The Poet & the Bloodstone

Detail of Bloodstone Pillars, Catedral de Ávila, Spain

I am happy that this poem will be  published in the forthcoming Deep Travel anthology.  A bit of backstory:

Saint Teresa of Ávila and Charles-Axel Guillaumot never met. She was a Spanish nun who lived from 1515-1582; he was a French architect who lived from 1730-1807. Each of them built and left a largely invisible legacy. Hers was a vision of the interior castle of the spirit within us. His was to save Paris from collapsing back into the quarries beneath it by building a support city belowground. Today, you can read what Teresa built with her words, and you can visit a fraction of Paris’ abandoned quarries open to the public. In the poetry collection, Hope of Stones, you are invited to enter a cross-century conversation among The Nun, The Architect, & The Poet. This poem is from that collection, which was a finalist for the Tupelo Press 2019 Dorset Prize.

     The Poet & The Bloodstone 

     Ávila, Spain

Today is research day. First, The Nun’s museum. 

It brims with depictions of heaven speaking 

to the saint. In paintings, doves & rays of light 

descend & suspend above her upturned face. 

Speech ribbons unfurl toward her from angels. 

The saint was known to levitate, so I half expect

the painted words to lift from their composition 

& twirl about. They stay put. 

                                                   Next, the Catedral 

de Ávila. Here, I see the grandeur The Nun left 

behind. This church was built with bloodstone—

granite shot through with iron. It looks like 

history has bled across the walls. The stone came

from a nearby quarry, & I think of The Architect. 

What we pull from the earth & what we do with it. 

I sit a long while on a hard pew, but my most 

profound thought is how best to get to the train 

station tomorrow. 

                                 Time to search for gazpacho 

& Rioja—things that don’t last for centuries. I keep 

forgetting that in this country, I’m an outsider 

trying to dine before nine. 

                                               The Nun founded 

her simple convent outside the city walls. 

Paris thought The Architect an outsider 

for not being born in France. I am always looking

for what lies outside—even dining hours. 

                                                                         I find

an open café & order wine the color of bloodstone.