Tags
Amazighs, Barbary pirates, Coniglio, Coromandel, Eritreans, flotsam and jetsam, Lampedusa, Mary Magdalen, Mediterranean, migrants, Montelbano, Patmos, Phoenicians, Saracens, Somali, St Paul
Was watching an Inspector Montelbano programme – for linguistic
purposes, you understand.
It certainly wasn’t for subtlety, but the scenery is good!
Anyway, it was about migrants and I suddenly remembered my poem on
Lampedusa and thought I might as well publish it, rather than leaving it
on standby.
A local artisan made a cross from the bits of driftwood from the wrecks
of migrant boats and set it in a chapel.
So, here is my poem.
Lampedusa Cross,
nailed from shipwrecked lives, splinters:
Tuccio fecit,
amid Artemisia,
with Wormwood, like the toxic
star which fell to Earth,
corrupting all our waters.
Mugwort – protector
of travellers, from spirits,
malign and bitter –
why did you not help them live?
Francesco, you honoured them:
the Eritreans;
the Somali refugees.
You worked with the wood,
which tanged of salt suffering;
carved their scuppered crafts and
crafted signs of hope;
placed one above an altar;
trembled at its touch,
as if handling a relic
(as though St Paul had
blessed all those who washed to shore,
clinging to freed planks
not dissimilar to these.)
Castaways swam to
Coniglio’s lights, as if
striving to strand in Heaven,
kerosene-covered,
or later, wrapped in gold foil,
like saints receiving new robes
for abandoned rags,
once through the deadly portal.
Phoenicians, Romans,
Amazighs, Greeks, all landed here,
where Saracens sacked;
Barbary pirates plundered,
raking out slave loads.
The Marabouts were washed up
hereabouts, seeking
alms to fund their pilgrimage.
The Mare Nostrum
buoyed up Mary Magdalen;
John sailed to Patmos;
Thomas to the coast
of Coromandel, it’s said.
Sea-sick disciples
berated the Son of God
in a storm on Galilee.
He was still on board,
though He seemed to be asleep.
But, when He said, Come!
one found he walked on water.
In Lampedusa,
the sacred table, chalice,
fashioned from driftwood,
have been assembled from beached
flotsam and jetsam –
sacrosanct, reserved fragments,
though mere detritus,
from the high tide’s waterline.
Their significance
will grow, till the world is healed
by a Carpenter
who shows compassion for crowds;
loves the discarded
and creates His own kingdom.
His invitation
is to those no one welcomes.
for myself this week. I won’t be signing it ‘T Gainsborough!’
