VENICE  -  FIREWORKS 

Poem for Today - May 18, 2014

THINKING  OF  GALILEO

When, during a weekend in Venice while standing

with the dark sky above the Grand Canal

exploding in arcs of color and light,

a man behind me begins to explain

the chemical composition of the fireworks

and how potassium-something-ate and sulfur catalyze

to make the gold waterfall of stars cascading

in the moon-drunk sky, I begin to understand why

the Inquisition tortured Galileo

and see how it might be a good thing for people

to think the sun revolves around the earth.

You don't have to know how anything works

to be bowled over by beauty,

but with an attitude like mine we'd still be                   swimming

in a sea of smallpox and consumption,

not to mention plague, for these fireworks

are in celebration of the Festival of the Redentore,
or Christ the Redeemer, whose church on the other           side

of the canal was built after the great plague

      of 1575 to thank him for saving Venice,

though by that time 46,000 were dead,

and I suppose God had made his point if indeed he           had one.

The next morning, Sunday, we take the vaporetto

across the lagoon and walk along

the Fondamenta della Croce, littered

with the tattered debris of spent rockets

and Roman candles, to visit the Church of the                   Redentore

by Palladio. The door is open for mass,

and as I stand in the back, a miracle occurs:
after a year of what seems to be nearly futile study,

I am able to understand the Italian of the priest.

He is saying how important it is

to live a virtuous life, to help one's neighbors,

be good to our families, and when we err

to confess our sins and take communion.

He is speaking words I know: vita, parlare,                       resurrezione.

Later my professor tells me the holy fathers

speak slowly and use uncomplicated constructions

so that even the simple can understand Christ's                 teachings.

The simple: well, that's me, as in one for whom

even the most elementary transaction is difficult,

who must search for nouns the way a fisherman

throws his net into the wide sea, who must settle

for the most humdrum verbs: I am, I have, I go, I       speak,

and I see nothing is simple, even my desire to                   strangle

the man behind me or tell him that some things

shouldn't be explained, even though they can be,

because most of the time it's as if we are wandering

lost in a desert, famished, delirious,

set upon by wild lions, our minds blank with fear,

starving for a crumb, any morsel of light.

© Barbara Hamby (1952-  )