Balcony iron twisted black kelp.
Forests of porphyry their palm canopies bursting.
The sure foundation a stone quarry from stone ages.
Streets thereabouts away and towards the source.
Surf city of the west end pitched to glory.
New scaffolding stacks to ceilings of marble stars.
Tremulous leaves of tiles take to the light,
Thunder handled as it approaches.
Computed entrances have witnesses guessing.
Ribs of the crucified downward unbroken.
All in his head, he never left a sketch.
I spend weekends leafing the sea inside Gaudí,
The sun inside, which colour to choose, size and shape.
He believed, and then someone believed in him.
If he was a savant guard how I judge
His singular exertions combining geometries,
A life best understood after completion.
His hours of hope with the transforms of life
Could be the hour of his death, alone.
For it’s never completed, his one client God,
Where every day is the practice of load-bearing
Be it beatific temple or beaten-up cross.
A poem about Antoni Gaudí written after attending Spiritual Reading Group in the Carmelite Library on Tuesday the 27th of February 2015. Republished here, with Iso-mandala No. 71 (August 2020)
