Martyrology Books 1 & 2. bp Nichol

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       “Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.”

      Gertrude Stein

      of those saints we know the listing follows

      saint orm married saint rain

      gave birth to saint iff and saint ave

      this is the oldest family

      saint iff married saint rive

      gave birth to saint reat

      who married saint agnes

      gave birth to saint rand

      saint ave married saint raits

      gave birth to saint ranglehold

      who did not marry

      of the other families

      these we mention

      saint ill married saint ove

      gave birth to saint and & saint rike

      saint and did not marry

      saint rike married saint ain

      gave birth to their son

      the nameless one

      saint aggers wife is now forgotten

      gave birth to saint ump & saint rap

      gave birth to noone

      dying in the fire reat had set

      is nothing but a history

      brief at best

      an end of one thing

      beginning of another

      premonition of a future time or line we will be writing

      one thing makes sense

      one thing only

      to live with people

      day by day

      that struggle

      to carry you forward

      it is the only way

      a future music moves now to be written

      w g r & t

      its form is not apparent

      it will be seen

      k l m n

      b r v

      a hymn for saint iff

      a song for his only son

      the lonely one who died less lonely

      & for his son

      who never knew him

      a song to

      carry him thru to

      the end

       the martyrology

      from The Chronicle of Knarn

      i’ve looked across the stars to find your eyes

      they aren’t there

      where do you hide when the sun goes nova?

      i think it’s over

      somewhere a poem dies

      inside i hide my fears like bits of broken china

      mother brought from earth

      milleniums ago

      i don’t know where the rim ends

      to look over

      into the great rift

      i only know i drift without you

      into a blue that is not there

      tangled in the memory of your hair

      the city gleams in afternoon suns. the aluminum walls

      of the stellar bank catch

      the strange distorted faces of

      the inter-galactic crowds.

      i’m holding my hat in my hand

      standing awkwardly at the entrance to their shrine

      wishing i were near you.

      were they like us? i don’t know.

      how did they die & how did the legend grow?

      (a long time ago i thot i knew how this poem would go, how the figures of the saints would emerge, now it’s covered over by my urge to write you what lines i can. the sun is dying, i’ve heard them say it will go nova before the year’s end. i wanted to send you this letter (this poem) but now it’s too late to say anything, too early to have anything to send.)

      i wish i could scream your name & you could hear me

      out there somewhere where our lives are

      we have moved beyond belief

      into a moon that is no longer there

      i used to love you (i think)

      used to believe in the things i do

      now all is useless repetition

      my arms ache from not holding you

      the winds blow unfeelingly across your face

      & the space between us

      is as long as my arm is not

      the language i write is no longer spoken

      my hands turn the words

      clumsily

      the martyrology

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