Poetry
The Trial of Formosus
By Daniel Wright
“Read – how there was a ghastly Trial once
Of a dead man by a live man, and both, Popes:
…
They set it, that dead body of a Pope,
Clothed in pontific vesture now again,
Upright on Peter’s chair as if alive.”
- Robert Browning
I: The Accusation
We bowed to you, and bent to kiss your ring,
while you yet lived and wore the triple crown
for fear of a mere tyrant, not a King
of Kings. When you took on the bishop’s gown
you wore it not as shepherd but as wolf.
You stuffed the See of Porto in your maw,
and for the winter put up on the shelf
a second bishopric, no care for law.
When we spoke out, it was mere politics.
You wriggled out of justice with a vow.
You broke it, and you rose by rhetoric
to Peter’s throne. But lies are useless now.
My snare is tight. This net will not unravel.
Words cannot free you. Corpses cannot cavil.
II: Formosus’ Defence
If blood ran through these veins, it would cry out,
this heart would rage and beat its warlike drum,
these lungs would billow wide, and pump, and shout,
and ever nerve would scream – but all is dumb.
This trial-farce should make the sky go mad,
rain fire and bile to drown your merchant lies.
Thes sea should burst its bonds, devour the land
and swallow you – but all the world subsides.
The dignity of death is buttressed well;
no slander wind can drive it to the ground.
It stands and waits, for Heaven or for Hell,
for judgement day, and ’til then makes no sound.
But through the stillness still I hear a chime,
a reckoning that echoes back through time…
III: Requiem
Half-blind, I thought the corpse was only mud
when limping down the shore I found him beached.
There was no stench, no rot, no sign of blood.
His naked flesh was drained, his skin was bleached.
Three fingers, those for blessings, had been torn
from his right hand. It was the perjured Pope.
I knew a holy body must be borne
to sacred ground. So, with a coward hope
to go unseen, the silty night to hide
my load, I carried him. But we were seen:
A thousand statues of the canonized
line Rome’s back streets. I saw (eyes strangely keen)
each holy spirit loose its stone restraint
and bow its head to mourn a fellow saint.