Adelaide Literary Magazine No.28, September 2019

PASSAGES

by Therese White

There is a feather, the outer vain edged a li le thing, snug and blanketed. So much
dark like charcoal ash, while the longer side of life, her life, was diminished, diminu ve,
bears an oyster shell lightness. Gathered in all that was le , all that was there, a er
from the yard, it has sat for years in my pen such a life, a big life, a full life, a life of lar-
holder, amid the Bics, Uniballs, Pilots, and gess and abundance, which sprang from
dull pencils in need of sharpening; it is less something small and frugal. A return to
full than it once was as barbs have vanished, small and sweet. And that was her smell,
to where I know not. I like to pretend that too: sweet as if each exhala on were held
if it had been found in the wood, hundreds in a ny, li le, white lily of the valley bell,
of years past, that the feather would have holding her breath in a cup, like a holy
become a quill and that the quill would grail. Emana ng from within her withering
write all sorts of missives, love le ers, cer- bloom, a full 101 years old, ready for a re-
birth, she was s ll a flowery essence. Only
ficates, reports, notes, dings, bills, com- when we had said our goodbyes, only when
muniqué, and poems. It would have been there had been a closing of the door and
useful and beau ful, traveling the world by she was le with David, my husband, her
way of words on a piece of paper, folded grandson, did she exhale for the final me,
and tucked into an envelope, addressed to only when the fine sweet scent had passed
someone on the other side of the globe. did he leave her and meet us on the other
side of the door, to cry en masse and hold
When Ernes ne, my husband’s grand- other hearts, bea ng, hur ng, to his own.
mother, was close, so close, to death, her
breath was leaving her body; her body was I cannot fold what I think of as origami.
dispiri ng, expiring, becoming a shell, she I turn the paper into smooth geometric
would have said ash to ash, dust to dust. shapes as simple as rectangles and squares.
Her vanishing act began as a decline, a re- They do not resemble tulips or boats. Let’s
cline, lying in bed, her head on a so , so call my paper folding post-modern. But the
so , pillow. The aides were out; the family art of paper folding is centuries old. Orizuru
was in. We circled her like a halo, murmur- is the Japanese word for ‘folded crane,’ or
ing words, whispering soliloquies, offering what we know as the paper crane. My son
love, an offering. Her eyes were closed and can make origami like the orizuru by heart,
her breathing measured. I remember her an endeavor many master. I have one of his
size. She had grown so small, as life was paper cranes, one that he gave me. Owen
leaving and each breath exhaled. Her body

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is my first born, a boy, who, when li le, My husband and I visited the li le Austri-
loved things with wings: bu erflies, paper an village, Hallsta , which dates back to the
cranes, airplanes. The paper crane he made 16th century. There is a lake, sheltered by a
for me is a basic white. But that paper was mountain range, and ringed by hotels. An
u erly transformed: from recycled 20 lb. espaliered pear tree decorates one charm-
stock to a crane. A crane! I indulge my own ing home, and red geraniums pop. Oh, the
amazement. Simple folds, but a complicat- geraniums! Up a hill, Catholic parishioners
ed transforma on. Flat to 3-dimensional, pray at St. Michael’s Chapel, un l, upon
the crane should balance so that each wing their death, they are buried in its adjacent
is alo . My crane now ps, one of his wings cemetery. Another a erlife custom con-
rests on the table. But of paper or crane,
which is more beau ful? Which is more val- nues in its charnel house, an ossuary or
ued? The paper allows for these words, an ‘bone house.’ With space at a premium, a
invita on to a sister’s wedding, an obituary, new body would take refuge in an old grave
a note to say, “I’m sorry.” The crane simply and the old bones would be washed and
is. Mine devolving, a bit transfigured into a painted with wreaths, ini als or names,
leaning tower of bird, one wing p shoul- crosses, dates, and perhaps leaves or flow-
dering the weight of the en re creature. ers—skull a er skull, si ng on top of each
But it was built with love and care for me other, over 600 of them, some centuries
by my son, a boy, ready to fly, literally in the old, some decades. They’re quite beau ful.
Air Force. Laurentz Rogerl, Johanna Wesenfeld, Franz
Seauer, Leopold Kieninger. The women’s
Menopause is a bitch, like a boss. I mean skulls are smaller than the men’s. But the
that in the most third-wave-feminist-I’m-re- skulls are all the same: buried no more,
claiming-that-word-kind-of-way possible. bleached of bony color, the darker the ink,
She is also a friend. She is that friend that the older the skull. Alas, poor Yorick! The
curses and speaks too loudly in restaurants, eye sockets and nose chambers hollow, de-
making you laugh un l you pee in your void of the capacity to see or to smell. No
pants. (More than metaphorically.) Literally. I more are they a part of the shell that made
bemoaned my early onset menopause as the Wesenfeld whole or Seauer real.
start of all things non-feminine. No longer
menstrua ng, no longer of child-bearing age, Walking through the town, we step
no longer young, no longer visible, no longer. into an art gallery where a ceramist is sell-
She has been less drama c than I gave her ing po ery, her work a smooth porcelain
credit for, but s ll ever-present, ever-press- glazed with an inky blue. We choose a vase,
ing her ways on me, urging me to transform. a squat 5 inch, a bulbous pot, with room for
But could it be that she is urging me to trans- one stem. I wrap it carefully as we proceed
figure into a more elevated version of myself, across the country, before flying back to the
beyond menses and to births of a different U.S. The vase makes it back in one piece,
kind, births on paper? Essays and fic on and ready for the mantel, the shelf, the table.
poems? Perhaps, I am not less gendered; I It sits empty, a vessel, wai ng to be filled.
am more gendered, seeing through mul ple Now that I look at it, I can tell it’s a li le
perspec ves. I now stand on the periphery, askew. I like that. I fill it with a flower. The
the edge of the borderlands, the fringe, a flower doesn’t last. It sits empty, a vessel,
witness to it all. And I write. wai ng to be filled again. The feather fits;
now the vase seems an inkwell, ready to

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speak. There is a second Hallsta , a copycat gendered, most sexual at the height of our,
development oddly enough, in the small what, twen es? Find a mate; se le down;
town of Luoyang, China. But there is no sec- reproduce. We are perky and best suited
ond off-kilter, blue-glazed vase, signed K.H. for breeding. If only this thing called life
were just a science experiment. But it is
The findings on a beach off the coast not. We get emo onal. We are emo onal.
of Cape Cod, Massachuse s all look more And we change. Our metamorphoses ex-
appealing when wet. The wave creeps up pose the truth. As Tolkien says, “All that is
the shore, pain ng the pebbles and shells gold does not gli er.” And some mes I miss
a slick, more enhanced color than their the gli er. I didn’t value it, or even no ce it,
naturally dry selves. The sun helps, aids when I was a-gli ering. But now, that me
in selling the goods. The rocks and broken has passed. What can I retain? What can I
bits seem to be saying, ‘“Pick me, choose renew? A sea change roils inside me and
me.” Half buried in the sand, some of those shows itself but hal ngly. I am bi en with a
rocks and shells play the part of a stuck, consciousness that I am aging. But I gestate
stuck-up, s ck-in-the-mud. They play coy; and will give birth to a new me, one that is
maybe they want to be chosen to go home a reflec on of insight. It will be a croning.
with you, maybe they don’t. I pick up one You are invited.
rock, turn it over in my hand, examine its
color and marks, and drop it like a bead of We once had five chickens. But a few
water sliding off the bo om of a drain. You days a er they arrived, Lady Gaga died.
are not the one. You do not speak to me. That was her name. She was survived by
But then, soon enough, I am smi en. A grey Athena, Buffy, Mamma Mia and Ruby. The
rock pops, the sun poin ng to it. Fi ng eas- hens provided fresh eggs on a regular ba-
ily into my hand, I curl my fingers around its sis un l they stopped laying. Athena was
girth. It is mostly round and lightly pocked. an iridescent black, tall, with a deformed
It appears as if something has made two toe. Buffy had a proclivity to peck at any
las ng indents on its surface, like teeth egg le in the coop. Mamma Mia, a black
marks, as if a sea nymph of unusual appe- and white hen ambled with the most socia-
ble personality. And Ruby lived the longest.
te bit into the rock, perhaps mistaking it Luckily, my father painted li le portraits of
for fruits de mer. As it quickly begins to dry them before they passed. When one see
in my palm, the color changes from a glis- chickens in art, in watercolors, and ceram-
tening gray to a bony beige, but where the ics, on dinnerware, and tea towels, it is
teeth marks remain, there is a reflec on of most o en the rooster you see. His comb
light—s ll shiny spots—luminous lines that and sickle feathers protruding proudly with
persist. The rock is returning to Connec cut a true poser’s flair. My mother once gave
with me. The pudgy rock might has had its me a li le pewter rooster. He stood about 3
day near the surf, wet and wild, but I have inches high, all because of that comb. This
tamed it, now it is dull and domes cated. rooster was a li le add-on, an extra gi ,
We will live happily together, companions,
a Boston marriage of sorts. Luckily for me, ed to the one I was supposed to open.
that sea nymph didn’t eat you up. She gave it to me because we had chickens.
But our chickens were hens, not roosters.
I see the design. We are to look our He’s fine looking fellow, a real fop, but he’s
most absolute best, most a rac ve, most no hen, Senator Quayle. The rooster is the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

tenth sign of the Chinese Zodiac, and he nacious, libel to nip at one and squawk if
may think himself the cock of the walk, but she were moved off that egg, that one incu-
I’d much rather a end a hen party in the ba ng idea of crea on. I might be a terrible
hen house, warm and woodsy. There they hen, long past laying, but s ll brooding over
would roost or brood. A broody chicken ideas and wri ng, perhaps chicken scratch,
could be a terrible hen, protec ve and te- but s ll—ever wri ng, wri ng.

About the Author:

Therese White is a writer from Connec cut and an MFA candidate from Lindenwood
University, St. Charles, Missouri. Her work has been published in Caveat Lector, Co onwood,
River & South Review, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, and Smoky Blue Literary & Arts Magazine.

182

DOOR AJAR

by Fabrice Poussin

Door Ajar Final Journey

Losing direc on I sighed again Swimming the traitorous river
made of what he imagined in a late night I made my way back to the frosty peaks
li le me at dawn in the river of torren al on the eternal snows of Mt Blanc
passions cooled to the icy granite rock. I found the throne you built for me.

I plunged again Olympian without laurels There you planted a tree of crystal orbs
hoping for a sweet sea of my own nectar so many prisms birthers to worlds of light
to part for eternity and find a way back to and a simple choice to make
Sappho my dearest sister far away on her isle. to complete the journeys to your sphere.

I saw cliffs racing to their own demise Blinded in this darkened quest
as I made my way through crimson gashes I climbed to the highest limb
cuts I had once heard rumored in his eyes for only one of the fruit I should taste
imagining my freedom at the lest it was death to be the reward.
bo om of the abyss.
You marked the way with a gentle scent
I knew I would once reach the eternal void a replica of heaven you created
swimming a crawl to ecstasy as in a prayer thus there on the top of the mountain
like the old man by the sea and make it to fireworks would brighten the cosmos again.
where again I will find the self I am to be.

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Home at last Adelaide Literary Magazine
Image

In a three-story home Wrapped in the linen of many an age
you se led on the top floor she stands by the island in a
walls of marble and smooth stone world of sweet aromas
on a beach of flowers and sand. mesmerized by the floa ng
words of those nearby
No windows from this new world her eyes shine forth with the
looking within a single land warmth of a deep soul.
now conversing with companions
not addressed in decades. Her crea on too remains s ll
so close to her being
A family once again the gaze mee ng with hers at a common aim
for a while longer perhaps they might touch hand, if they
united by a new earth did not melt in spirit
so with a bed of pansies. together as once they were in
the twinkle of an eye.
There I stand as you sleep
wai ng for the rain to share The so features folded in the
a moment of solace frame of a girlish pony tail
and hug eternity in your presence. the breast heaves that of a
woman in full harmony
s ll, he watches her drawn
by an unseen energy
her aura in a glow made of
powers unfathomed.

He sees, she feels, here near the
island and then the hearth
she knows, he wishes as the talk
goes to another tome
what will be next, as she walks to a life owed
it must be so, she with her, ght
and no place for a stranger.

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Last Seal

There is a velvety place with the sweetness of nectar
a valley made for the gods where none is welcome
remembering of births, forecas ng wondrous climes
a bed of young leaves of grass and budding blossoms.

Safe haven, no less than heaven in every season
to rest one’s in mate dreams upon the res ul pillow
Into an impossible death from the gentle roots of a mother.

Exploring the deep discovery between those mounds
par ng the green curtains so ly to the next realm
as a dew se les from the sweet breath of a giant
there is no more a need to rise but to surrender.

The kiss of life is shared by much more than crimson lips
as the hollow closes onto this prison of one penitent
not to be encountered again outside of these marble walls
the future is sealed in union of vale and conquered intruder.

About the Author:

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and
poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, Adelaide and many other
magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro
River Review as well as other publica ons.

185

COULD A LOVER
LOVE MY MUSE

by Jan Li le

Could a Lover Love My Muse?

My muse mocks my le -brained world
With its trudging logical mee ng
Daily objec ves on chalkboards.
At moments between classes, she sneaks out,
Makes humorous analogies I share to amuse peers.

Connec ng previous day’s dots, she nightly roams
Between my two spheres and dies up, even draws
Mandelas at mes from kaleidoscopes of fractured images
My eyes recorded from conversa ons, walks, books.

Daily the alarm and coffee close her back up
Into her half-courtlike gym
Away from daily breadwinning le -brained chores.
--But s ll she peeks at odd moments through blinds to give me
Post-it note insights, word twists she has jo ed at night
To slip to me when ming’s right. She laughs through my eyes
When she’s scored a strike or an ace with her wi y repast,
Or scratches her head, returns to notepad when she fails to score.
Weekly trips to coffee houses, church services,
She speaks to me through ink in composi on notebooks,
On church bulle ns I spend summers si ing through
For gems hidden among chaff of random words and thoughts.

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Never do I allude to her in conversa ons,
Especially with le brains, who might laugh
As we English majors did at stories of writers’ odd an cs
Of them as adults climbing trees along streets or
Misdelivering mail or composing on walls.

If only imagina on could be like toothpaste
That writers could spread in controlled amounts.
Instead, I make mul ple trips up and down stairs
Trying to remember errands and chores because
A plot twist in my novel has distracted me.
Or I look at a pair of scissors in one hand and wonder
What I was going to do with them because my muse
Interrupted with sugges ons for another poem.
How could I explain such a creature as she to a lover?
Would he suggest analysis, sneak looks in my journals
To see her opinion of him?
Would he leave me me with her or feel threatened--
Or worse amused at me and her?
Or perhaps worse would be a right-brained lover
With more mature, published muse who then would slight mine--
Be er a le ie lover then than right.
Since should she leave me now a er years
Of becoming whole with her,
I would feel holed and halved--without her nightly
Kni ng “up my ragged sleeves of care”
And these odd poems I never knew were in me.

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Souls Stain Glass Adelaide Literary Magazine
Speaking Without Language

When loving Death hovers over Nurses, family friends and we all grapple
beds to call soul seeds, With an ar culate mother suddenly unable
They wa up from earthly husks to follow To speak to us now.
His gentle breeze to leave
this plane for another. Charades and ques ons become
They bobble like lightening bugs new mode of talking:
just above tree tops, Where the word “medicine” and
Then dip respec ully inside doors of worship. hand’s poin ng to head
Some mes people in pews feel light brushes Means “shampoo,” and we slowly adjust.
That somehow lighten loads of loss and woe
As souls take part of the My now half-brained mother’s
heaviest griefs and pains world has shrunk
With them through stained glass portals. From Octobering in England’s Cotswolds
Different hues have deepened from centuries To riding for an hour around
Of souls passing through panes her home in Kentucky.
to leave last taints
Of green’s greed, orange’s lust, The world dims when such
yellow’s arrogance, Energizer bunnies wind down
To emerge clear to pass into And a stroke applies brakes slowly
the final home for all, but one-sidedly to a life
While worshippers on this earthly plane Till my father joins her as he
Send prayers of need and thanks to One becomes my half-dad—
Who waits beside them veiled in Spirit. Right side also now frozen.

“You Are My Sunshine” signals
last song together
As his speech also slowly strokes out.
But two aphasians need few words to say—
Looks, handholds suffice along
with three phrases:
“I love you,” “all right,” and “home.”

Two right brains can make a
whole love un l death
And their ashes commingle
beneath Mary’s statue.

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About the Author:

Jan Li le: “A re red journalist/English instructor, I write poetry, short stories and a fantasy
novel series. First published in Adelaide Literary Journal, I have also been honorably
men oned by First Millennium Wri ng and Beyond Borders, Interna onal, for poems. Most
recently, a poem will be published in a collec on by Dove Tale Publishing. In addi on, I am
a finalist in Florida Writers’ Associa on’s 2019 Royal Palms Literary Awards for short stories.
I live in Orlando, and my hobbies are taking Tai Chi classes, swimming, and going to movies
with friends.”

189

LAMP LIGHT

by Craig Kennedy

Neighbors I Have Known Michael 6:18 pm

Robbie You reminded me tonight how
who never held a job but didn’t are our fathers died
discuss it with me Out of nowhere --- cha ng about our lives ---
Tommy The work, the spouses, the children, the taxes.
who wanted to write a book
Adrian How yours became sick and le suddenly
who chased birds from her backyard every How mine faded to a husk, slowly succumbing.
morning by banging the tree with a s ck
John Some of the others as well --- uncles,
who played drums with a rock band aunts, in-laws, friends ---
Carmen A fog of history we both loved,
who walked her ny dog late at night receding like a shared wave
Dolores On an ocean de at red-gray dusk.
who didn’t seem to age
Ellen Our future is in the glow from the
who always asked me how I was quarter moon remaining
but wouldn’t talk about herself A er we said goodbye.
Mar n
who lived with Ellen but went
to Mexico without her
Leon
who stu ered.

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Winter’s End Revista Literária Adelaide
Lamp Light

Dead snowmen don’t speak The cat’s atop her perch
blues trumpet sings gun-metal sky below our lamp, she stares
barren trees weep. as you work your portrait.

Her eyes, half-closing now, baking
incandescent light gives her warmth.
She lies bemused while
your furrow-browed work con nues.

About the Author:

Craig Kennedy writes poetry and short fic on. Recent poems have appeared in the April
2018 issue of Adelaide Literary Magazine as well as in Blue Mountain Review and Scarlet Leaf
Review. Some of his literary influences include W.C. Williams, Wallace Stevens, Neruda and
Bukowski. Craig lives in the New York City area.

191

PROFIT

by Dr. Nathanael O’Reilly

The Third of July Nonchalance

On the corner of Prairie Dunes An overweight, elderly man
and Spyglass sixteen miniature lights a cigare e as he walks
American flags line the path across the medical center
parking lot, takes four or five
to the police officer’s door. drags while he ambles,
Two neighbors mow lawns throws the lit cigare e forward
but most have le town onto the ground with his right hand,
pauses, grinds it out with his right foot,
or gone to church to hear proceeds onwards towards automa c
the annual patrio c sermon. doors and the doctor’s diagnosis.
At the corner of Bayhill

and Spyglass a Mayflower
moving truck swings wide
forcing me to leave the street

and cross someone’s lawn,
the driver failing to offer
an apologe c wave.

High above fighter jets
from the Air Force base
rehearse for the next war.

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Refuge Revista Literária Adelaide
Profit

On Willow Bend Drive Bulldozers and graders destroy
in the last open field live oaks and mesquite, pushing
out the suburban edge, annihila ng
behind the strip mall nature to create new streets
beside the medical center and cleared flat building lots
awai ng construc on of homes
a white-tail doe and her fawn adjacent to schools, capitalizing
pause at the street’s edge on loca on, maximizing property
values and tax revenues for the city.
before clicking across concrete Capitalism obliterates everything
to the last stand of live oak that cannot be mone zed, kills
the trees, grass and wildflowers,
destroys habitats and ecosystems
in relentless pursuit of return.

About the Author:

Nathanael O’Reilly’s poems have appeared in journals and anthologies published in twelve
countries, including An podes, A New Ulster, Australian Love Poems, Backstory, Cordite,
FourW, FourXFour, Glasgow Review of Books, Headstuff, Marathon, Mascara, Postcolonial
Text, Skylight 47, Snorkel, Tincture, Transna onal Literature, Verity La and The Newcastle
Poetry Prize Anthology 2017. He is the author of two full-length collec ons: Prepara ons for
Departure (UWAP Poetry, 2017), named one of the “2017 Books of the Year” in Australian
Book Review, and Distance (Ginninderra Press, 2015); and three chapbooks: Cult (Ginninderra
Press, 2016), Suburban Exile (Picaro Press, 2011) and Symptoms of Homesickness (Picaro
Press, 2010).

193

RAPID MOVEMENT

by Patrick Hurley

Selec ons from “Varia on” (Part Two of Quartet)

[1] you can listen
to any part
sequen al fantasy bends or none
sheets of light
into cylinders–– feel the cool air
veins smell the wood smoke
arteries or the burning leaves
capillaries
a pa ern of vibra on
the waxing and waning grows in complexity
of pressure felt ruin’s spectral beauty
like forces imposed shows through new stone

mercury rises [2]
in a chamber––
in the background con nua on of a sort not
the hum of equanimity idle fantasies of inver ng
a dominant paradigm
ques ons about the number
of the world’s corners and what’s the point of
whether they can be folded watching a hawk circle
in a blue sky?
this is jumbled like who assigns names
voices in a diner or and numbers to
voices on a train colors and how
are they used?
you can listen
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Revista Literária Adelaide

behind cold glass some of the pavement
a lemon tree is cracked and buckling
heaves with fruit ages of fallings leaves
are ro ng into a new surface
certain types of smooth and quiet with
damage admit of a smell outlas ng
no repair–– compe ng forces
some people
tear down monuments from a surfeit of signs
others erect them select a random stroke
to start
most pass by them
obliviously playing wandering through a
the games of a child forest of plaster birds
someone trimmed back
decline the wild bamboo
accelera on
the cu ngs on the ground
but for me have faded to silver
a hunger for on the same ground
sharp clean lines a small twig the
etched in cool air
shape of a wishbone––
[3] like the radical for ‘man’
and I think of roots
cold gasoline permeates ginger
this background pigmenta on turmeric
causing colors to thin and smear even yam––
pigments growing
a wrecked antenna sits forgo en underneath
atop an old building collec ng
broken signals from places the topography above
that no longer exist breaks itself down
into lines and angles
a whine of motors turning
hums in the background everything composed
of strokes––
what mischief comes form best where fewest
the backward ges cula ons
of malevolent gnomes?

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[4] Adelaide Literary Magazine

not a cycle with [5]
repe on and
incremental varia on cold constric on and
though it could be blinding light
let the frozen inkpot
change the base of have the eloquence of
a number system a well-aimed projec le
then wait and see
the milkweed has died
some areas sprout and with it
less statuary and a certain dream
fewer flags
the river birch’s
a sudden freeze–– river-dream
everything changes echoes the transistor’s
desire to be bound to
does excessive use the thin surface of
of conjunc ons a microchip
presuppose tragic
reliance upon causality? the spiral is ghtening
impercep bly
Now a northern lake colors blur
would be frozen s ff against the sky
like Thoreau’s sheets where the edges dissolve––
in winter a different kind of thought

fallen things again and OK it can’t be done
again suggest radicals in language
suggest ideograms does a squirrel think
while gnawing a pumpkin?
in the soil at the foot
of a short old stone wall It is not restructuring
they say are coins random frequencies
of great an quity random can be
experienced as
random

Not everyone knows cold
who knows cold
as an Inuit?

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Revista Literária Adelaide

or a Southern Bap st
on a train to Churchill?

Try to walk in the park––
weekend numbers
pinned to chests
chalk lines guiding
rapid movement

Radio speakers
bleeding into my
Schoenberg––
should have taken
allergy pill a er all

Then shi ing wind
then smell of wood smoke
carpet of gingko leaves

It’s all just a catalog
Ongoing

About the Author: Patrick Hurley taught wri ng and literature at
various colleges for almost 20 years. Now he makes
poems (and tends bar to pay the bills). His work has
appeared mul ple mes in The Adelaide Literary
Review (where he was the top finalist for the 2017
Poetry Award and Adelaide Voices Literary Award
for Poetry Finalist for 2018), The Alchemist Review,
Clockwise Cat, Futures Trading, Eunoia, The Furious
Gazelle, Poetry Pacific, The Quail Bell Magazine,
Clemen ne Unbound, and New Mys cs. New work is
forthcoming from Cough Syrup Magazine. He recently
completed a long poetry project called “walking.” It
will be released by Adelaide Books in January 2020.
h ps://www.patrickhurleypoet.com/

197

FRANCIS SEAL OF
LOVE

by Vi oria Colonna, translated
by Ted Witham

Francis Seal of Love Original

Jesus presses wax to the living flesh Francesco, in cui sì come in umil cera
Blazes wounds, seals in love, Lover’s heat. Con sigillo d’amor sì vive impresse
Marks on Francis a true image, so fresh Le sue piaghe Iesù, che sol t’elesse
with love, Francis celebrates: replete. A mostrarne di sé l’imagin vera,

When he gripped you and gave to you his fire, Quanto strinse ed a te quanto intera
and virtue itself, all of you was made whole. Die’ la sua forma e le virtu istesse,
Now among us as his bride inspire Onde fra noi per la sua sposa cresse
Time and place to prepare the soul. Il tempio e ‘l seggio e l’alma insegna altera.

Poverty, humble life and every friend Povertade, umil vita e l’altre tante
Raise grace to the most sublime state, Grazie l’alzaro al più sublime stato,
From this life to the next all praise extend: Quanto or per suoi contrari è bassa e vile;

You loved him on earth, now in heaven ask, L’amas in terra, or prega in ciel, beato
Blessed Spirit, that you may regenerate Spirto, ch’ella ritorni omai pura gen le
Your thoughts, desires, your holy task. Ai pensieri, ai desiri, a l’opre sante.

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