Thursday, October 31, 2013
Five Hagiographs (Nick Humez)
Holy Dymphna from green Erin
fled with just what she was wearin',
followed by her dad, the rotter,
bent on messing with his daughter.
Catching her, with sword he struck her
dead, because he couldn't pluck her
rose. Now, in the Norman boonies,
Dymphna's patron saint of loonies.
St. Jerome, a classicist,
Paula loved, but never kissed.
Fonder still of Cicero,
dreamed for this to Hell he'd go,
so became a hermit wild,
got himself a lion mild,
cursed as sin a woman's touch,
though he venerated much
Mary for virginity
trumping crass anatomy.
Pauline gynophobe or not,
Christendom owes him a lot:
Scripture then was just for geeks
who read Hebrew, or for Greeks,
but when St. Jerome was done,
could be read by everyone
who knew Latin (not barbarians),
Whence he's patron of librarians.
Catherine declined to wed
bold Maxentius the Caesar,
got a ring from Christ instead,
Whom she knew would better please her.
This the emperor much vexed,
On a wheel he tried to break her,
but it broke instead, so next
sent her headless to her Maker.
Happy saint! If man's a beast,
you were better off beheaded.
Yet fond girls who keep your feast
hope by Advent to be wedded.
Gauls thought Denis good and dead
after chopping off his head;
he then schlepped it (least of whiners),
six miles whither now his shrine is.
If your brain is frenzied, or
your poor head is aching sore,
do not blubber, howl, or curse:
Tell St. Denis. He's seen worse.
Close chum of St. Francis, Clare -
old, infirm, and sick abed
Christmas eve - got grace to see,
as she lifted up her head,
on her wall a vision rare.
Thank her when you watch TV.