LIFE AMID ANCIENT RUINS

By John Herlihy

As one passes through the Forum of Constantine,

Note its towering hundred-foot column of porphyry,

Transported by ship from the edge of the world, Egypt,

From the bright, once famous City of the Sun, Heliopolis,

I, Johannes, knew it well to the last detail never forgotten.

The column stood on a plinth that contained a hatchet,

The sacred instrument that Noah used to build the Ark.

The baskets together with the remains of loaves and fishes

That Jesus, the Christ, had miraculously fed to the multitude.

I, Johannes, can still see it now as a memory wrapped in mist.

Out of respect to ancient ways, the stone figure of Athene,

The goddess of wisdom and warfare, with helmet and spear,

Cast into molded form when heraldry still boasted of fame,

Brought from the city of Troy by Aeneas himself to Old Rome.

I, Johannes, gaze overhead in wonder that will never cease.

At the summit of the column the hand-sculpted body of Apollo,

Carved by Phidias, the world-renown sculpture of Zeus,

Once considered to be one of the seven wonders of the world,

The head, surrounded by a halo representing the rays of the sun,

None other than Constantine, Ruler of the Earth under Heaven.

The Emperor Constantine stared eons of ages thru upper air,

Where swallows and sparrows flew freely with the angels.

In his immediate gaze, the church of Hagia Sophia now mosque,

And beyond the Hippodrome, the arena for the chariot races,

Fierce battles between the bitter rivals, the Blues and the Greens.

At the foot of the column, half the citizenry seemed to be gathered,

A vast horde in the real world of the day, in the shadow of the column,

Whores with thread-bare shawls half covering ripe, swollen breasts,

Stepped out from the shadows to confront hucksters and fig-sellers,

I, Johannes, the observant scribe, write of the incongruities that abound.

The shrill screams of fish-wives mingle with the cry of song-bird vendors;

Pickpockets seek out individuals while con-men gather around crowds.

The child pickpockets all bright gleaming eyes and deft little fingers,

Like felonious dormice looking to store away a secret winter hoard.

 A coarse-voiced man read from Roman annals to an illiterate crowd.

Or worse, they listened agog to crimes, punishments, and deaths,

Moved to tears at the recent death of the blessed Saint Thecla,

Thrown to savage seals by a wicked, idolatrous emperor over in Asia,

Lightning killed the beasts and she lived to be over a hundred years old,

Living her old age in a mountain cave, eating nothing but juniper berries.

The crowd captivated by the story of a crow who lived in a nearby market.

The bird spoke perfect Latin to amaze the passing sightseers but was killed,

Bludgeoned to death by a shoe-seller angry the bird defecated on his stall.

Other traders beat the shoe-seller and gave the bird a lavish state funeral.

In the shadow of the stately column, the multitude below take dumb delight.

I, Johannes, dip pen into a river ink that flowers forever onward,

Down thru the ages of humanity until the last day and the final hour.

I can see it all spread before me, as if it is still happening right now.

I will never see it again, no never, but in remembering I will always see it.

The life of humanity is as towering, sunlit, and real as it was and ever will be.