Cathedral<\/p>\n
The cathedral was swathed in scrims
\nand scaffolding; sandblasters scoured
\noff the grime of the century.
\nWe\u2019d found the door like the loose
\nend of a bandage to begin the unraveling.<\/p>\n
Now from the observation deck halfway up St. Paul\u2019s, Through occasional windows like arrow slits Until well warmed, parched, awed, to museum. We bought our postcards We wished for peace, change <\/p>\n Sean Bentley is currently focusing on photography<\/a>,\u00a0as well as nonfiction.\u00a0But it\u2019s probably just a phase. He is the son of Nelson and Beth Bentley, and born in Seattle. \u00a0He was coeditor of\u00a0Fine Madness<\/em>\u00a0<\/a>magazine from 1984 to 2006, and is president 1998-2000 of Friends of Nelson Bentley<\/a>. Visit the web site for a list of Sean Bentley’s publications, sample poetry and fiction, etc. He lives in Bellevue and works as a technical writer for Tyler Technology. Sean Bentley’s poetry collections include:\u00a0Grace & Desolation: New Poems<\/em><\/a>\u00a0(Cune Press, 1996), \u00a0Instances: Poems<\/em>\u00a0(Confluence Press, 1979), and\u00a0Into the Bright Oasis (<\/em>Jawbone Press, 1976).<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Cathedral The cathedral was swathed in scrims and scaffolding; sandblasters scoured off the grime of the century. We\u2019d found the door like the loose end of a bandage to begin the unraveling. Now from the observation deck halfway up St. … Continue reading
\nfrom which London flowed
\nlava-like in all directions, sun-shot
\nand hazy, we spiraled down hardwood steps,
\n537, like maple seedlings toward terra firma, <\/em>
\npast grafittoed names knifed into stucco
\ntwo, three hundred years ago,
\nstairs buffed, darkened, eroded
\nby generations of feet, the pious or curious.<\/p>\n
\nthe city revealed itself but we were encased
\nin the entrails of history. We continued
\nto the crypt, cool and oddly
\nbright to help us see the residents
\nbeneath, behind, stone slabs incised
\nwith names and dates like the walls,
\nwith lore, with epitaphs. Henry Moore,
\nhis plaque as angled and unMoore-like
\nas the rest, Samuel Johnson, Bulwer-
\nLytton, the great Turner at our feet
\nand back, and back, to Blake,
\nbust black, globe-pated and pugnacious.<\/p>\n
\nwe gravitated to the crypt caf\u00e9
\nwhere across from the tea dispenser
\na great placard served as tombstone
\nfor those who\u2019d lain here before the first
\ncathedral fell in the Great Fire.
\nIncluding–holy crow!–King Ethelred,
\ndied 1016. It sank in
\nas we chewed our sandwiches, absorbing
\nthe ancient holy space transmogrified<\/p>\n
\nand replicas of Roman coins and exited
\ninto the blast of summer London, the stink
\nof tourist buses. The priest intoned
\nas the door shut
\nabout this week\u2019s Iraqi deaths, the Sudanese,
\nthe war, wars, never far despite the lessons
\nwe should have learned since Ethelred ruled.<\/p>\n
\nas incremental, imperceptible as the bending
\nof all those sturdy stairs to the persistent
\nwill of foot after foot after patient foot.<\/p>\n