BY JAN HAAG
ST SAVIN
9-3-99
St Savin rhymes with
Cannes
and other things French and frail.
Like Paris out-living its
natural bail
and in later years being forced to man
modernism,
buildings of glass and steel,
tropes that make one reel,
in
that doll's house of rococo
and crumbling, gritty dough.
I
stayed in a castle in St Savin,
looked at the church's murals aglow,
through binoculars high in a row
faded, faint, like pale vin
spilled on the ancient ceiling,
clinging for centuries
peeling,
admired from far below
by tourists who should know
that such things as St Savin
and the filmmaker's Cannes,
and murals, no matter how pale,
are admired in this worldly jail.
Long ago I had been to seashore Cannes
knowing nothing of St
Savin.
Brought up in a clueless jail
where things of the mind
were very pale
I knew nothing of appealing
paintings on a
peeling ceiling.
But now I know --
though I'm far below,
like the dregs of a rouge vin,
where, when I row and row,
I become like a lantern all aglow
with enthusiasm at St Savin.
Though craning my neck makes me reel
and I'd rather admire a
bit of steel,
still, for just the tiniest amount of dough
I can
visit a whole country of rococo
admired by educated man
who
has set his own formidable bail,
and whose depthless Parisian views,
and frail
illusions are glossed and re-admired at Cannes.
Copyright © 2000 Jan Haag
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: jhaag@u.washington.edu
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