Andrew 'of the wood': the new 'poet of popes', created

in 2013, for Pope Francis and modern Christendom. 

 

The two authorities of Dante and Shakespeare, confirm Andrew, as the new 'poet of popes',

created in 2013, and a proper servant of God's Word, the Logos: the greyhound prophecy.

 

 

The Lady Emissary, did bow to me, and I to her. 'Deo gratias',

I assented, for fibre and constitution, to have courtly love, rend me

Through in Florence, as a visionary ecstatic, as at Medjorgorje, those

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Two children first, Marija and Mirjana, in Bosnia-Herzogovnia;

Me, a humble poeta, to complete Bayeaux tapestry, of a comedy

With a colloquy. 'Shakespeare awaits, that an unactorly, Edmund

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Kean, who has born the weight of Coleridge's flashes of lightning,

Arises, from this semi-recumbent posture, as before a Lady Bracknell'.

The Lady Emissary did smile at me. 'Be advised, that the hand, will

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Only hold the hand, when the words Novum Evangelium, are pronounced

With the words, 'I do'. For, such foppish aphorisms, as flouncy

'Woman's Realm', Wilde did utter, dying above his means, in Paris,

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Can never be said, by a statesman of the cardinal consistory, who,

Must bring a new humanism to Europe, that even Rotterdam's Desiderius

Erasmus, would desire epistolary converse, and, we would have

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A new court in Rome, of mimd-nimble men, rather than

Sponged-soaked, oleaginous forelocks, that, a clean Assisi

Franciscan friar, walk, with a meek Benedictine monk, in

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Gardens Vatican, that, two flowers, are trained, to support

Slender necks of the duck and swan. Knights of the Round Table,

And, the wind and lard of an Adonai monastic council, have reciprocity,

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In the apostles and the brothers of the prime singer of the band

And cohort, above any Legionary of Christ. Will, is but a

Necessary stage of knight-to knight combat honour, for willed

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Acceptance, into the band of twelve, who gather in conspectu dei.

Humanist friendship with More, such as you have never known,

Will see homo sum of Terence, meet Dame Teologia's St Augustine,

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Andrea, but only if you rebuild the logos'. And, with that,

I did leave, the company of the Lady Emissary, and I compiled a

Serventese of but two, as I slipped down the Jacob's rung

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Step way, and down, the white circle sliding cylinder of

Shakespeare's deoxyribonucelic acid, and down, into baked

Cobble-hard streets of  Florence, where Beatrice had first met

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Dante. And, the breath of Pentecost, did fill my lungs, as they

Had punctured his at Golgotha, and, I sailed, as statetly as a galleon,

Into the waiting arms of Shakespeare, attendant at the Arno.

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'Come, let us leave base establishmnent, as that other base, and

Reconfigure, the flag of our lives, into the new nationhood of England;

For, I have waited for a second for centuries, and I am done

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With Donne, and, can martial no war chest with hefty catholic essayist

Chesterton, as, I was too over-wearied, contemporary comptetitors,

Beaumonts and Fletchers, my imitators, plankton skimming a whale.

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Modernity, just brought weird proclamation, of George Bernard Shaw,

And, I know, that a Pinter playwright, has merged with magical realism,

And I desire conversation, with an equal, and no tertiary locutor.

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And, I would gore no Vidal, but, be mute, rather than seek converse

With a vessel in another minor symphony extraction. Poetry, I do 

Not know, for hawks and owls, do not cogitate and change as an

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Ovidian 'Metamorphoses'; and, I have heard, Alexander Pope, laxly, does

Shuffle papers, in the name of Larkin, Hughes and T. S. Eliot, and then,

Returns, to 'The Rape of the Lock', and the Old Masters, Plautus and Terence.

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O, the Wandering Jew, Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, Wagner's Flying  Dutchman,

Kafka and Hunter Gracchus. O, I have waited for Godot, with Beckett, and it has

All been such an endgame. O, central man, new most central man in all the world,

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Andrew Wood, that I am quit, Estragon, Vladimir,  Rosencrantz

And Guildenstern, and though, I honour an MBE, I seek to be OV.

That, the days of barren barley and corn are gone, and I have a golden

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Wheatsheaf in my hand! Names of Monsieur Joyce's countrymen-

Welcomers, Chateaubriand, Hugo and, Balzac, Stendahl, Flaubert, and

Zola, are the lighthouses, of the peninsular of  George Eliot, Austen and Dickens.

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But, England has not known, no high genius, and, neither no animus, rare,

And lofty, for coutly love, so that Petrarch and Laura, are a monody

Around the inner posy ring, when starlight, is exchanged for lipstick.

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I know not, then, names of modern Italy but Eco, for, my vocabulary and

Mind, has been refreshed, by the Logos light of Heaven, and the Book

Of Revelation, that is the work of critics. Yeats, Synge and Kipling

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Are but candlesticks upon the birthday cake of the 'Ulysses', Paris Weaver

Beach book, and, I have found the emerald Isle in the War Poets, who

Went up the line to death, Sassoon and Owen, did amplify my spirit.

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Let me laureate you, greyhound, Andrew 'of the wood', for, Tacitus'

'Agricola', and, 'Georgics', safely in canon barn, for, holy wood singing

Of a novice tenor. Rustic, in rure, you went, to sing in the dark wood white,

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When you came for Hume Benedict honour, scholarship, and service,

And, the dark way down, was made open to you, and Limbo saw

Electric pink flashes of  lightning, such, as when the temple cloth, had

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Been torn in two, and, they saw glimpses of a face, that could be

Swept upon a Turin Shroud, or, a veil of Monica. When, 'On Shakespear',

Was inked, as, 'I thought me saw, my late espoused saint', I knew

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That there was double-barrel gun age of Classical and Biblical

Tradition, to clean the sweat of Caliban's servitude, and hall-mark

Excellence of a grand new style, in poetry of fabricate Latinity,

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That Samuel Pepys, could record a statement of such genius, within

A diary, until a student broadshaft, as 'Gas From a Burner', saw the

Extinction of the poet, within the artist. The Age of Classicism, when

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Mussato and Petrarch were crowned with Apollo's laurel, is but a

Baccalaureate, when James honoured Ben Jonson, and Dryden became

Letters patented. Deeds of 'Paradise Lost', were exchanged, for, but

 

A fee, and no new national occasion has arisen, when I would see

A satirist penning heroic couplets again, with set-square and ruler.

Honour, but the prime regina, stella maris, virgo Maria, you,

 

Who fell in love courtly, with her imago image English, and sing, for her

Drowned Edward King, on dark day of yesterday, and, be my consecrated

Second, in waste land England. Southey, Wordsworth, Tennyson, have

 

Mixed with sweet chocolate box poets, Masefield and Betjeman, but for

Register of 'The Christ Sonnets', before, a tabernacle, of a Collegio Irlandese

In Rome, a voice went out, from out amid the Salve Regina cries of Heaven,

 

That the special love, would be reknown in Florence. We, William and Durante,

Acknowledge, loft, of a new mind, with novum titulus, new 'poet of the popes',

To be conferred in that city of Rome, by Francis, green laurels, on your brow.

 

I, the child of April, that month, was born for drama, and, to,

Bring you to her, whom Beatrice did name, too mother tender

Fondly, when, she heard of harsh frosty April dew, that would deck

 

Crocuses and violets, strewn, like glass beads, about the apple orchard

Of a monastic state, you come, to become, a guileless scholar 

Monk for God, you, kicking away, sheening wash of a scapular cloth,

 

Waiting for the choirsong of  Christ, in choirsong, songchoir

Crewsmen. The foundations were dug in April, and that first

New moon of April, gave good weather, as you ascended, cycling'...

'The Christ Colloquy', Book II  Letteratura, Canto  I-107,  Gratttan.

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'It has seemed most opportune to us to speak to you all, beloved children, who cultivate letters under the maternal vigilance of the Church, to show even more clearly than before the intimate union of Dante with this Chair of Peter, and how the praises showered on that distinguished name necessarily redound in no small measure to the honour of the Catholic Church'.

                                                                                           In Praeclara Summorum, Benedict XV, 1921, n.3