April 4: Sad news, Saint Isidore of Seville, Psalm 27

I actually dreamed about today's poem last night.  I woke with the idea of it floating in the darkness like Virgil from The Inferno.  It didn't take me long to write it this morning, but I have been working on revision all day long.  I thought it was done, read it to a poet friend, went back, and rewrote.  I think this may be the most polished of the psalms.  I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.  There is a little irony here.  The dream was about the perfect poem, and I've agonized over these lines.  It's as done as it's going to be today.

I did receive some sad news this afternoon.  Quite a few posts ago, I wrote about my friend, John, whose wife had terminal brain cancer.  She died on Saturday night.  A very pure soul.  John will be struggling with her loss for a while.  Keep him in your thoughts.  Add a couple of prayers, if you're the praying sort.

Today's patron saint is Isidore of Seville.  He was a sixth-century Spanish bishop and scholar.  His accomplishments include writing what is considered "the first chapter of Spanish literature."  He wrote, among other things, dictionaries, grammars, treatises on medicine and libraries, and theological texts.  Isidore was chose as patron of the Internet because he "gave his work a structure akin to that of the database."  Isidore appears in my poem today.  I couldn't resist using him.

Saint Marty needs to release his imperfect perfect poem now.  Be kind.  And keep his friend, John, in your thoughts.  Heaven has a new choir member today.

Psalm 27:  The Perfect Poem

I dream I write the perfect poem,

See it before me, read the words

In a coffee house, before a crowd

Of movie stars, writers, saints.

John Wayne, front and center,

Looks confused but moved,

The way he appeared when he won

His Oscar, at a loss for how

To respond to raw emotion,

Stammering like a schoolboy

Asking for a slow dance.

I read.  They listen.

Dante sits next to Duke, clothes

Still suffused with faint sulfur,

Souvenir of his recent travels.

The great poet glows as I speak,

As if he has finally found

Beatrice, touched the face of love.

I read.  They listen.

In his mitre, Saint Isidore,

Patron of the Internet, floats

Between open bar and snack table,

iPhone in hand, blogs, tweets

About my poem to his heavenly

Followers:  seraphs, cherubs, martyrs,

Some rebel demons, the Big Three.

Father.  Son.  Holy Ghost. 

Princess Di shares couch, champagne

With Anne Boleyn.  Wordsworth sniffs

A vase of daffodils.  They all listen

To my perfect poem.  Three pages long.

Lines fall like maple leaves

In October, grace, color, drift, plunge.

Image as pure as penguin down,

Full of snow, sun, glacier, ocean.

When I finish, the room rises

In ovation, air a riot of rose petals.

I keep my eyes on the pages,

Commit syllables to memory.

When I wake, I grab pen, journal,

Scribble ten minutes, transcribe perfection.

This morning, I read what I have written:

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.

For pages and pages and pages.

Reading the perfect poem