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St. Joan Speaks to Me
August 8, 2008
I’m walking down the cobbled
streets of Rouen. Cabbage leaves
blacken in the gutters.
In the square they are burning
Joan of Arc. Her eyes are
transparent with light. Through veils
of flame she says, Truth is a torch,
but it makes a beautiful blaze.
The crowd is weeping.
With charred lips of light
she says, A dead body
is only a dead body.
How can we tell ash from soul
unless we too rise,
a blue heron of smoke
slanting into flight —
that pulse of a wing so slow,
so soaring when she says,
We are all burning.
Be a greater fire.
by Oriana
Reading by Beth Adams — Download the MP3
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Categories: Transformation
Oriana
qarrtsiluni 
Such a beautiful poem. A great combination of fire and light.
Truly beautiful, I love that ‘blue heron of smoke’ image, and the way it’s extended.
I love this poem. It bears multiple readings and stays fresh. I love the first stanza particularly — the common beginning, the viewpoint believably someone looking down at the street (the cabbage leaves in the gutter!) and then stumbling on the scene.
I think it’s the well-grounded start and point of view that allows this poem to transform as the speaker becomes involved in the scene, and takes on the simple and powerful last line — so powerful because the transformation (of the speaker) has already occurred. It becomes a statement of faith for moving on.
Thank you for this poem.
Lovely! I’ve alway loved this poem and happy to see it in print. Una
Say, this is a beautiful poem — the condensation fits the subject and allows the lyricism of the of the poem come to forefront. Congratulations on your achievement — another gem in your extensive ouvre.
Billie Dee
I’ve always loved the affective mysticism of the medieval period–and I’m impressed by the way Oriana’s poem retains the emotional, sensual characteristics of that genre. The opening prepares the reader for something grotesque (the image of rotting cabbage in streets), then shifts into resplendence.
“How can we tell ash from soul/unless we too rise . . .”
The above is like a little blue bead that my mind
has been tossing and spinning; a toy, a motto, a Koan.
Wow! This is a knockout poem!
A haunting poem. Am thinking that her torch was too bright for the darkness of this world.
They burned them, saints, women, witches, so as not to spill blood.
The allusions that this poem provides are breathtakingly beautiful while simultaneously sad. Like her other poems, I love the way I learn something every time I read one. Each poem is a little gift of insight and knowledge. Thank you.
The use of the word ‘slanting’ is just so brilliant and unexpected, as is the image of the heron that everyone else commented on. I am also struck by the absence of quote mark tics or even italics in her three statements – it makes her message – which is of course the poet’s message – stand out more.
Reminds me of the haunting Falconetti in Dreyer’s Jeanne d’Arc- the passion which is of course means suffering-
Great poem, well executed!
Oriana’s poetry is always filled with a haunting beauty–and this one is no exception. The movement from the grounded images in stanza one (which Becky points out) to the transcendent “blue heron of smoke” is remarkable. I really love the line endings in stanza one–“cobbled,” “Cabbage leaves,” and “gutters” are so physical and down to earth, leading ultimately to St. Joan’s observation: “A dead body / is only a dead body.” And then the speaker’s wonderful observation: “How can we tell ash from soul / unless we too rise . . .” I suppose that’s what this poem is all about, as many of Oriana’s gems are–how to tell ash from soul.
Yes, an amazing poem that leaves us with questions – who will rise and who will remain ash. The physical/concrete & spiritual are so beautifully woven here. I noticed a change in the third stanza in the recorded version and I like it, but I also loved the strong image of the charred lips. But the “of light” was a stretch for me to visualize. Is there a way to still have the charred lips as well? Thanks Oriana. You are a star, rising!
this is the stanza now:
The crowd is weeping.
Her lips are charred
doors of light. She says,
A dead body is only a dead body.
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The stanza with the charred lips is straight from the dream which inspired the poem. Many of my poems have the subtext of contemplated suicide. Jeanne d’Arc is my patron saint (though later I discovered Jeanne de Chantal, a less flamboyant but also unnerving, as saints often are), so it’s significant that St. Joan warns me, A dead body is only a dead body. It was one of the most amazing dreams I ever had.