St. Francis Poems. David Craig
become one
(preparing him to turn the world upside down)?
He wondered, to what king?
And how could he be a knight and wear the holy ribbons
of Church too? What of his lady-
who-must-be-in-waiting?
The next morning came, and Francis, sitting on a stump,
rejoiced, kept that marvelous engine,
stabled best he could
in his junket-heart.
III
How the Lord visited Francis’ heart for the first time filling it with marvelous tenderness that gave him strength to begin to progress spiritually in looking down on himself and all vanities, in prayer, almsgiving, and poverty.
A party for the new money, and more,
from the very stems of delight: ladies—
each of his pals, now enjoying what was left
of the tipsy night, some steps in front of him,
their misplaced lives, as ever, just out of reach.
Francis, ever the jester, chose to walk behind,
scepter in his hand, dressed as he was,
in silks and tatters, knowing by now that rags
really were riches, either way: metaphor for the chase,
the shell games of wealth and fame;
for that, or for the more quiet, obvious need.
But how could he get his friends to know
what was real, and missing,
what demanded so much?
They came back to him, their captain in mirth
elsewhere, looking up, seemingly lost
in the glorious conflagration of stars.
Was he mooning over the crimson stomacher?
“Yes, you are right!” he answered.
“And I shall take a wife—more noble, wealthy,
and beautiful than any you have never seen.”
But they didn’t laugh when he said, “Poverty . . .
the one we all chase without knowing it.”
And after that day, he never denied an alms
to anyone who asked in God’s only name.
Heaping his absent father’s table with begged bread,
Francis piled his want high in joyful exasperation,
(in front of his grieving mother: that the world would,
too soon, begin hammering away
at his white-hot enthusiasms, bend him—
all out of shape).
But Francis was, as ever, elsewhere: pressing his face
between Rome’s bars, his last flightless bird,
bag of coins, naming Peter’s tomb.
And swapping clothes with a beggar,
he tried on his life. Yes! Yes!
These would help him keep himself in a line,
would help him push the world far away,
with its trumpets, bandied names!
This way he’d never confuse himself again.
He’d wake up next to new brothers: lepers,
dew on his rags, soiled feet.
He sang loudly, played fiddlesticks on the open road,
so that the world would be forced to mark him,
hold him to what mattered.
Once back, he didn’t share his secret,
because he was betrothed to a lady, Poverty,
a women hidden in so much beauty
that a look from anyone at all
would have violated their first
intimate steps.
IV
How he began to overcome himself by his dealing with lepers.
Praying loudly, so that God would mark him
mark the degree of his need,
Francis wrapped each day in the fish paper,
soiled strings of his too-personal heart.
Coercing his distant mouth, he made himself kiss
what was left of the leper’s hand, fold it,
cracking, crackling over the scarred coins
he’d managed to lodge there.
And the diseased cloth of lip, hot rasp
of peace—returned, marked Francis’ face
with all that was rank and squirming inside.
He joined them, a leper before he became one:
these men marked with strength enough
to bear the inside of the cup;
he kissed what he could find, hold of every hand, face,
pressed each to the clear water of his cheeks.
In earnest repetition, he found what he needed:
the swollen face of God, in every moist, crusted curse,
in the drop of every eye.
And because he finally learned
to fully embrace that gift, he had to endure the next:
departure, toward those more obviously afflicted.
V
How the crucifix spoke to him for the first time and how he henceforth carried the passion of Christ in his heart until death.
The corpus strained—against
him, the rut in the land, the stag’s opened throat,
every merchant coin; all years before
his own skin would yaw, open its bitter hosanna.
Outside the Portiuncula, he cried out
because no one ever did, because the world would not.
He would make it his rooftop then,
shout in a loud voice, attempt to wake the forest,
all the unfruitful dead beyond.
He’d sprinkled chaste “Brother Ash” on his food
because we never think to do the same.
And because Mary had to rummage,
he rushed to the ground, ate with the pigs.
If the brothers couldn’t see how crucial humility was,
how would anyone else?
He’d stop so often, lost in loud sighs:
his aloneness, their burden; he’d provoke,
disrupt them out of any earned rest, meal.
He’d tell them that when they heard the next sigh,
they should praise God for His great condescension;
that they should pray