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  #1  
Unread 10-10-2019, 09:10 PM
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RCL RCL is offline
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Default Saint Blaise

Rev 2

San Biagio

When born at dawn, he swallowed sun
that set his opening throat ablaze,
soon sparking sounds to words.
By noon, with intellect aflame,
imprisoned by a Roman law
against his role as Christian bishop,
he miraculously cured a throat disease.
This doctor and priest spoke fluent sun
into his dimming afternoon.
A twilight ember, sun subsided,
and he was martyred for his cause.
Sun’s shine, a cooling beam, bounced
off the moon for other speakers
seeking solace for their throats.




Saint Blaise (third person past)

At birth, he swallowed sun that seared
his opened throat, made him a Blaise.
Dawn fired his being, sparking sounds
to words exhaled as guiding lights,
first for himself, to sense and know;
then to share at his high noon:
fully aflame, his brain a wildfire,
a fusillade of sounds, some singed
in conflicts large and small, but most
with focus for enlightenment.
Doctor, philosopher, poet and priest,
his throat, inflamed, spoke fluent sun
into the dimming afternoon.
A twilight ember, sun subsided,
its shine a cooling beam bouncing
off the moon to soothe his throat.



Saint Blaise

Each ray of light is speaking fluent sun.
Andrew Frisardi

At birth, I swallow sun that sears
my opening throat, makes me a Blaise.
Dawn fires my being, sparking sounds
to words exhaled as guiding lights,
first for myself, to sense and know;
then to share at my high noon:
fully aflame, my brain’s a wildfire,
a fusillade of sounds, some singed
in conflicts large and small, but most
with focus for enlightenment.
I’m doctor, philosopher, poet and priest;
my inflamed throat speaks fluent sun
into the dimming afternoon.
A twilight ember, sun subsides,
its shine a cooling beam that bounces
off the moon and soothes my throat,
like yours that shapes the world with words.


L12 sun for light
L1 deleted my
L15 was: its heat a beam that bounces whitely
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Last edited by RCL; Yesterday at 04:11 PM.
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  #2  
Unread 10-14-2019, 10:45 AM
Andrew Frisardi Andrew Frisardi is offline
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I like this, Ralph, but I lose focus in the middle part:

first for himself, to sense and know;
then to share at his high noon:
fully aflame, his brain a wildfire,
a fusillade of sounds, some singed
in conflicts large and small, but most
with focus for enlightenment.

It might be good to bring in something more specific and particular to Blaise in that passage.

I do like the extended conceit of fire that he swallowed as it manifests at different times of day, which are also the stages of his life.

The fire/sunlight images for me carry different senses. The brilliant epigraph that you use in the first draft of the poem (;-) refers to rays of light, which are different from flames: the first is sharp and can be cold, the latter is wilder (you even refer to “wildfires”), more Dionysian or associated with passion. The Blaise pun would suggest going in the direction of fire rather than sunlight.

I’m partial to Blaise, since a town that I lived in several years back had Blaise (Biagio in Italian) as its patron saint. His feast day was a raucous town party, quite fun.
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Unread 10-14-2019, 12:23 PM
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Andrew,

Thanks for reading and the suggestions. I’ll work on the distinctions you note. The fluent sun image is brilliant in yours.

The working title for this was San Biagio. My father was born in San Biagio Platoni, Sicily, and many of my relatives still live and prosper there. Here’s my tribute to that:

Soul Fire


He spoke:
smoke
erupted white
swirled through
silvered beard
wreathed his throat
leapt into black curls
in a cloud
watering brown eyes.
He spoke:
tempted me to
mimic his mouth
when perfect white rings
popped from his face
danced through
my flying pink fingers
and melted into me.
He spoke:
Sing, my son!
Figlio di San Biagio
fires will blaze
in your throat too—

the first words
I saw my father speak.
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Last edited by RCL; 10-14-2019 at 12:25 PM.
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Unread 10-15-2019, 07:55 AM
Andrew Frisardi Andrew Frisardi is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by RCL View Post
My father was born in San Biagio Platoni, Sicily, and many of my relatives still live and prosper there. Here’s my tribute to that:

Soul Fire


He spoke:
smoke
erupted white
swirled through
silvered beard
wreathed his throat
leapt into black curls
in a cloud
watering brown eyes.
He spoke:
tempted me to
mimic his mouth
when perfect white rings
popped from his face
danced through
my flying pink fingers
and melted into me.
He spoke:
Sing, my son!
Figlio di San Biagio
fires will blaze
in your throat too—

the first words
I saw my father speak.
Thanks, Ralph, I especially like the image of seeing the words your father spoke. I've never been to that part of Sicily, only Palermo, but I hope to some day. Have you visited your relatives there? My Italian roots are in Rome, so much closer to where I live.
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Unread Yesterday, 03:56 PM
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Andrew, pleased you like the father poem. Years ago, I had to cut short an Easter visit (an incredible show of bakers’ sculptures there), but my clever sister talked her way into a cousin’s office where she gathered evidence that a significant number of the residents in power were our namesake cousins.
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