by James Gurley
br> (Issue 3; updated March 6, 1997; archived April 18, 1997)

What magic in the power of herbs,
stones, the heavens, that wisdom
from Adam onward. What magic
in plants, the geometry and color
of rainbows. Only to learn
by experiment, by faith.
To fast on bread and water,
sleep on the rough straw pallet
and dream of kingfishers
quelling winter storms, ships
that navigate without oars.
Of what's forbidden me,
the loss of words destroys most.
And I'm denied the sacrament
each day for my hubris,
for petitioning Pope Clement
to end the order's vow of silence.
I'm bound to poverty, denied
books, instruments, or ink.
The charge of magic condemns me.
My own works forbidden.
Should I be glad to illuminate a missal?
To salve the wounded or dying?
To subdue the world by the spirit?
In prayer I might find answers
to these questions that tempt me.
How the soul is adorned with virtues
like a well-polished mirror.
This is alchemy and blasphemous:
that science leads us to the Almighty,
base metals to gold,
ignorance to the tree of knowledge.
I pray his holiness learns tolerance.
This cell is punishment enough.
Inside it, I build the temple of science,
place here rainbows,
colors that shroud the candle flame,
all things once hidden
now brought together in the
relentless beauty of this world.

James Gurley is a poet in Seattle whose work has appeared in over 30 U.S. and Canadian literary magazines. This poem is in his working manuscript entitled "Temples of Science."