| As in a Dim Scriptorium |  |
| By Bruce Beasley | |||
| Friday, 28 September 2012 | |||
| [1]
—As if always
in some dim scriptorium, with inkhorn's ear wax & honey & piss
pigment to ornament with gold
the flesh side of outspread vellum. As if scrambling always to catch
up with a cantor’s syntax, inflection
in Latin vowels of gospel & psalm
till my wrist & palm spasm & ribs
cramp my lungs when I lean
to scribble before those inviolable syllables dissolve into air like my every
breath-fume over the restless quill
as its nib punctures again the ice-crust of crystal reforming on the inkwell—
[2]
In-
attend, conscripted & ever-distracted
monk-scribe: What
is the Kingdom of God like? And whatever I’ve misheard or already
forgotten, reglazing with gold my own marginal gloss,
thumps hail-dull around me:
In parables ... the man goes in with his sickle ...
like a treasure buried in a field ... like a woman with yeast ... [3]
What is the Kingdom of God like? Like
(go in with your sickle)
a dim scriptorium where many-written & half-heard words
are mouthed beyond all attention, swan quill stilled, dripping with gall & lampblack ink. As if there were permissible
transcriptions of inattention, missals riddled with elisions
to mark them aside (as if
in wax & urine & honey's gold emblazing)
as unscriptable & dumbfounded: twice-blessed.
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