Above Montmarte

there was a moment now
a decade ago, one summer
in Paris, on the only hill
in a sacred heart
above Montmartre. It was Sunday
and the choir was singing.
I never had a religion of
my own. I reveled in that
absence, sometimes
the smallest things move
mountains. Glaciers make
rivers and valleys. Smooth
out the path, even when they
move slowly, like the light
through rose windows, I never
partook a communion but
once, just to see what
g-d tasted like;
he was thin
and stale, but
that doesn't mean
I didn't get Notre Dame or
St. Peter's in Rome.
But I recall so vividly,
the red candles
to the right of the door, in their
glass lanterns, incense and
a man, lighting
at least one
to harbor his prayer, and
the choir was singing;
his face was so a-lit by
the ruby presence, crimson folds,
red tears leaving bloody
golden trails down his cheeks.
He was beautiful in his
sadness. Beautiful as starlight,
as summer storms, as every
wilting ecstatic Theresa I had seen
so far.
It was sunday; the choir
was singing.
I remember wanting for
the first time in my whole
small life, seventeen
years deep, to believe in
anything, to have faith in
something that made my face
glow like that.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

One of the things about our very best poets is that they don't say things like "red is red", or "God said". All that gang, like Milton and Blake are happily toasting in their graves. Today, any poet worth her peanuts worships in the temple of now... I don't "review" your poetry, I just enjoy it...the full-throated soul-stretching joy of it... There are a few worthies at this site. You are at least two of them...Ed

[Doctor JKC]

Just gorgeous.
I have lived in India and spent 4 years on and off in ashrams
and have witnessed such beauty in a holy place and the
tears and smiles of the devout in their reverence.
Thank you,
Dr. Jack

[Tomás Ó C..]

Faith indeed is a powerful thing, and we can use it for good, or we can use it for ill.

[LJW]

I was sent this poem by W. Kortas. I believe he is guiding me toward excellent writers and he did well to send me here.

The simplicity of the language you chose is the type of writing I am attracted to and get the most out of. I remember a few times in my life feeling the exact way you so beautifully and profoundly described; wanting to feel that deep faith that transformed the faces of believers I saw praying in church.

In the end, life is my religion; the moments captured, felt, and shared.

This piece is excellent. Glad I came to read it.

[Emily B]

You took me on a journey of memories. . . that I must have taken at some point, too. Your writing is tall and deep and worthy. The reviewers who have come before me are proof enough of that. I especially like the way you've let the lines fall. Something unexpected in the rhythm made it sing all the truer. This is going into my favorites. Occasionally, folks go through their looking for stuff to read. Maybe they will find their way here.

[W.k.kortas]

Interesting notation on the act of communion and how God tasted "thin/and stale", how--perhaps, anyway--seeking God through the tangible is, ultimately, unsatisfying and disappointing. Indeed, the piece is chock-a-block with references to ritual and icons, yet none of the trappings of faith leads the narrator to faith. The piece is wonderfully visual, and it has an almost legal brief-like tightness in the construction. This is very, very fine work.