In
the heydays of ‘forty-five,
bus-loads
of souvenir-deranged
G.I.’s
and officer-professors of philosophy
came
crashing through your cell,
puzzled
to find you still alive,
free-thinking
Catholic infidel,
stray
spirit, who’d found
the
Church too good to be believed.
Later
I used to dawdle
past
Circus and Mithraic Temple
to
Santo Stefano grown paper-thin
like
you from waiting. . . .
There
at the monastery hospital,
you
wished those geese-girl sisters wouldn’t bother
their
heads and yours by praying for your soul:
“There
is no God and Mary is His Mother.”
Now I’ve been a writer, a poet—and
also an editor. So I have sympathies for the editor of Bartlett’s who decided
to stick this one in—and under Santayana. Irresistible. Particularly to certain
Catholics of the damaged sort like me…
It also brings to mind Ezra Pound, but he found a "cell" after the G.I.s came crashing through.
ReplyDeleteDon't know Ezra Pound except by name. Quite a story that...
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