Alcuin

Alcuin (c. 735–804) is a scholar, clergyman, poet, teacher, and a significant figure in the court of Charlemagne. He was born in Northumbria, and educated at the York cathedral school from a young age. He frequently travelled to the continent — at first to acquire books and artworks for the expanding library at York, which became quite well known until it unfortunately was destroyed in 866 during a raid by marauding Vikings.

On his return from a journey to Rome, he was invited to join a scholastic union of intellectuals, selected by Charlemagne, from across Europe, formed at his court at Aachen. Alcuin wrote poetry, letters and grammatical instructions as well as theological treatises. His surviving writings, are an important source for scholars concerning this time period. One of his greatest contributions was the Golden Gospels, an illuminated manuscript written in gold on purple vellum. He died at Marmoutier Abbey in Tours.

The following poem was translated from the Latin by Maryann Corbett. It first appeared in Cerise Press, is from her poetry collection Mid Evil (Evansville, 2015), and appears in To Heaven's Rim: The Kingdom Poets Book of World Poetry edited by Burl Horniachek.

Concerning A Nightingale

Jealousy, that’s what it was. It was thin-fingered envy that nabbed you,
----stealing away my delight, Nightingale, out of the broom!
Sour as my soul had become, you could fill it with honeying sweetness,
----lilting it into my ears, lifting it into my heart.
Come, all you creatures with wings! Let them come from the corners of
--heaven
----adding their grief to my own, singing the song of the muse.
Not much to look at for color, but sound that could carry my heart off:
----sound with the breadth of the air poured from your throat’s little strait,
sweetness in dollops and pours and melismas, repeating, renewing,
----always a song in your mouth to him who is maker of all.
Everywhere night and its terrible blackness, yet still you were singing,
----voice that should still us to prayer, ornament hung on the dark.
Why should we wonder at all at the angels eternally chanting
----praise to the Lord of the storm? You could sing endlessly too.

Posted with permission of the translator

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of six poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), plus three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is now available from Paraclete Press.

Maryann Corbett

Maryann Corbett is a Saint Paul, Minnesota Poet who grew up in northern Virginia. She earned her doctorate from the University of Minnesota, and worked for more than thirty years as a language specialist for the Minnesota legislature. Corbett has authored five full-length poetry books: the most recent being In Code (2020, Able Muse). Her third book received the Richard Wilbur Award, which honours metrical poetry.

The following poem was first published in First Things, has also appeared at Versedaily, and is from her book Mid Evil (2014, University of Evansville Press).

Prophesying to the Breath

I'm tired of it, this labored breathing. Tired
of phlegm and coughing and the fight for air,
bent double on the landing of a stair,
in wheezing gasps where nothing is inspired.
Tired of the silence next to me in bed
when measured snoring suddenly goes still;
of counting a nervous one, two, three until
it starts itself again. Tired of my dread.
I want it back: the confidence in air—
ruah, pneuma, spiritus—the breath
that stirs the vocal folds of nuns in choir.
The breath that Is. The sound of something there
guiding this gusty round of birth and death.
The rush of driving wind. The tongues of fire.

This post was suggested by my friend Burl Horniachek.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through Amazon, and Wipf & Stock.