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Healing by Heart
Dear André, let me see your face
And cry out with you to lament
The rot of flesh and foul disgrace
You suffer, ulcered hands unbent.
Your body needs rebirth that’s meant
To cure your soul of leprosy:
Accept from the Omnipotent
Clear light in which the heart can see.
Bruno, come near the marketplace,
Not just to beg for nourishment.
You need not fear disgust will chase
Lame toeless feet off to prevent
Contagion, for the provident
God cares for you in courtesy.
He knows how vile disfigurement
Blinds eyes by which the heart can see.
And Carloman, you show no trace
Of cheer in gruff embitterment,
But sulk too far from my embrace.
I beg you, don’t be reticent;
I need you as my penitent.
Your words in secret fluency
Will make us gratefully content
For healing through which hearts can see.
I’m Elzéar, mere instrument
Refreshing fleshly brilliancy,
A lazar too, but confident
In Christ, the health your hearts can see.
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lazar: leper
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Margaret Coats lives in California. She holds a Ph.D. in English and American Literature and Language from Harvard University. She has retired from a career of teaching literature, languages, and writing that included considerable work in homeschooling for her own family and others.
As you so beautifully expressed it, healing the heart is more powerful and important than physical disfigurement and healing of the body. The healing of both is best done by the Omnipotent one.
Thank you, Roy! That’s why I have the saint focus on the heart as so important, and introduce himself as a mere instrument of God. We don’t see the cure in this sculpture I’m writing about, which graphically represents the ugliness of leprosy, but Elzear might have worked miracles, as Jesus specifically gave his twelve apostles power to “cleanse lepers” when He first sent them on missions around Judea (Matthew 8:10).
Please excuse me, Roy. The correct citation is Matthew 10:8.
Margaret: This is a truly lovely poem, the sound and sense blend artfully but show no trace of “art for art’s sake.” I confess ignorance of where the names of your lazars are derived from. But the poem works!
All imagination, Rob. The sculpture has no information except that it is French, so I gave the three lazars suitable French names A, B, and C. From Saint Elzear’s compassionate attitude toward them, he saw them as individuals with personal names. How could I do less? Thanks for finding my work simply successful!
I like the way Elzear addresses the children’s different personalities, fears and hesitancies – meeting them where they are individually, while at the same time recognizing God’s uniform grace to us all. Makes me think that, although Jesus “welcomed the little children” to come to him as a group – that doesn’t mean they were an indistinguishable mass to him – and nor are we!
Thanks for that thought, Jeremiah! It’s the saintly way to see others. And Jesus, like Elzear calling himself a “lazar,” made himself one of us, so that we can make a personal response to him. One of the things we see in the sculpture (and that I tried to put in my ballade) is those different personal needs. The word “need” in each stanza corresponds to the posture of a leper as seen by the artist–and by you as reader of the poem!
A very interesting poem. My first knowledge of the disease came from reading James Michener’s novel, “Hawaii”, where Father Damien, in treating lepers on Molokai, contracted the disease himself.
Prolonged contact, like Father Damien’s devoting his life to the care of lepers, is the main way of contracting the disease. But even their presence or a touch was feared when less was known about it. In the poem I have Elzear tell Carloman “I need you as my penitent,” meaning, “You need to go to confession for spiritual healing.” Father Damien was only able to go to confession when a supply ship came with a priest on board, and then Damien would have to shout out his sins for all to hear, since sailors would not allow him on board, or let the other priest come back on board if he got off. No “words in secret fluency”! Thanks for your interest, Cheryl.
A much misunderstood and stigmatising disease. I’m reminded from this poem of Princess Diana meeting AIDS sufferers during secret visits to hospitals, at night. When it became known by the media, the whole attitude to the condition changed in England.
Thanks for the uplifting read, Margaret.
One compassionate person can make a huge difference. I understand the Princess had to overcome some criticism for devoting herself to a charity that was not “nice.” But even before her efforts became known, I’m sure the sufferers themselves were immensely cheered by her presence.
A beautifully crafted poem, and another education for the rest of us who aren’t quite so learned.
The art came with no information but the title, which may have been assigned by a museum curator, so I had to write the poem from sight. Interesting that two of the lepers look like they may be blind–which was a good reason to focus on seeing, and to make “see” the C rhyme sound. Thanks for your comment, Warren!
The rhyme is amazing: each octet’s end rhyme matches end rhymes of the other octets, symbolizing that the same message is being stated to each of the individuals, just in slightly different expressions. The rhythmic effects are also beautiful, for example suggesting the stuttering walk/steps taken by Bruno. Brilliant!
In accord with the French medieval sculpture, I chose to use the poetic form most popular in medieval France, the ballade. The rhyme scheme with the same sounds in all stanzas is a requirement of the form. I hadn’t thought of it (and the required refrain) as delivering the same message in each, but you’re right, Kevin, about that being the effect when the three stanzas address three persons (most ballades speak to one, or only to a reader). The effect is more pronounced because the final rhyme sound is not just “e” but “see,” carrying meaning as well. Thank you for doing me the favor of noticing more than I realized I had put in–and for liking it so much!
I’ve never heard or read about this saint before, but you’ve told this story of compassion poignantly. I gather that Elzear wasn’t able to physically cure the others (or himself), but offered a spiritual cure for people’s hearts.
I admire the way you were able to keep to only three rhymes, and keep the same interesting rhymes scheme throughout.
Cynthia, this is one obscure saint. The spelling of the name (distinct from Eleazar) helped me find him at last in Abbaye Saint-Savin-en-Lavedan, where he died in 1036. It was in the county of Bigorre, now the department of Hautes-Pyrenees, where Lourdes is located. Today thousands of sick persons go to Lourdes every year, hoping for one of the few miracles that do happen. Most of them return home healed in heart if not in body. Whether the monk Elzear cured lepers physically, there is no history to say–except this statuary group. I think the artist was portraying a moment right before real cures that he believed did happen. What shows through in his work is the Christlike compassion of the saint. That’s the most important part of my interpretive poem, including the line where he calls himself “a lazar too” to play on his name and thus liken himself in a brotherly way to the lepers. But the envoi line “refreshing fleshly brilliancy” envisions real cures, in which Elzear is Christ’s instrument, just as the Twelve were in cures Jesus sent them out to perform (Matthew 10:8). Still, whether or not cures gave Andre and Bruno and Carloman fresh brilliant flesh, they probably went home with healed hearts. My ballade does say that!
Lovely and moving.
Very glad to have your response, Julia.
What a beautiful account of St. Elzear’s compassion and how clever the Andre, Bruno and Carolman names are in alphabetical order. I don’t know if this is your creation or inspired by some other writing.
I enjoyed reading this poem.
The poem is created entirely from that little piece of medieval sculpture. Although I found Saint Elzear’s name in a dictionary of saints, there was no information about anything he did, other than live as a monk a thousand years ago. I’m glad you enjoyed my “invention” of him and the three lepers, who do seem to show differing personalities as seen by the sculptor.
I love how you bring the saint to life. This isn’t a hymn or an ode, this is a portrait, both inward and outward, of a man — a saint who cured lepers, yes, but even more remarkable for being one of us. You show us the strength of faith, and present beautiful analogies between the outward healing of the leper and the inward spiritual healing (dead flesh rejuvenated, blindness cured). Your names Bruno and Carloman add both a personal touch and place us firmly in the Middle Ages. I also like your use of the archaic “lazar,,” alluding to Dives and Lazarus – it was the leper who was saved.
Thanks so much, Adam. You’ve said better than I could how the art and faith of the Middle Ages hold general interest for contemporary man. The human sympathy shown in this small sculpture, by a man who’s a saint because he can see the need of fallen humanity even in himself, is what I try to translate into words. In each of the stanzas, he recognizes “need” and the potential for full healing, available when each individual can accept it.
I appreciate as well your noting the allusions you recognize as a reader literate in Western civilization, valuing word choices each for associations with our common culture.