Philip Harvey
Balcony
iron twisted black kelp.
Forests
of porphyry their palm canopies bursting.
The
sure foundation a stone quarry from stone ages.
Streets
thereabouts away and towards the source.
Surf
city of the west end pitched to glory.
New
scaffolding stacks to ceilings of marble stars.
Tremulous
leaves of tiles take to the light,
Thunder
handled as it approaches.
Computed
entrances have witnesses guessing.
Ribs
of the crucified downward unbroken.
All
in his head, he never left a sketch.
I
spend weekends leafing the sea inside Gaudí,
The
sun inside, which colour to choose, size and shape.
He
believed, and then someone believed in him.
If
he was a savant guard how I judge
His
singular exertions combining geometries,
A
life best understood after completion.
His
hours of hope with the transforms of life
Could
be the hour of his death, alone.
For
it’s never completed, his one client God,
Where
every day is the practice of load-bearing
Be
it beatific temple or beaten-up cross.
A
poem about Antoni Gaudí written after attending Spiritual Reading Group in the
Carmelite Library on Tuesday the 27th of February
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