Climbers at Monserrat
Passage 16.
The holy mount is refusing me,
a godless turtle swimming in the sea,
trying to flee ennui.
Climbers cling to their monster holds—
chalk bags stanch bloody fingers—
they break religion’s molds.
Sick, wounded pilgrims seeking God,
not fire, thunder, nor whirlwind,
hope healing is not a fraud.
Monserrat won’t spill the secret
of its longevity and the spell
of La Moreneta.
Blind faith for me and all those groups
whose desperation leads them here,
pretending they’re not dupes.
Which all brings me to the Lady,
whose curated past betrays
a provenance shady.
St. Luke carved the Virgin and Child,—
ignoring the bit about Graven Images.
St. Peter brought her to the Iberian wild.
Music came from a holy cave—
what do we really think of young shepherds hearing voices?—
luring them to this nave.
The statue hidden from the Moors—
Why are Muslims always bad guys?—
pay-per-view on our tours.
Her hand-held orb defines her zone,
her gilded crown as Queen of earth;
her Infant plays with a pine cone.
Candles of pilgrims have darkened—
with beeswax scents and burning tallow—
her face and hands, blackened.
La Moreneta
Pious cult promoted by monks
hawking healing, bishop-approved,
lifts us from our funks.
Napoleon’s arson, Franco’s thugs—
the monkish sin was to be Catalonian—
burned and murdered with silent shrugs.
Nothing has stopped this sideshow’s run—
at least no priestly pedos here—
all glory due her Son.
The Black Madonna is fetishized—
as totem and taboo, talisman—
leaving all before her mesmerized.
All the Kings of Spain, John Paul Two,
and seekers of the Holy Grail,
prayed here, and thought it true.
The sinful, sorrowful and discreet—
unlike the Spanish during Holy Week—
lay their woes at her feet.
Benedictines chant the Hours—
like pagans, they follow the sun.
Choir boys praise her powers.
Sana Jeroni is attained,
on top of all I am emptied of all
feelings to be maintained.
Sana Jeroni
Photographs by James C Horner