The Houses of History

How do I reach the past?

Concrete and real, antiquity existed beyond
Abstract creation, beyond the historian’s
Pen. Our mind’s movie, now an overarching
Lens, sees through eyes
In the back of our heads:
A forest deep rooted, its trees enclosed and
Embellished with bark—
Hercules grew stronger with time.

Above the trees, clouds take shape of figures once told,
Their stories formed from winds
That passed through lungs, then lips—
Spoken shadows block the sun.

For leaves and clouds are eyelids to omniscience.
The glowing truth of Hercules is now
A myth, weakened by historical science, which holds
Ideals of empiricism and Descartes’ indubitable truth.
What vague discoveries will tomorrow bring?
Will Hercules’ be strong again?

I ask, once more,
How do I reach the past?

The Murder of Joan of Arc

Joan of Arc burned alive at Rouen,
A witch by fifteenth century standards.
She melted to ashes and washed away
A scattered Relic of the Seine
She became the icon all rewrite
And claim as their own.

And I wrote of her story, discovering
Her manufactured likeness as a monarchist,
Clad in armor and bearing a sword, fighting
For France and her freedom.

And discovering her femininity as a beacon of
Hope in a world crumbling all around—
Dressed in white, she looks to the sky,
While France becomes a submissive
Collaborator.

We know nothing of what Joan looked like,
But her image is so clear. I wrote of her
Militancy and femininity as a plain
Function to her success; discovering her ambiguous guise,
That is Joan—an ecotype for all.

And yet, I failed to meet her standard of
Devotion--the hallmark of sanctification.
From flames, Joan, O Joan, you rose
A valuable commodity, but even that I
Can not obtain. I rewrote you,

And so, I submit to the expert’s pen,
A tradition soaked in standard and
Garnished in gold—a program
Guarded by stone walls fit for a king.
From outside the gate, I see the courtyard,
Where jesters and clowns juggle
Dictionaries and fine wines. My view
Obscured by bars, I reach into my pocket for
The key, and let myself in.

Now, together, we write of her story, her transgressions
And objectively restate the facts, while
Dismissing the story. Joan, dead on the page
While educators’ rehearse her prose in order:
I wrote: Joan of Domremy, a peasant of seventeen,
Appeared in written documentation,
Only three years during her life. Joan
The disobedient, died a lapsed heretic,
And rose a servant to God—beatified
In 1908, sanctified in 1925.
Joan died on May 30, 1431, age twenty.

For these words I sold my soul,
Everything is in vain—it’s too late
Joan, O Joan, I killed you with my pen
And buried you under the title page.