Thanks very much, Erminia--on behalf of myself (didn't even know
there was a St. Candida) and of my good friend here at Duke,
Priscilla Lane, who was blissfully ignorant of the catacomb with
which she shares her name until I took the liberty of forwarding
your post to her. She was gratifyingly aghast!
Enjoyed your hot flash of a priestly tale, too. It brought back
a memorable day in a similar, euphemistically designated "hygiene"
class taught by the good Sisters of Mercy at my high school, Mt.
St. Mary's Seminary (For Wayward Catholic Girls, as we liked to
add). One day, a girl with more worldly experience than most of
us raised her hand and asked Sister how the penis, if it has no
bone, gets so hard?
And, speaking of hard cases, I liked your translation of Dale's
Joan of Arc poem very much and thought I'd post the lyrics to
Leonard Cohen's song about her in turn. Someday, I want to write
a poem entitled "So Cruel, So Bright" after its last line. The
lyrics are taken from the sleeve notes to _Cohen Live_, where
they're written out in paragraphs rather than stanzas, so--
another prose-poem, in effect. (Copyright 1971 Leonard Cohen
Stranger Music, Inc. [BMI]. All rights reserved.)
Candice
Joan of Arc
Now the flames they followed Joan of Arc as she came riding through
the dark, no moon to keep her armour bright, no man to get her
through this smoky night. She said, "I'm tired of the war, I want
the kind of work I had before: a wedding dress or something white
to wear upon my swollen appetite."
"I'm glad to hear you talk this way, I've watched you riding every
day, and something in me yearns to win such a cold and very lonesome
heroine." "And who are you?" she sternly spoke, to the one beneath
the smoke. "Why I'm fire," he replied, "and I love your solitude,
I love your pride."
"Then fire make your body cold, I'm going to give you mine to hold."
And saying this she climbed inside to be his one, to be his only
bride. And deep into his fiery heart he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and high above the wedding guests he hung the ashes of her wedding
dress.
It was deep into his fiery heart he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and then she clearly understood, if he was fire, oh, then she was
wood. _I saw her wince, I saw her cry, I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself, I long for love and light, but must it come so cruel, must
it be so bright!_
At 12:34 AM 10/20/99 +0100, you wrote:
>St Candida's body ( she was a vergin who died as a martir in Rome during the
>persecution against Christians)
>was found in the catacumbe of Priscilla
>and taken to the Church Santa Maria dei Miracoli.
>The wax statue, all dressed up with real clothes, containing her mortal
>remains, is preserved in a big bell jar in the second chappel on the left of
>St Maria dei Miracoli.
>
>Her cult day is the 29 agosto - (Happy name day to Candice)
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