The Long Awaited, Part 2 (Introducing Chris Noman)

Chris Noman is 20 years old and lives in Melbourne, Australia. His poetry has appeared in several Australian print journals, such as Meanjin, Quadrant, and Blue Dog. He was also a finalist for the 2010 Doris Leadbetter Poetry Cup. As well as suffering from Hypergraphia, he is terribly short-sighted.





SAINT JOAN

‘…May the Lord so keep me...’


1.
Forsaking exile, God
appeared before the child:
consummate light. In her eyes,

the mirrored sun
rose from the depths
of the river –

And a cry arose, as twilight settled
above the hills; panorama
of moon and stars; the epoch
before God –

Thus the child was sworn.

Within the summoned flesh,
the gift at last apparent—
though partial—
as is all fate, all freedom.

2.
So little to be made of youth, of childhood.
In Domrémy the villagers weep, bearing wax candles in a coiled
procession.

And everywhere the lament
of doves, cries,
the ascending arias of inhuman sorrow –
Bells of Coussey ringing off in the distance.

As far away above
the sound of the Seine, the surface of the water tainted,
stained with human blood,
the child kneels, weeping –

What has she seen?

The first rains of spring
pooled in the clear throats of the lilies, deepening
then bleeding
colour from the wildflowers.

3.
Neither punishment,
nor sacrifice. The trivial flesh unburdened;
As against bare stone
the abstracted body

of a woman –

Now the true sun sets.
In the hushed courtyard, the Bishop kneels
before the Blessed Virgin,
meaning to pray. Perhaps for forgiveness,
perhaps for pity.


Nothing stirs. Only the wind rises;
indistinct whispers issue from the dark trees –

Beyond the courtyard,
arpeggios gutter from the dented throats of stone angels –

4.
So the virgin child swore:
‘A premonition: I foresaw my death’ –

In the cell’s darkness,
it was as though a soul appeared,
at once transfigured:

Fire will know no such brilliance
before the consummation
of your body.

So the maiden swore:
‘My body: all that remains of my childhood’ –

At the barred door, in whispers,
the armed guards strip themselves of all armour –

5.
‘Lord, who granted my solitude,
before the pyre, I ask that my body
be transformed to nothing human:
to be neither living nor dead.

By Your grace I would kneel again,
I would kneel again beside you –

How my body
rose in that blaze, leaving

no ash scattered in its wake.'