To keep my tongue in check, or cut it out,

And I did, and wallowed in my silence.

Thus the preservation of the world,

The histories of the long lines of men,

Has ceaseless hung upon a very breath,

Till our human knowledge, which we prize,

Is winnowed to a rumor in the mist.

As Vergilius Maro condemned her,

So upon her, Rumor, we must depend.

CANTO II.

ROME BURNS

THERE is fire blazing in Nero’s eyes—

Maker and destroyer; Rome in ruin,

A baking furnace for untold masses.

Petronius prescribes what jibes he can,

As practiced or forceless as his playful end,

Where, passing time between death, he orders

A servant beaten, converses coolly,

Till, in fullness of time, he looses his veins,

Feigning to laugh at Feared Oblivion,

Tittering at the sparks in Nero’s eye.

But I am not he, and met my torment

Facing the firestorm, on the broad steps

Of the public bath, its book-scrolls whisked out

By the wind’s brother, burst of orange-leaf.

Calliope’s columns encroached by flame,

I scan the smoldering ashes for her words;

Before me float those leafs that formed my soul,

And I pluck them from space still ignited,

Beating their prosody against my breast,

Saving first that Eclogue nearest my heart.

On the steps the emperor approaches,

Catching my hateful eye, and we meet,

My lips alight with Vergil’s noblest verse:

“Fortune is with him whose mind has power

To probe the causes of things and trample

Underfoot terror and inexorable fate;

In this you have failed, emperor of Rome,

A craven coward, and self-appointed

Maker of your own madness, made in jest.

Fair Fortune will forget you with joy,

Feared Oblivion gapes for thee with glee.”

There is keen fire in the god-man’s eyes,

His expression changed from blank to raging:

“O nameless poet, whose words pierce me true,

How they ring from the mouth the gods gave you;

O eloquent soul, foundling and vagrant,

And sayer of all the things I am not—

I shall now cut out your tongue with this shard!”

Now lost of voice and my tongue left lying,

I walked, nay crawled, a wordless craven pup,

A eunuch in conversation, a fool

To be kicked and spit upon by betters.

ALONE I traveled to Gaul's city-state,

Looking longingly across the Alpine peaks,

And stayed in hidden vineyards set high

When recognizing prelates came to see.

One whose eyes espied me in my spot,

In the trellised vines glimpsed my mournful eye,

Mistook me for a shade of consular Hades.

“Surely you are that advising spirit

Who spells out doom or fortune for those few

On whom civilization always depends.

Disclose your wisdom, for I am anxious

As the Heavenly spheres tilt and advance.”

So beg a thousand such eager voices,

That visit upon me their one request.

Since this earth advances ever to its end,

And I am returned as a raving shade,

I harrow their hearts with all History.

CANTO III.

CATULLUS

IN the red garden below her bedroom

Catullus sang lyrics for Clodia,

Each phrase sweetly tasted, frail and gentle—

Till his subject’s sweet demeanor curled

To the shapes of deceit and lovely sting,

Poisoned through with wan little laughters.

Alone in the garden with his emptied heart

Came the blow of his brother’s death,

The news written coldly in a letter,

And sent him out upon the sea to mourn.

He found Verona unchanged on return,

But was consoled by an arrived missive

Sent from Rome by his friend Manlius,

Entreating from him a grieving poem

For a sister lost to the rotting flesh.

Without delay Catullus sent reply:

“Outside of the Roman Capital, friend,

Little flourishes in the way of thought.

My sorrows wander by, unattended

By the pen—— pleasures, too, while away

Under the choicest beech tree in the yard.

Such fancies half-remembered I cannot

Recover while ink and paper are scarce.

As you observe, your letter is returned

And mine pinched under your last paragraph.

Truth be told, no subject suggests itself

Since my heart is numb and ill with love,

Septic in my innards, despaired of health.

I sailed my schooner, and would as soon have

Thrown myself over into the choppy depths,

But the sad thought of my ship drifting off

Into the possession of some grubber

Stayed me, and yet I have just sold her off

To survive the next season in comfort.

Send me paper and ink enough to write,

And I will make such an ode to Laurel’s

Spirit, decrying her unjust exit—

But send enough to unfetter my own weights.”

With joy the poet receives his fabric,

Unspools furiously the threads of grief;

Thoughts arise, before unbidden,

Divorced from the deities figurined

Upon the altar, as if their pewter

Selves could rise above their molten state,

Fabricated from earth and elevated

To the stature of man’s shoulder, no greater

Than his lusts and battles, except for fame

And memory, their one seeming glory.

But the loom of the mind weaves threads deeper,

The intimation of a self beyond creation,

Independent from the action of the winds,

Taking shape of itself—of higher nature.

Another voice, previously unanswered,

Calls to each human heart that it is human—

The secret beating pulse of every soul.

This hope afar is jealously observed:

With scorn the son of Hypnos winces—

Phantasus, dream-bringer of dead things—

Is waved away in the plain light of day,

For sorrows unspun have a solid center

In the first designer above Olympus.

Euphrosyne herself suspects some plot

To usurp her birthright of gleeful feasts,

Tables of merriment and goodwill to all.

The idea once amusing, now startling,

Odious and unimaginable,

Comes upon her as does a starless night,

The unnameable last son of Hypnos,

Bringing not dreams but a cold prognosis—

That feared oblivion gapes for her!

NOW on booked passage Catullus travels

And sits comfortably by the prow,

Delighting in his verse as though Homer

Has delivered to him newly-wrought lines.

Unforgotten, his grief reflects transformed

With a strengthened spirit—not the stoic

Adjustments in accord with stiff Nature,

But exuberance in the stride of the step

Over wooded path, and the feast of life

Met on every corner where he looked.

And again the waters signaled peaceful

Crossing and a pleasant reward for him:

But the torrents of the wind on the waves

Upswell and shakes near those twin heads—

Unskilled brute power whips the waves,

And our poet dives beneath the wood planks,

Clutching tightly the leather-skin scroll

While salty sprays burn beneath his lids.

The wood mast splits under the wind,

And the boat capsizes all the row-men,

All but Catullus, wedged beneath the planks.

Devoid of weight, the boat carries safely

To shore, with its sole survivor alive,

Clutching an empty leather wrapping.

One small scrap of paper he holds,

The ink washed out, and only scratches

Faintly marked upon its surface,

Nigh invisible to the naked eye.

CANTO IV.

VIRGIL

THE reed sings out under the weight of the wind,

But the poet breaks, stumbling on the road,

His arms held in aegis against the storm,

A lone victim of Nature’s casual force.

Many dusty steps he’d traveled from home,

In fair Mantua, only halfway there,

In the Elysian fields of Lombardy,

His familiar route turned deceptive.

But a rustic home, a red-stoned dwelling,

Bore the brunt of the wind and called to him

With a furious vent, and he stumbled

Towards it, into the arms of an old

Woman who, stumbling, took him in embrace,

Laying him abed, the wind-song roaring.

From serene madness he fell to steep waves,

Sinking in the ocean of unknowing,

And dreamed of the road again, stumbling,

Carried up suddenly by unseen hands,

To the rare realm of divine stratosphere,

As once was Scipio Africanus.

The humid air clung like wet clothes to him,

Lifted to this vision in the heavens,

Suspended above the heads of history,

Mighty warriors whose signet rings he kissed:

Mighty Odysseus, wearing Athena’s mask—

And Achilles with the helmed visage of Mars.

In one instance they were richly adorned,

Full of pride, purpose, and inevitability—

The next they appeared in brown sacks.

“Truly our days are composed

Of suffering, deprivations of warmth,

Of justice—surely we are all cheated

Of our inheritance—but what birthright

Is given but life itself, what taken

To Elysium? What gained now but Fame?

And that is earned regardless of Justice.

If Fate brought Aeneas, whither his pride?

If Fate enforced his hand, whither his strength?

Anchises was borne not only upon

Broad filial shoulders, but wondrous Fate’s.”

Then, in a great cloud the shape of a cross,

A form of flesh outstretched upon it,

Hung suffering, before his very eyes,

And the forces of Zeus vanished,

Athena’s altars, adorned with pale pewter,

Were crushed easily, like twigs underfoot.

CANTO V.

BYZANTIUM

IN the city of Constantinople

Was built a library of great splendor,

Domed, and inlaid with fabulous fragrance,

The Emperor’s myrrh enriching sense

Of touch of finger upon gilt pages,

Beneath bright lamps on marble pedestals.

A man alone, a scholar, may wander

And freeze before an unsought singular tome

Tucked between two more obvious titles,

Delighting in his discovered knowledge—

The Persica of the Assyrians;

The Third Achilleis of Aeschylus;

The sapphic Penumbrae of Alcaeus;

And Homer’s comedy The Margites.

IN the city Byzantine their great flair

Was for the intricate and grotesque:

On the skin of a slain serpent was writ

The homeward voyage of Odysseus,

His massacre of the unwelcome suitors,

Greek letters on the dragon blocked in gold—

A marvel one could recite at a distance—

Until the Isaurian lent it to the flame,

Suppressed the schools of Homer and Horace,

Deeming their veneration an insult

The heresies and fancies of bad men.

The white fireworm roared high on the wind,

Harrowing the palace of its lettered prey,

The house of the poets, unfortunate men

Whose thoughts dissipated above the spires

Where Leo throned above throngs sat daring

Maslama’s forces try their siege once more.

CANTO VI.

BOETHIUS

I.

THE City of Rome stood splendidly filled

With Christian men of pagan learning—

Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero,

Following Pythagoras’s maxim

Oft repeated: follow Logic, follow God.

Then the wild Gothmen burst through the gates,

Fresh from victory at Verona,

With ignorance invading intellect,

As only the tribes of split heretics could—

Pagan warriors converted to Christ,

Through the silver-tongued airs of Arius.

But the Italian sun brings comfort,

And soon each man stood shoulder-to-shoulder,

Ostrogoth and Roman under auspice,

Harking Vergil’s conquest of Latium,

Recited in the baths and theaters,

Proclaimed with new accentuations,

Theodoric cast as a New Aeneas.

II.

FROM a high sill, from a high, wide window,

Stood Boethius, prince of the city,

Young, more knowledgeable than any man.

His hair was full and dark, shoulders erect

Against the bronze sunset and silver clouds.

Tenebrous stood the Emperor beside him

Theodoric in a tunic Roman-made,

Gazing fiercely at his conquest of the land.

Theodoric’s hand reached far in four winds, 

Gripping alike companion and contender

With the unshaking firmness of a bear;

Boethius his prince, adopted like a son,

As emissary generously sent:

A bard he chose for the lord King Clovis,

So the Franks might hear his name often,

Plucked with lyric upon the harp at times;

A sundial he constructed in marble

For Gundobad, King of Burgundians,

So time of day might bow to his glory.

Impatient and threatening with anger,

Theodoric spoke with trembling ire,

Death to be meted to lawyers who argued,

Unsettled in suit—and yet he forgave them:

Two days allowed them, by Boethius’s counsel,

His wise words taming the Emperor’s heart.

So prospered Boethius by day-star,

Young, only thirty, already in office

As Magister Officiorum, Emperor’s hand,

Curing the morals of the city of Rome.

III.

IN the scape suddenly he saw clearly

Afar the steel-barred frame of the prison

Where Romans burned away their sins.

Such was Fortune’s spinning wheel of justice,

In Rome, where Justice ruled for Righteousness.

Such a place as where earthly sinners went,

Captive to their misdeeds in low abode,

Till the Magister of Roman Justice

Lawfully executed their sentence.

It was true Heaven called scrips for recompense,

Visited upon all governments—

Yet a good citizen should never fear

Earthly retribution for patriotism.

It was impossible that innocent

Men should sit alone on prison flagstones

Overlooking the gutters of rats and mongrels.

Why then the low whispers of senators

Opposite him in the chambers of law?

Could they not mediate as well as he

The slim divides of justice and loyalty?

For indeed they came, on a dim-lit eve,

Holding him under-arm as a traitor,

Descending the wide ponderous steps

As numerous as the pages of law,

Theodoric scowling at betrayal.

“Truly,” thought Boethius, “justice is served

If even I am scrutinized fairly,

As they do the street thief every Monday.”

But he feared the awful truth as a tear fell

Between the marble steps and prison cart.

IV.

IMPRISONED in Pavia far from Rome,

Alone without his works of comfort,

He waited the discomfort of the word

From Theodoric’s gothic messenger.

Misery from loneliness beset him,

Anger from injustice filled him full,

For God had allowed the strangest outcome,

Purely un-mathematical, and wrong.

Had not his maxim been, “follow Logic,

Follow God”? A universal truth, but—

No more—And it came easy to him now

To recall all the minor injustices.

V.

SURROUNDED by darkness, knowledge had left him,

Though portcullis light framed the sky’s body—

The light of the stars, friends of old Heaven

Appeared to him now with kindness and mirth,

Caused him to curse them, crying out with anger—

For mercy’s sake, should they mock him this hour?

Pallid Ignorance, by grief uninvited,

Finally vanished, and Philosophy appeared:

Arrayed in cloak flashing, a glass herself shining,

A mirror reflecting the room and the man.

Presently sitting, on windowsill waiting,

The night sky recast her resplendent,

Formed in the cloth of her cloak a map

Of the stars, like a spyglass in aspect,

The whole of creation seen in a window:

Planets advancing, with Time in a vise,

Viewed the grim faces of Saturn and Mars.

It was then that she spoke with words gracious:

“O truly if Knowledge was close to your heart,

You would seek her in places other than books,

For in your books her picture’s forgotten,

Your memory weak, your wisdom at fault,

Your accomplishments nothing without her—

Yet, in meeting me your words shall move monarchs

To reflect mortal tears in high houses,

You will undertake that work in this prison,

Mortal and punished, your book undying

For all your accomplishments, nothing

You have yet done in your life shall compare

With the work that you will now undertake

In the eternity of scholarship.

In meeting me, your words shall move monarchs

To mortal tears in their high palaces.”

Prayer of Boethius

“O Lord, let this Philosophy save souls

From the sin and cowardice of suicide,

And find heart in the logic of all things

Divined by thee since the days of Adam,

Plato, and Aristotle. Amen.”

Then execution came, for Death is prompt,

And he wept, waiting, bound to a bolted chair.

Then they crowned him with a circlet of rope,

Its cords burrowed deeply upon his brow

As the executioner heaved the line.

And all the wisdom of Boethius,

Seated in splendor in his gifted mind,

Constricted; His eyes bulged wide with appeal

To Heaven as the lightning blow was struck,

A hammer to the skull—and his head split,

Contents spilled, his spirit sent upward.

CANTO VII.

A MEDIEVAL MANUSCRIPT

CANTO VIII.

THE DISSOLUTION

THE history of the world lay piled

Meekly in heavy stacks on a horse-cart,

Tomes of gold-lettered works by mild monks,

Inscribing the lives of their mighty lords,

And mightier yet, the hand of Heaven,

Justifying the ways of God to men.

O that the King of England were so humble,

So these books need not be secretly stowed,

Discreetly covered over with a cloth

Of felt, strapped and bridled just as tightly

As the poor brown mare who lightly grazing

Turned her eyes towards a tight-lipped Prior

Whose sandals slapped on the garden cobblestones.

Other hooves, other horses, on the road

Rode towards them—the King’s Men and Carriage

Arriving to rob them, to take their books,

To sell them into bondage to titled

Libraries whose lords were nurtured by monks;

Henricus Octavus himself had learned

At the strict hand of this elder Prior.

T

HE King of England leapt from on high, 

From cart to earth as a babe from its pram,

Facing his Prior with a wide-visaged smile.

“Well Master,” said he, “with love I return

To bring home that half I had left behind.”

“To sell them,” said the Prior, kneeling low

Before his sovereign, “To slavers

Whose thoughts rate Knowledge a trinket, 

Which in turn you trade for trumpets of war.

What has Learning to do with weaponry?

It were better to cut off your own head

Than steal away all that which has made you.”

Henry laughed, eyes turned, with knowing guile.

“Does the fate of these books matter so much?

I imagine they will sit, safely idling,

On the shelves of my lordlings, beside the busts

Of the Roman Emperors who wrote them.

Books are ours, knowledge royal, for we must rule,

As did Julius, who ruled, worked, and wrote.

These tomes are tired of you and your monks;

I do sell them not into slavery

Turning your abbey to a galley.

My captains of war are your own kith,

Raised on the words of God and the Church.

The books will remain unchanged.”

The prior averted his eyes down for tears,

And spoke these final words to his king:

“You have already changed the world forever.”

CANTO XI.

EPILOGUE

NOW I the spirit must break away,

Leaving nothing in this trellised garden,

Whose folios will flutter to the ground,

Orange like the sun, a final tribute.

May God fare you well in all your travels;

And your words be truthful, and your heart strong—

For enemies shall invade the heartland,

Appear among you in the warmth of night,

Burn your home, open it to the elements,

Till bit by bit your books are rotted, buried,

Returned to their first origination,

Their thoughts forgotten, but for a small piece—

Our memory but a rumor in the mist.