St Mark

There was a lion in Judah Which whelped, and was Mark.

But winged. A lion with wings. At least at Venice. Even as late as Daniele Manin.

Why should he have wings? Is he to be a bird also? Or a spirit? Or a winged thought? Or a soaring consciousness?

Evidently he is all that The lion of the spirit.

Ah, Lamb of God Would a wingless lion lie down before Thee, as this winged lion lies?

The lion of the spirit.

Once he lay in the mouth of a cave And sunned his whiskers, And lashed his tail slowly, slowly Thinking of voluptuousness Even of blood.

But later, in the sun of the afternoon Having tasted all there was to taste, and having slept his fill He fell to frowning, as he lay with his head on his paws And the sun coming in through the narrowest fibril of a slit in his eyes.

So, nine-tenths asleep, motionless, bored, and statically angry, He saw in a shaft of light a lamb on a pinnacle, balancing a flag on its paw, And he was thoroughly startled.

Going out to investigate He found the lamb beyond him, on the inaccessible pinnacle of light. So he put his paw to his nose, and pondered.

“Guard my sheep,” came the silvery voice from the pinnacle, “And I will give thee the wings of the morning.” So the lion of the senses thought it was worth it.

Hence he became a curly sheep-dog with dangerous propensities As Carpaccio will tell you: Ramping round, guarding the flock of mankind, Sharpening his teeth on the wolves, Ramping up through the air like a kestrel And lashing his tail above the world And enjoying the sensation of heaven and righteousness and voluptuous wrath.

There is a new sweetness in his voluptuously licking his paw Now that it is a weapon of heaven. There is a new ecstasy in his roar of desirous love Now that it sounds self-conscious through the unlimited sky. He is well aware of himself And he cherishes voluptuous delights, and thinks about them And ceases to be a blood-thirsty king of beasts And becomes the faithful sheep-dog of the Shepherd, thinking of his voluptuous pleasures of chasing the sheep to the fold And increasing the flock, and perhaps giving a real nip here and there, a real pinch, but always well meant.

And somewhere there is a lioness The she-mate. Whelps play between the paws of the lion The she-mate purrs Their castle is impregnable, their cave, The sun comes in their lair, they are well-off A well-to-do family.

Then the proud lion stalks abroad, alone And roars to announce himself to the wolves And also to encourage the red-cross Lamb And also to ensure a goodly increase in the world.

Look at him, with his paw on the world At Venice and elsewhere. Going blind at last.