On 17th December 2024 The Irish Times carried an article by me about ‘STAR’ entitled, ‘Waking Up To Christmas‘

I focused on my admiration for the 12th-century scuptor, Gislebertus who not only designed and oversaw the construction of the cathedral of Autun in Burgundy but also carved some of the most beautiful works of art on its facade and in its interior.

I’d long felt that an image of Gislbertus’s carving ‘The Awakening of the Magi’ would be right for the cover of ‘STAR’. (The article contains a photo of the carving). I found a wonderful linocut by Martin Erspamer, which is his take, in that medium, of ‘The Awakening’; the moment before the three astronomer kings see the Christmas star for the very first time.

Sometimes, in writing an article, one suddenly catches sight of a new aspect of the topic in hand. That happened as I was writing this piece and I share the insight at the conclusion of the article:

Gislebertus, so many centuries ago, dared to imagine, and then render, in rigid stone, an instant of action which is silent, psychological, internal. The drowsy king is gently invited, but not compelled, to turn and look. He will choose how to respond. He could go back to sleep; or he could look up, leap up, rouse the others − and the story will be underway.

And this image speaks of poetry, which can’t stop a tank but penetrates a territory no tank can reach − our inner world. Poetry connects, rouses and invites. It’s an agent of change, working powerfully from within, where all the actions start.

It was a new gift to me, this sudden perception that one could look at ‘The Awakening of the Magi’ as an image of poetry reaching in and touching our inner world. This is a gift I will have forever.

And here’s my poem, from ‘STAR’ inspired by this carving:

AUTUN CATHEDRAL, MAGI

Does the sky have tent-poles?

And some cathedrals are forested.

God walks in their depths on a December afternoon

while the topmost branches brush the undersides

of planets fixed mid-orbit

– those stained-glass windows fruiting overhead.

Here no one thinks of weight, of downwardness

and how the roof desires it.

God pauses among the pillars

at a carved capital that always lifts his heart:

an artist like himself, from this blunt-cornered oblong stone,

gives us a bird’s view of a bed

draped in a ruched counterpane, three kings tucked in,

but the eyes of one, popped open, register

Why? Who? still unaware

of the angel at his shoulder, stroking his hand,

whose other index finger points at a star.

God sighs, at the weight borne by the moment

after such a moment; at how he waits

for a man to look up at the sky

and recognise and seize

the chance of joy.