BY NATHAN STONE

(Note: This poem explores medieval philosophy through Thomas Aquinas’ Hierarchy of being.)

Upon this narrow rung I clutch, between the devil and the deep,

Hovering between mud and light.

Feet of clay, head full of swirling night

I balance amidst the clashing fight

Plummeting down to Gehenna, reaching to the Throne

Above, where seraphim and cherubim stand watch upon the keep. 

Below them and their parapets, the lords and ladies of the dome

Keep court within their spheres of space

And time, ruling citizens without trace

Of whip — thrusting down sword and mace 

Upon subjects where primal matter is overgrown

Into form. Their shadows walk on the disc, forming the earthy foam. 

Beech is ruled by Saturn, birch by Venus, elm by Mercury.

The lioned dandy to Jupiter.

And Selene — the cherry tree — to her. 

Lords of summer, they bow to fur

And scale, tooth, claw, wing, milker, crawler, climber, hunter.

And to all the minnows and leviathans which rule the inky sea. 

Deeper than the sea but still above Satan’s iron seat

The soulless things of matter squared 

Reign in thoughtless being, overcared 

By mates of running rivulets flared

Supported by the Four, our frankincense and myrrh 

Swirling in the eye, taijitu, cycle of conquering defeat. 

Between them all below the Fisher’s gate I tremble on the rung.

Trapped in warmed mud I slip upon 

The ledge, chained to an iron pawn

Engulfing me from dusk to dawn. 

No scepter of light, throne of might, wing or claw for me

Nor sleepless sleep within the earth. With my insignificance, I’m hung. 

But a tickle in my brain says, “It is enough for thee.”

Enough to be imprisoned in this shape and freed by endless dawn 

That sings of things that could just be

Done. Freed by the menagerie 

That keeps my essence an inlet sea. 

I will take the plow, the quill, the trowel, and the sword.

I will stand upon the rung erect until the ladder is gone. 

(This poem originally published in Tales of Chivalry: A Medieval Anthology)