Poem: "The Godfather"
This poem came out of the January 17, 2012 bonus fishbowl. It was inspired by prompts from thesilentpoet, aldersprig, marina_bonomi, and ankewehner. Fiorenza and Don Candido talk about their respective roles in the village. You can find out more about this series on the Serial Poetry page.
This microfunded poem is being posted one verse at a time, as donations come in to cover them. The rate is $.50 per line, so $5 will reveal 10 new lines, and so forth.There is a permanent donation button on my profile page,or you can contact me for other arrangements. You can also ask me about the number of lines per verse, if you want to fund a certain number of verses.
So far sponsors include: the_vulture marina_bonomi, general fund
FULLY FUNDED
106 lines, Buy It Now = $53
Amount donated = $30.00
Verses posted = 11 of 22
Amount remaining to fund fully = $23.00
Amount needed to fund next verse = $2
Amount needed to fund the verse after that = $1.50
The Godfather
Once a month Fiorenza went to church
to help Don Candido remove wax
from the fixtures that held the herbal candles.
The wax smelled sweetly of such things
as rosemary or bayberry or our lady's bedstraw,
a hint of summer even in winter.
Fiorenza sighed,
blowing her black curls out of her face.
"What is the matter?"
Don Candido asked her.
"Ah, it is the old women again,"
said Fiorenza.
"Some of them still think
I am too young to be wisewoman,
though there is no one else to do it."
Don Candido nodded.
"They say much the same of me,
that I am too young to be the village priest,"
he said. "Some elders will never accept
a different authority than the one
they knew growing up."
Fiorenza twisted the little dull knife,
prying loose a piece of beeswax
streaked red-brown with cinnamon.
"I barely remember Don Angelo,"
she said. "He was just the man in the church.
Then one day, Grandmother took me to the door
and you were there instead,
so nervous in your new vestments."
"I remember you too," Don Candido said,
"all knees and elbows behind that basket of herbs."
He rubbed oil over one of the candle holders
to remove the last bits of wax.
"You know how I came to be wisewoman,
for you said the service when my grandmother Carmela died,"
Fiorenza said. "You never told me, though,
how you came to be a priest so young."
"I suppose it is because of my godfather,"
said Don Candido. "There is a tradition in my family
that a thirteenth child is given Death for a godfather."
"A pretty conceit," said Fiorenza,
but Don Candido shook his head.
"It is the truth," he insisted.
"Death comes to the church for the baptism
and the confirmation.
Then there is a gift when the child reaches majority --
some use it foolishly, but I would never.
I respect my godfather too much for that."
"I wonder what sort of gift Death would give,"
Fiorenza mused. "I do not know him well.
He and I are often at odds."
"When I became a man, Death showed me
a great cathedral all filled with blazing candles,"
Don Candido explained. "Each candle was a life,
short ones for elders, long ones for children, and so on."
The priest took fresh candles from their box,
carefully trimming and shaping the wicks.
"When I visit the housebound, my godfather
shows me their candles, so that I know
whether they will live or will die soon.
Then I know what prayers to say,"
Don Candido said. "It is a great gift.
Everyone was so impressed,
they assigned me a village despite my youth."
"Yes, I can see that," Fiorenza said quietly.
"It must be a precious thing to know,
however hard to bear."
"No harder than it is for you," he said,
"when the signs of a body tell you the same.
My godfather has always been gentle with me."
Fiorenza pondered that
as she fetched another box of candles.
"I have known Death to be gentle,"
she said, "but I have also
known him to be cruel as a cat."
"I think that Death is more compassionate
that most people realize," the priest said.
"It is merely that he knows things we do not."
"I have seen horrid old men
die peacefully in their sleep,
and little children die screaming,"
said Fiorenza.
"Have you never seen a horrid old man
give a coin to a beggar child,
or a child throw stones at a dog?"
Don Candido countered.
"It is enough for me to know when
a life will end, so I may choose my prayers."
Fiorenza finished her candle holder
and watched Don Candido
carefully fitting new candles into the cups.
"Why do you always hold candles with both hands?"
she wondered. "It's not like they're terribly fragile."
"My godfather warned me
never to drop a candle,
nor spill the consecrated oil or salt,
nor leave my hat upon a bed,"
Don Candido said.
"I try to follow his advice."
"Well, I think we are done for the day,"
Fiorenza said as she wiped her hands on a rag.
They packed the supplies away.
Don Candido thanked her,
and Fiorenza said, "It was no trouble."
Then she paused at the door and added,
"Please give my regards to your godfather."
This microfunded poem is being posted one verse at a time, as donations come in to cover them. The rate is $.50 per line, so $5 will reveal 10 new lines, and so forth.There is a permanent donation button on my profile page,or you can contact me for other arrangements. You can also ask me about the number of lines per verse, if you want to fund a certain number of verses.
So far sponsors include: the_vulture marina_bonomi, general fund
FULLY FUNDED
106 lines, Buy It Now = $53
Amount donated = $30.00
Verses posted = 11 of 22
Amount remaining to fund fully = $23.00
Amount needed to fund next verse = $2
Amount needed to fund the verse after that = $1.50
The Godfather
Once a month Fiorenza went to church
to help Don Candido remove wax
from the fixtures that held the herbal candles.
The wax smelled sweetly of such things
as rosemary or bayberry or our lady's bedstraw,
a hint of summer even in winter.
Fiorenza sighed,
blowing her black curls out of her face.
"What is the matter?"
Don Candido asked her.
"Ah, it is the old women again,"
said Fiorenza.
"Some of them still think
I am too young to be wisewoman,
though there is no one else to do it."
Don Candido nodded.
"They say much the same of me,
that I am too young to be the village priest,"
he said. "Some elders will never accept
a different authority than the one
they knew growing up."
Fiorenza twisted the little dull knife,
prying loose a piece of beeswax
streaked red-brown with cinnamon.
"I barely remember Don Angelo,"
she said. "He was just the man in the church.
Then one day, Grandmother took me to the door
and you were there instead,
so nervous in your new vestments."
"I remember you too," Don Candido said,
"all knees and elbows behind that basket of herbs."
He rubbed oil over one of the candle holders
to remove the last bits of wax.
"You know how I came to be wisewoman,
for you said the service when my grandmother Carmela died,"
Fiorenza said. "You never told me, though,
how you came to be a priest so young."
"I suppose it is because of my godfather,"
said Don Candido. "There is a tradition in my family
that a thirteenth child is given Death for a godfather."
"A pretty conceit," said Fiorenza,
but Don Candido shook his head.
"It is the truth," he insisted.
"Death comes to the church for the baptism
and the confirmation.
Then there is a gift when the child reaches majority --
some use it foolishly, but I would never.
I respect my godfather too much for that."
"I wonder what sort of gift Death would give,"
Fiorenza mused. "I do not know him well.
He and I are often at odds."
"When I became a man, Death showed me
a great cathedral all filled with blazing candles,"
Don Candido explained. "Each candle was a life,
short ones for elders, long ones for children, and so on."
The priest took fresh candles from their box,
carefully trimming and shaping the wicks.
"When I visit the housebound, my godfather
shows me their candles, so that I know
whether they will live or will die soon.
Then I know what prayers to say,"
Don Candido said. "It is a great gift.
Everyone was so impressed,
they assigned me a village despite my youth."
"Yes, I can see that," Fiorenza said quietly.
"It must be a precious thing to know,
however hard to bear."
"No harder than it is for you," he said,
"when the signs of a body tell you the same.
My godfather has always been gentle with me."
Fiorenza pondered that
as she fetched another box of candles.
"I have known Death to be gentle,"
she said, "but I have also
known him to be cruel as a cat."
"I think that Death is more compassionate
that most people realize," the priest said.
"It is merely that he knows things we do not."
"I have seen horrid old men
die peacefully in their sleep,
and little children die screaming,"
said Fiorenza.
"Have you never seen a horrid old man
give a coin to a beggar child,
or a child throw stones at a dog?"
Don Candido countered.
"It is enough for me to know when
a life will end, so I may choose my prayers."
Fiorenza finished her candle holder
and watched Don Candido
carefully fitting new candles into the cups.
"Why do you always hold candles with both hands?"
she wondered. "It's not like they're terribly fragile."
"My godfather warned me
never to drop a candle,
nor spill the consecrated oil or salt,
nor leave my hat upon a bed,"
Don Candido said.
"I try to follow his advice."
"Well, I think we are done for the day,"
Fiorenza said as she wiped her hands on a rag.
They packed the supplies away.
Don Candido thanked her,
and Fiorenza said, "It was no trouble."
Then she paused at the door and added,
"Please give my regards to your godfather."