Posts Tagged ‘early poetry’

‘The Rites of Spain’ , posted for d’

July 26, 2011


This is a work in progress…and a very early poem.  I wasn’t going to post this today, but it fits my black mood.  (the weather is oppressive…)

Lady Nyo 



Canto 1

Sharp azure skies

Rusty brown earth,

Black of women’s shawls,

Goat dung flung by boys

At passing soldiers,

The Inquisition churns onward

Like the great mandala

Crushing bodies under its wheel

Burning witches in great pyres

Ignited by ignorance

Of the blessed padres.

Time of terror,

overtime superstition.

Of hidden manuscripts

under floor boards,

and investigations

Seeded by the envy of neighbors.

Goya colors flung on

the black of night,

Red of Blood

Death of White

Green of decay

Duller grays of corruption

Shiny blues of greed

Exchanging favors,

Cardinal to Cardinal–

Madrid to Rome.

These are the colors

Of the Inquisition.

Holy Terror of God in

Man’s hands

where nothing is safe,

Humanity defiled.

Soldiers force Rabbis

to spit on the Torah,

A diversion, for the net holds much room,

All ‘thought’ is open to this furor,

For terror reigns.

The banality of evil,

Which words belie the results

Fashions such existence.

Dark shawls drawn

Over frightened faces,

only the

Whites of eyes

gleam out like hooded lanterns,

faces cast downward

when the Cardinals pass.

No one wants to be noticed,

There is Death in the

Very air.

Gossip is gone

From the full rose lips

Of  women.

They huddle


Though no safety

In numbers,

Wearing an early shroud

To cover their


A slight sway of

Curvaceous hips

Could draw the Holy Terror

Upon their innocence

Condemned by black lipped priests-

Whores worthy of fire.

Cruelty and censure is the mantra of the day.

Breathe in the

Moisture of the drowned

Catch the blood

Flayed from bodies

Hear the sharp screams from

Those tortured,

And the

Sharper silence to follow.

Hope is gone

From the heart

Of Spain.


Now fear is the mantra of the day.

The disdainful eye

Of the Church’s


Circling the

Spanish masses,

Like herding goats

From a horse,

Whip held easy

In the hand,

Ready to strike,

And strikes when not.

How many died

That could give


To Enlightment?

How many aborted

By this

Scourge of Mankind?

Compassion forgotten

Humility distorted.

Lies the particular coin of the day.

The Inquisition

Rolled onward,

Tearing up 

Soil watered by

Clotted blood.

Black tentacles

Of Power


The heart

Of Spain



Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011

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