Victorian Violet Press
The Sculpture of Mary Magdalen at
Magdalen College, Oxford
Her garment hangs in folds; the locks she used
to wipe his feet cascade in folds as well.
Her hands look tender cradling the cruse
of perfume. Seven tormentors from hell
he drove from her, and she became as loyal
as any of his disciples; walked the roads
with him, drank in his words, shared in his toil,
stood near the cross and, Sunday, bore a load
of spices to the tomb; saw, through the mist,
the Rabbi come back from the grave. They spoke.
She ran to the apostles to insist
the tomb was empty. Now her heavy cloak
serves well for her in this cold land. So strange
her image found its place in Albion,
white isle of rain and mist, the northern range
of Caesar’s empire, endless leagues beyond
Judea, where the lilies of the field
thrive without toil and sun drenches the loam;
where vineyards and the squares of barley yield
crops all months of the year back in her home.
She poses in the cold, in fog, in rain.
The stone that shapes her form reveals the taint
of age and weather, blackened with the stain
of years etched on this image of the saint.
I wonder why she looks so reticent
to open up the vessel in her hand
and once more let the world know its sweet scent,
on this remote shore, in this distant land.
She was rebuked: “This perfume could be sold,”
detractors said, “and the money dispensed
to the poor! We might have traded it for gold!”
But sainthood does not meld with common sense.
Jesus rebuked them and he valorized
her deed. “Wherever this gospel is preached,
her story will be told,” he prophesied.
And so her story and her icon reached
the distant shores of England. Through the years
scholars and saints and sinners walked beneath
her image—Magdalen, woman of tears,
of perfume and the anguish of sin’s grief.
Colonization (a Love Poem)
Building your summer palace on the vast
savannah of my love was not enough.
You sent out tentacles stretching far past
the territories I would not give up,
not let you colonize and own. But you,
not satisfied, wanted to have it all.
You covered my plowlands with black kudzu,
cut sacred forests down to build a mall,
sent missionaries and police to rule
my untamed hills, cut channels to divert
the crystal water of my sacred pool.
You spread your cities and their noise and hurt.
There are the regions none should dominate
and territories none should colonize
inside our souls. I learned this, but too late.
You dispatched agents, armed with guns and lies.
Your double eagle has a smiling face.
Its claws have seized the regions of my soul
far from my heart, which was the proper place
to set your district and place your control.
My territory is within your grip
far past the harbor where you moored your ship.
David Landrum
Magdalen College, Oxford
Her garment hangs in folds; the locks she used
to wipe his feet cascade in folds as well.
Her hands look tender cradling the cruse
of perfume. Seven tormentors from hell
he drove from her, and she became as loyal
as any of his disciples; walked the roads
with him, drank in his words, shared in his toil,
stood near the cross and, Sunday, bore a load
of spices to the tomb; saw, through the mist,
the Rabbi come back from the grave. They spoke.
She ran to the apostles to insist
the tomb was empty. Now her heavy cloak
serves well for her in this cold land. So strange
her image found its place in Albion,
white isle of rain and mist, the northern range
of Caesar’s empire, endless leagues beyond
Judea, where the lilies of the field
thrive without toil and sun drenches the loam;
where vineyards and the squares of barley yield
crops all months of the year back in her home.
She poses in the cold, in fog, in rain.
The stone that shapes her form reveals the taint
of age and weather, blackened with the stain
of years etched on this image of the saint.
I wonder why she looks so reticent
to open up the vessel in her hand
and once more let the world know its sweet scent,
on this remote shore, in this distant land.
She was rebuked: “This perfume could be sold,”
detractors said, “and the money dispensed
to the poor! We might have traded it for gold!”
But sainthood does not meld with common sense.
Jesus rebuked them and he valorized
her deed. “Wherever this gospel is preached,
her story will be told,” he prophesied.
And so her story and her icon reached
the distant shores of England. Through the years
scholars and saints and sinners walked beneath
her image—Magdalen, woman of tears,
of perfume and the anguish of sin’s grief.
Colonization (a Love Poem)
Building your summer palace on the vast
savannah of my love was not enough.
You sent out tentacles stretching far past
the territories I would not give up,
not let you colonize and own. But you,
not satisfied, wanted to have it all.
You covered my plowlands with black kudzu,
cut sacred forests down to build a mall,
sent missionaries and police to rule
my untamed hills, cut channels to divert
the crystal water of my sacred pool.
You spread your cities and their noise and hurt.
There are the regions none should dominate
and territories none should colonize
inside our souls. I learned this, but too late.
You dispatched agents, armed with guns and lies.
Your double eagle has a smiling face.
Its claws have seized the regions of my soul
far from my heart, which was the proper place
to set your district and place your control.
My territory is within your grip
far past the harbor where you moored your ship.
David Landrum
