Saint Stephen, Past Jaffa Gate

Nicholas Samaras

What was important
was to stand
straight as an exclamation point
and let earth and heaven rain
down on me.
What was important
was to be ambitious only for truth.
What temple could enclose that, what raiment
disguise such a simple witness:
my frail body seized with speech,
my neck pulsing its latticework of blood,
a gunny tunic, the color of dust,
knotty drawstring, sandals,
hair thick with Christ?

The stiff-necked Sanhedrin ground
their teeth at me, carried me on a canopy of coarse hands
past Jaffa Gate, the Street of the Chain.
The sky tumbled over itself, jagged patches of light.
Claws of elders rent my sackcloth,
threw me to the dung path of their fathers.
Hotly, I felt the stings, the puncturing,
my body opening like dark flowers,
salty water warping my sight.

Through a haze, I saw one applauding.
Let him stave off the light today.
Let Saul later see the vision of his own blindness.
What was important now was to
open my ragged arms to the mob’s refusal,
to underline an Orthodoxy,
give my body to the earth’s testament.
Each rock and stone chanted Hosanna
as it sang into my flesh (sad parchment),
pursed the closing air, whistled me home.

Visit Nicholas Samaras as Image Artist of the Month for October '05

Issue #39 • Summer 2003