Holy Patti (Smith)
who are on this earth
(which is the true form of heaven),
hallowed be your persevering voice
in my darkest hours.
Your call,
your sign and your scream come
and be your song sung
from the Chelsea Hotel
every time I’m
on the brink of abyss.
The unseizable vibration
of each day, give me today.
And tomorrow, also.
Do not forgive my falls
nor let me forgive
my persecutors.
Urge me to fall into temptation.
Lift me on your back
when besieged by evil,
to cross together
the bridge over the river.
Yesterday I dreamt
I crossed threatening waters
balancing on a rope.
I dreamt about a shape
in shadows
cutting that rope
if I failed to keep on
standing.
Give me strength to remember
the exact and intangible baggage
required for the journey.
Give me courage to protect
each and every one
of the frail, cardinal elements
of that baggage.
Give me serenity to resist despair.
In the deep night of hospitals,
help me to pierce the night.
From the brutal effect
of the drugs that heal,
help me to save myself.
Open my eyes to pain,
my own and others’,
so that they can transcend
the pain.
Let me survive
in everything I love.
Rescue me from my obsessions
(except from those
with the name of passions
that have helped me to live).
Holy Patti
who dissipates the fog calling desire,
invoking that Rimbaud
radiant and young enough
to know it all and everything,
who in Africa lost
one leg and his innocence,
also.
The one who perceived
a color in each vowel
and in every one of us
his intimate existence.
Holy Patti
who follows the path of lost causes,
knowing that without such causes
we are lost;
who has no amen nor comfort,
howling from a burning pulpit.
Burn the numb remains of my heart.
Release my head from statistics,
making of it my cypher
and the realm of my calm.
Look after my feet
and let them sustain
my body.
Heal my incised body,
making it follow
your music.
Holy Patty with hippy hair
and wrinkles in your face,
like freeways.
Holy Patti in suit jacket and tie,
defiant against a window in New York.
Holy Patti of visible bones,
conducting
a public reading of poetry.
Blessed be your kingdom
for it is also mine,
utterly personal as the two may be.
Like all kingdoms. Utterly singular.
Do not pity me
if I do not deserve pity.
That is, if I give up
without having fought.
And do not promise me paradises
within the reach of my imagination.
Let me guess and suspect
the existence of worlds
beyond myself.
Despite myself,
despite my doubts and weaknesses.
Succor me when all
is about to disappear,
so that it all continues, transformed.
Give me the fulgor given to you,
to blossom.
Deny me the peace of answers,
denied to you as it was,
in exchange for the disquiet
of questions.
And do not grant me forgiveness
if I choose to refuge myself
in silence.
To my cheerful hours,
give them your blessing.
Specially to my cheerful hours,
since they shall conquer
illness and its threat.
Let my partner’s body be my home.
And my religion as well.
Maybe I ask for too much, Holy Patti,
but I know, because you taught me,
that only those who ask for too much
deserve the right of praying.
Under the fly of a China bird,
I entrust you all my talismans.
Under your shelter I want them
when mine does not suffice.
Holy Patti who still believes
in revolution.
who are on this earth
(which is the true form of heaven),
hallowed be your persevering voice
in my darkest hours.
Your call,
your sign and your scream come
and be your song sung
from the Chelsea Hotel
every time I’m
on the brink of abyss.
The unseizable vibration
of each day, give me today.
And tomorrow, also.
Do not forgive my falls
nor let me forgive
my persecutors.
Urge me to fall into temptation.
Lift me on your back
when besieged by evil,
to cross together
the bridge over the river.
Yesterday I dreamt
I crossed threatening waters
balancing on a rope.
I dreamt about a shape
in shadows
cutting that rope
if I failed to keep on
standing.
Give me strength to remember
the exact and intangible baggage
required for the journey.
Give me courage to protect
each and every one
of the frail, cardinal elements
of that baggage.
Give me serenity to resist despair.
In the deep night of hospitals,
help me to pierce the night.
From the brutal effect
of the drugs that heal,
help me to save myself.
Open my eyes to pain,
my own and others’,
so that they can transcend
the pain.
Let me survive
in everything I love.
Rescue me from my obsessions
(except from those
with the name of passions
that have helped me to live).
Holy Patti
who dissipates the fog calling desire,
invoking that Rimbaud
radiant and young enough
to know it all and everything,
who in Africa lost
one leg and his innocence,
also.
The one who perceived
a color in each vowel
and in every one of us
his intimate existence.
Holy Patti
who follows the path of lost causes,
knowing that without such causes
we are lost;
who has no amen nor comfort,
howling from a burning pulpit.
Burn the numb remains of my heart.
Release my head from statistics,
making of it my cypher
and the realm of my calm.
Look after my feet
and let them sustain
my body.
Heal my incised body,
making it follow
your music.
Holy Patty with hippy hair
and wrinkles in your face,
like freeways.
Holy Patti in suit jacket and tie,
defiant against a window in New York.
Holy Patti of visible bones,
conducting
a public reading of poetry.
Blessed be your kingdom
for it is also mine,
utterly personal as the two may be.
Like all kingdoms. Utterly singular.
Do not pity me
if I do not deserve pity.
That is, if I give up
without having fought.
And do not promise me paradises
within the reach of my imagination.
Let me guess and suspect
the existence of worlds
beyond myself.
Despite myself,
despite my doubts and weaknesses.
Succor me when all
is about to disappear,
so that it all continues, transformed.
Give me the fulgor given to you,
to blossom.
Deny me the peace of answers,
denied to you as it was,
in exchange for the disquiet
of questions.
And do not grant me forgiveness
if I choose to refuge myself
in silence.
To my cheerful hours,
give them your blessing.
Specially to my cheerful hours,
since they shall conquer
illness and its threat.
Let my partner’s body be my home.
And my religion as well.
Maybe I ask for too much, Holy Patti,
but I know, because you taught me,
that only those who ask for too much
deserve the right of praying.
Under the fly of a China bird,
I entrust you all my talismans.
Under your shelter I want them
when mine does not suffice.
Holy Patti who still believes
in revolution.
