THRITEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A GARGOYLE I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. Wallace Stevens I. I was exalted and confused, Like a tower Crowded with gargoyles. II. Uncle Gargoyle broods: His nephew, the Thinker, Hit the big time With Rodin. III. Perched gargoyles, my thoughts Caricature the commonplace, But enjoy noble views. IV. Tourists but recently Turned to stone Lean from the corners Of Notre Dame, As gargoyles gather About their guide And head downstairs To the empty bus.... V. While all his schoolmates Ate up the angels, Hungry for haloes And luminous wings, He held his cheeks in And wrinkled his forehead With a glare of admiration For the gargoyle. VI. "Our Lady and the Gargoyles" appear tonight, With slightly distorted bells And a solar organ. The voice of the lead castrato Is fed through a hollow marble cross, As his back-up group Upon their towers Stares stonily into the distance. Come with me, And sit with me, And consider ancient glories, As we climb chromatically Up the edifice They form with their heightened voices. VII. When you are old and grey And fall asleep, Groggy upon your park bench, Sit up With a brown paper bag And throw handfuls of comprehension To the dim gargoyles Who peck disrespectfully At your feet. VIII. Motorcycles took the street monuments Gross with power Topped by gargoyles With stone eyes. IX. There is no gargoyle Sits over the Seine So patient As she who soothes me. She weaves her attention Outside the tower Where, bent, I ring my dreams. X. In winter, the snowmen grin with teeth of coal At the gargoyle. In spring, the gargoyle's stare follows sunlight To an empty square. XI. If Notre Dame were a firetruck racing through the boulevards Do you really think you'd notice On that seat at the back of the ladder The smirk of the gargoyle In his long red hat? XII. My love seeks to budge me, But I sit here stupid, Though I used to be Such a brisk young Cupid. I wasn't quite fire, But at least I could boil. Now I'm sullen, alone, A stony gargoyle. XIII. He bloomed so, at seventeen, He seemed a saint. Then they sent him into the Army, Where he met the devils He'd seen on walls In museums and church. They beat him up, and it hurt. He came back, shrivelled, To sit at a desk At the end of a hall, Having made the grade Of gargoyle. copyright 1983, James B. Chevallier