The Poet’s Vision
by Beverly Matherne
And a sword shall pierce your heart. Luke 2:35
1.
The poet falls into a coma. The Virgin Mary appears and dresses her in a white robe. She whispers in her ear…
The poet is to found a chapel in honor of the Virgin, at the highest point in the attic of her Victorian home. Fully Gothic, its cathedral ceiling will assure the upward gaze of eyes.
That evening, Christ descends, joins His Mother at the poet’s bedside, blood glistening from His wounds.
The poet drinks from the gash in His side. Christ slides a band onto her finger.
When dawn filters through summer lace, Blessed Mother and Son ascend, seraphim chanting, the scent of roses filling the room.
2.
The poet stops eating meat, takes mostly broth and kale she grows at her bay window, wears coarse burlap beneath her garments.
In winter, she snowshoes in bare feet, from ache to exquisite agony, loss of the senses. Durée! Oh, ecstasy!
Before long, the poet hires an auctioneer. Quickly go her oak bed, its sturdy hand-carved posts and headboard; her tall armoire; the Bombay chest, its floral inlay and marble top. Equally go the fainting couch, Limoges china, Lunt silver. Soon, she has all she needs for the chapel.
3.
In Christmas season, the bishop schedules an appointment with the poet. He wants to see for himself that woman, that place.
On his way, he thinks of her addled mind, her foolish claim that the Virgin has appeared to her, multiple times, in a grotto of chandeliers.
When the poet opens her wrought iron door, the scent of magnolias fills the hall. Intoxicated by the perfume, beauty, and purity of the woman, the bishop loses his composure, falls into plush folds of a Louis XIV couch not yet liquidated. He bangs his head on its frame, of fruit wood from France, probably pear.
Soon, the bishop takes his leave. He sinks into the seat of his car, clings to his steering wheel, sobs. Beads of sweat form on his brow. His heart beats wildly.
Finally, he quiets, collects himself but unsettles again, for before him, at the foot of an arbor, blue clematis pushes up from the snow.
4.
The poet hires a carpenter. For the chapel, he builds a large Gothic arch. He carves bas-reliefs of fleur-de-lis, acanthus leaves, liana.
At Butler Antique Mall, the poet finds a stained glass window. In its lower panel, a pelican feeds her three young. Beaks having punctured her tender abdomen, they draw blood. Drops, big and swollen, fall from her wounds.
The poet places the stained glass before two vertical windows at the back of the chapel. To the right, she stands her large statue of the Virgin clad in white gown, blue cloak, slender girdle at her small breasts.
Light filters through stained glass, royal blue and red. Prisms play over the lips of the virgin.
5.
Across the Upper Peninsula, from Copper Harbor to Whitefish Point to Sault Ste. Marie, from Big Bay to Marquette to Ishpeming, believers and non-believers, come to the chapel, inspired by rumor or fervor.
In light of votives and stained glass, amidst the scent of wild rose and hardwood maple, crystal Rosaries fracture light.
Women of Italian descent come, of Cornish descent, of Irish origin, of Greek origin, come. Ojibwa of Catholic persuasion, and not, come. Lutheran women — from the Finnish church, the Norwegian church, the German church — also come to the Virgin. Jews come. Muslims come. Shamans, priests, pastors come. Rabbis, imams come.
They petition for the safe return of daughters, of sons, of spouses — serving or captured — in Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq. In Jordan, Egypt, Libya. In Tunisia, Yemen.
6.
Since the opening of Our Lady’s Chapel, scores have come home from military tours, from embassies, haunted by visions of entranced freedom fighters, mothers raped and killed, infants crying for them.
Etched in memories forever is the blood of innumerable bodies, sacrifice that will resurrect cities, harvest wheat for bread, tap waters sweet as wine.
7.
Since the dedication of the chapel, the poet has written a thousand psalms in honor of the Virgin, a thousand villanelles, in her honor, five hundred pantoums, scores of sonnets, in her honor, Fibonaccis, ghazals, haiku and more, all in her honor.
Hundreds the Virgin has cured of heart disease, nervous disorders, depression…
8.
At age 99, the poet dies peacefully in her sleep. At her autopsy, the pathologist notes the uncommon swell of her heart, the way it fills her chest cavity, how, when he cuts it, blood falls in swollen drops.
9.
The funeral takes place at St. John’s in Ishpeming in May. When the priest sprinkles holy water on the poet’s coffin, a strange sound, almost inaudible, emanates from within. Unnerved, the priest raises his voice. The heart persists. A sigh. A wave. Drumbeat in the distance.
10.
When pallbearers lower the coffin into earth, sun emerges from gray clouds, with blinding brilliance.
Lilies of the Valley reach from the poet’ heart, through satin, through the bronze of her casket. Lilies of the Valley spring from soil at her grave, spill into streets of the town, across cities, across seas, atop mountains, into deserts.
Everywhere, Lilies of the Valley bloom. Lilies of the Valley bloom. Lilies bloom.
This poem was first published in Here: Women Writing on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, Michigan State University Press, 2015.