Today I visited St. Giles Cathedral, in Edinburgh, Scotland. Sadly I missed a concert there last night, but got to hear the organist in his loft this afternoon after trekking the city. Lit a candle for friends and sat awhile. I've been to at least five cathedrals on this trip so far, but this one felt cozy and lived in, a lot like Mary Mag's in Oxford, my main church for the five weeks I was there. Most Anglican churches are not only called "High Church" but tend to feel loftier than is tangible for the little people. This coming from a cathedral-going Episcopalian. Good day so far, and I still have yet to hike Holyrood and get pub grub tonight. I depart early in the morning for the Lake District.
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The light hits
patches in each place,
a cerulean blue
or a piercing red
or, if the reformers got to you,
the life was sucked from your eyes
leaving nary a saint to look at me
with watery eyes,
to tell me to eat my vegetables
to clean my room,
no great beings to fix me to my seat.
The ones remaining don't miss a beat.
My hearts skips a beat.
Mary was not only Caucasian
but had an exceptionally high forehead
save when she appeared to Titian,
his glowing Middle Eastern muse.
He was still convinced she was a blonde.
Female pattern baldness
immaculate conception
and Caucasianitis
ran in the holy family, I'm afraid.
And how does Joseph her lover react
seeing her and himself,
only two teenage lovers enshrined with a naked baby
in circlets of gold against Victorian wallpaper—
does he cry out in his sleep
anything is possible, but oh God how?
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1 comment:
I like this, especially the last line.
I've always wondered about that whole high forehead thing. Was it like a medieval beauty fetish?
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