South of the Mediterranean
Baked in winds from Africa
You see outlined in silver
Earth-toned icons of the saints
In turquoise white and cool basilicas
These are not prayed ‘to’
But are prayed ‘through’
With ‘icons’ of today
It is reversed –
Black holes consumed in their own radiance
Little wonder so many slip
Losing footing – lacking reverence
Believing their own Press
Becoming prey to those who hate to view
Passing trains unless a brutal wreck –
It is never enough to climb
To fame but you must walk a tightrope
Some below desiring your false step
To premature posterity or oblivion
Dionysus had such fans –
They were his cult ‘fanatics’
When to his dithyramb they danced
Entranced they kept on dancing
They entered states of ecstasy
Glad to hurl away possession
Of a reasonable will in flailing limbs
Social norms all seemed then so unnatural
Not protective rituals the home-hearth sanctified
So they danced to tear apart
Anyone found standing in their way
Hero scapegoat child or adult
If their blood was up they ran ‘amok’
Icons had no place in Dionysus
No calming space to sieve and set aside
Reason from Unreason
Nor comb the tangles of the human mind
When standing on the threshold
In the courts of the Divine
Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer
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