POEMS OF DAVID WILEY     


THE PIETA

AND THE DOME

OF SAN LORENZO 

 

I worship all these things

            or not these things

I worship your ideas

            or not your ideas

I worship the light

            that you first saw

            long after it appeared

I gaze with longing

            on your fine proportions

            that are not yours alone

the texture of your vision

            fascinates my fugitive soul. 

 

I have seen the silver halo

            in the night above your head

            above your giant body

            and your being

            the one of many facets

            many hues

what marble can portray

            you have portrayed

what passion can be found in stone

            I find in your creations. 

 

The night comes

the day arrives

the river flows

the trees green. 

 

I want to know your strange joy

I want to swim

            in a sea of your tears

for one minute I want to live

            in the perfect mind of your Christ

I want to know how the beautiful

            sounds in your innermost ear. 

 

Sometimes I remember what you said:

            “I practice no art

            except  to love utterly

            to trust utterly

            to feign nothing

            to hide nothing

            to pour out everything

            into my friend’s ear

            just as it comes

            from my heart.” 

  

I remember your turmoil

            and your tortured possibilities

I've seen your red robes

            and your false conscience

            going up in flames

I've marvelled at your faith

            and your discoveries

your struggles and wars overwhelm me

what you have reached for

             is gentle and monstrous

the long-buried instruments

             you perform with

             confound my own palette

I want to know why the world

             becomes you so well. 

 

Paris, Oct. 25, 1994.  

 


All images and text copyrighted.  All rights reserved.  ©  Copyright 2002 David Wiley.